To our Western eyes he resembles Bela Lugosi. Same swept-back hairline, same widow's peak, same piercing stare and fearsome brow. But we are people for whom history begins with George Washington. We cannot begin to understand a land so ancient – a place where a temple four centuries old is called "the new mosque."
        From our hotel window, old and new are seen as one. For everything here is built of the same stone, pulses with the same white light by day, the same golden glow by sunrise and sunset. The hills are steep as San Francisco's, the streets are an endless maze, and everywhere beyond the hilltops one sees bright ships floating upon the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn.
        On the streets, too, old and new coexist. You see cel phones in every hand – locals call them "handies," and no yuppie stigma is attached to their use. You see computer stores and legless beggars, Armani and veils.
        While no one blinks at a woman covered from head to toe in traditional Islamic garb, no one looks twice at the far more common sight of women in micro-miniskirts and halter tops, clopping along in platform wedgies. And the beauty of these women is astonishing. New York and Los Angeles cannot compare.
        I really cannot get over these women.
        I suggest that their freedom of dress is a reaction against the traditional culture. But Hasan punctures this theory.
        "Maybe they just want to be beautiful," he says.