If you don't know Mishon in Balat,
Unless you know Taki in Kurtulus,
If you say Kör Agop in Kumkapi and you get a blank look on your face,
If Hamit in Fatih is foreign to you...
I'm sorry, brother, you're not from Istanbul.
If you've never heard of Vedat the Dater, that's the end of it.
You didn't drink milk with honey at Pando's in the morning, and you didn't eat cream and honey;
You didn't bury the dry beans and rice at Fahri's in Sıraodalar at noon;
You didn't have two glasses of polish at Madame Despina in Kurtuluş in the evening...
and then you say, “I know Istanbul.” Get out of here.
No bespoke pants from Natik,
No costumes from Ilhan Sharif,
You didn't buy shoes from Feyzi...
So? Why did you live, man, are you shorts?
Unless you saw a movie at Fitaş,
Unless you've been on a bender in the Foliberjer,
Unless you had a groom's orgy at the Galatasaray Hamam,
If you didn't hang out with your date at Nişantaşı Merhaba...
Where are you from?
If you don't know luxury on an island ferry,
Unless you've been to the Karaköy brothel,
If you didn't cut a girl on Haylayf Beach...
You're a real shorts.
Istanbul is not Turkey.
Istanbul in Turkey is not as much as it is thought to be.
If you don't have a single black-and-white photo in your archive,
Whatever Ara Guler says to you is right.
If you didn't walk in Beyoglu on your girlfriend's arm...
woe is me.
You cannot describe Istanbul; you either live it or shake it from afar for the rest of your life.