white on black plates

I like to watch these guys in gray, brown and dark blues. They have to wear these wretched, artificial suits. They are the drivers. I can tell those who drive government cars from a mile away, their suits and body language give them away. Sometimes I challenge myself to see if it is an Ankara or an Istanbul plate they are driving just to get more precise with these screwy categories. The suits of private "chauffeurs" are often one notch up, not because they get paid better --far from it-- but the owners of the cars want them to look better, nothing surprising here. Here, hand-me-downs or upgrades are presented as a transfer of urban wisdom. There is no conviviality in this relationship. Well, I am actually interested in something completely different. I am interested in what seems to be just one of the many things dancers and choreographers fail to notice in this town. I love the way the drivers turn into awkward fairies and butterflies as they run to pick up the patrons' bags or briefcases, as they rush to open the car door, as they toss away the cigarette... The fingers of the left hand hold the jacket together gently, the body switches into something like a run on tiptoe, an affable, effete and "civilized" mode of running. Now, a hundred mustached men with round bellies wearing suits suddenly running around like that would be a profoundly beautiful thing.