On my way to Istanbul Ataturk Airport this morning, my taxi driver — breaking the silence wrought by my woefully meagre Turkish vocabulary — reached into my soul and began blasting Brooklyn Funk Essentials’ Istanbul Twilight from his dashboard. Had my wife been with me, she would have requested a rendition of a Noble Recitation, but my chauffeur had seen in my scraggly beard not a believer but a bohemian beatnik. I did not complain. It suited me for a moment. Fifteen years ago the thumping rhythm of Dub was my vernacular. He could not have known that the past had been occupying me for nights on end, as my stay in the forested hills of the Black Sea dragged on. I humoured him until I arrived. Paid my fare. Thanked him for the ride. Then, pointing at the stereo, I smiled. ‘Çok Güzel,’ I said as I left him.