That moment, a man walked in. He came back beaming–running his fingers over his wrists exclaiming excitedly

“that’s where they put the handcuffs! Do you see it?”

He pulled out a camera and snapped a picture of the fading red marks.

Why did I rent a hostel in Taksim again? Apparently for unforgettable memories and a true cultural experience.

Martin explains that he was filming an argument  between police and protesters and must have gotten too close so they nabbed him, and took him away in the police car. Apparently he was also in possession, and was lucky that no one bothered to search him.

All of this commotion was coming at me way too fast. I had just returned from a peaceful trip in Sultanahmet; I had seen the Istanbul Modern, the Basilica Cistern, and eaten lunch on the terrace of a well-known kotftecisi. I was planning on staying for a whirling dervish show nearby, but when I scoped out the venue and found that the chairs were plastic, I was put off and decided to be on my way, and thus began the night.

Before meeting Martin: 

I stepped out of the Taksim station and straight into the square expecting to do some shopping. That was when I noticed my eyes start to burn, and my throat start to itch. I had a strange sensation that I had to sneeze but couldn’t. I notice everyone else is coughing too.  And then there are streams of people with their hands covering their faces. I walk toward them and notice people now wearing gas masks as a water cannon moves it’s boxy frame toward the center of the action.

People are running now, and the atmosphere is tense. I always said I’d like to see a protest, but the experience is much more sinister in real life; I actually felt tense, like literally anything could happen to me. There was no real safe spot because police were everywhere, people were scattering like rats, who knew where the gas was even coming from and how to avoid it? I sorely wanted to take my camera out but I thought better of it. Something told me that these guys were serious and wouldn’t think twice about bringing me in and trashing my camera.

I duck into a Mango store to avoid the confusion and try to focus on shopping. Everyone seems to be gathering toward the windows to get a glimpse of what’s going on as the store guards shoo them away. At this point, I was actually in no mood to brave a revolution–I just wanted to shop! Upon finishing up my purchases, I find myself barricaded inside the store and, a front row seat to the action thanks to the huge glass doors.

When the trouble passes and the doors are finally opened, I check into my hostel which is when I meet Martin. A few hours pass and I meet my roommates ( all 7 of them), have a chat, and some drinks.

It’s well past nightfall now, and we are all hanging out on an isolated street cocooned from the real danger, sitting and sipping on the sidewalk.

Perhaps I should never have suggested we get food. Our trio walked up to Patso7, a fast food joint, and asked for some ice cream but they didn’t have any so we got doner instead. The man passes me my doner, and before I have a chance to take a bite, half of my face explodes in water, and my pants are all soaked from one side. The rack of ice cream cones go flying several feet into the air and disintegrate into dust all over my friend and I. The shopkeeper who seemed all of calm just a few seconds ago erupts in a colorful display of rage for the senseless damage of products.

He is shaking his fist as I hear someone say “What the actual fuck!”. Then we are all dashing upstairs while pulling pieces of waffle cone from our hair. We were lucky because guys come running inside after us–one with with his head bleeding and something yellow that looks like mustard around the area– and another guy has red welts all over his chest and back. He is pointing and yelling excitedly at his battle wounds.

At this point I don’t even want to go back to my hostel because it’s down a street that would possibly be hazardous. My friends invite me stay at their place which is 5 minutes from Taksim in the opposite direction. When we get inside, i notice that there is a serious gas mask hanging from the coat hanger. The girl says, “yeah, house necessities” and shrugs.

I’m just about to fall sleep and my friend gets a call from a friend who is about to get arrested or something. She freaks out so we must once again venture out to the square. This time, navigating the Istiklal is near impossible so we weave through the back-alleys only to find them clogged with police. I see the telltale orange glow of a fire in the distance and as we near the corner, the heat envelops us; there is a huge fire in the middle of the street with a bunch of punks singing songs. It was 4 AM by this time. The police are still around. We take a shortcut to avoid them, but then there are more. Again, my throat starts to itch. Ahmet asks a jaded shopkeeper for a shortcut, and finally, we arrive at our destination. We all collapse on the couches outside, and wait.

The situation turned out to be fine.

This morning I walk back through the Istiklal, past the ice cream shop, past Mango and I see the shopkeepers cleaning paint, mustard bombs off their storefronts, and I am reminded on what an adventure last night was.