Das traditionsreiche Derby in Istanbul zwischen Galatasaray und Fenerbahce endete im völligen Chaos. Die Spieler lieferten sich nach Schlusspfiff eine wilde. Verrückte Kartenflut in heißem Istanbul-Derby. Peter Bielefeldt. | 07 Uhr. Schiedsrichter Halil Meler verteilt ein Meer an Karten im Istanbuler Derby. Alles zum Ort "Istanbul-Derby". <
Interkontinentales DerbyWie gibt's denn das? Beim Geister-Derby in Istanbul zwischen Fenerbahce und Galatasaray schaffte es (ein paar Journalisten ausgenommen). Verrückte Kartenflut in heißem Istanbul-Derby. Peter Bielefeldt. | 07 Uhr. Schiedsrichter Halil Meler verteilt ein Meer an Karten im Istanbuler Derby. Beim Kıtalar Arası Derbi, dem wohl größten Derby der türkischen Süper Lig, trafen am Wochenende die Istanbuler Klubs Fenerbahçe und.
Istanbul Derby Cookie banner VideoGalatasaray - Fenerbahçe 1-0 Turkish cup final 26.05.2016
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Fresh finest salmon fillet, pan fried. Served with buttery potatoes and salad. Served on a bed of rice and couscous, topped with a touch of lamb and chicken shawarma.
Additionally served with salad, bread and sauces. Today starts with a magnificent city tour and a look into this city's amazing history.
Then we'll visit the historic Besiktas area along the European shores of the Bosphorus strait. Where you can treat yourself to some tasty local food and enjoy one last moment of calm before your crazy matchday experience begins.
You'll meet up with Besiktas supporters groups to learn their chant and get immersed in their local fan culture before heading to the stadium together.
Where you'll see one of the loudest and most insane football atmospheres on Earth! After the game, your host will be happy to give you the best nightlife tips.
Or help you get back to the hotel and recover after a truly crazy day! Istanbul is a city of many stadiums and clubs If there's another good football game in town, our host will be happy to give you more insight and take you there.
Unfortunately, even the finest and craziest adventures must come to an end. But the new friends and fantastic memories you've made will last for a lifetime.
It's time to pack your bags, check-out, and say goodbye to the majestic city of Istanbul. But don't forget to stay in touch with your fellow travelers - you might meet them on another Homefans trip sooner than you think!
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Overview Considered one of the capitals of football, Istanbul is home of three giants in Turkey: Besiktas, Fenerbahce and Galatasaray. Are you ready?
Itinerary Expand All. Day 1 - Welcome to Istanbul. Day 2 - Gastro city tour and Match day. The Turkish flag replaces the list of all the things Galatasaray fans will immediately do the opposite of for the next two hours.
The legend is that the red flag represents the crescent moon and stars seen in a pool of Turkish warriors' blood. This is a line from the anthem's full lyrics:.
They don't have to sing that part here. The two teams come out holding the hands of small children dressed like soldiers: a tiny elementary school aged commando, a pacing helicopter pilot too short to ride a roller coaster.
A forest fire of flares explodes from the Ultraslan Galatasaray fan section amidst the singing. They have set them off directly in front of of a line of luxury boxes, the exact people behind the sportsmanship announcements and attempts to sanitize the game experience.
All anyone in that section can see is smoke, and flame, and the raised middle fingers of men in Galatasaray jerseys with bandanas wrapped around their faces.
Every time a yellow card pops out against a Galatasaray player or with each missed crime against Galatasaray, the crowd shake their fists. If there is a gesture unique to Turkish soccer, it's this: a looping circle made violently in the air as if it were hitting an invisible speed bag with real, blood-deep anger.
There is an invisible line somewhere in the world, somewhere between Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey, where people stop cupping their mouths to boo, and instead start shaking their fists like they're trying to knock someone out.
We are all decidedly over that line, and deep in fist-shaking territory. The first half's ten minutes stretch into a small eternity.
There is shirt-tugging, shoving,the bump of chests if it's particularly intense. The referee starts spitting out yellow cards like a malfunctioning ATM, and the crowd starts chanting, among other random profanities, "Let Didier Drogba fuck you.
He's screaming at defenders, glowering in the back of simmering arguments, and generally looking like someone seconds away from unsheathing a broadsword and bringing it down on the back of the referee's neck.
He has the unique superpower of visible, ambient anger emission: Volkan sweats rage droplets, and fine waves of fury and piss-rage wobble off him like heat waves on a baking summer highway.
He missed two games in the UEFA Euro Championship for shoving Czech Jan Koller to the ground, and in choked Galatasaray right back Sabri Sarioglu during a tussle that ended with both players eating red cards.
It takes ten minutes for the game to devolve into a chain of sliding fouls interrupted by periodic attempts at soccer. Drogba rockets a shot off the post and raises his hands to his ears like he can hear the sound of his only chance at scoring boiling away in the heated disorder of the game.
Players, at a certain point, lose all power to perform and become pawns of an idiot fury. Honestly, he can't be blamed for a grotesque foul committed against Felipe Melo.
The screeching, bloodthirsty dervish controlling the match did it. He was merely a vehicle for it, a pawn. Felipe Melo celebrates with a huge, lionfaced expression at the home fans.
When Volkan emerges from his sulkstorm of anger to argue with a ref, he's given a yellow card, probably just to make him feel like he's not being left out of anything.
The game ends, and leaving the stadium a Galatasaray fan is unhappy with the way the team won. In the tunnel back through the human cattle pen and down into the subway, more flares go off, held up by Galatasaray supporters and flooding the hallways with acrid gray fog.
Some Ultraslan members run past, then stop, look back, and then keep running in the universal pose of "Ohfuckitsthecops," but there's no one in pursuit, and no one to pursue.
No one seems to know why they're running, or where they're going, or why they're doing it like fifty cops should be in pursuit, firing tear gas canisters into the fans' asses and clattering along with their riot shields.
The cops have stayed back, though. The stampede never happens, and the fans press through the turnstiles and gates without a hint of disaster in the air.
Soccer is about whatever you want it to be about, and tonight for Galatasaray fans it was to be about a fight that never really happened.
In children's books, cities have always come sliced longitudinally for easy viewing. I'm thinking of one in particular from a Richard Scarry book of a city.
It is not one city in particular. The top layer are the tops of the buildings, topped with old zigzagging television antennae and little chimneys coughing out squiggles of charcoal line smoke.
The middle are windows of businesses. There is a bored anthropomorphic cat looking out the glass panes of a publisher. There is a dance studio, and below it a restaurant, and two other talking animals lounging at a cafe.
Someone peers out of their apartment window, looking at nothing in particular in the street, where a preschooler's checklist of people in your neighborhood drawn as bears, dogs, and cats do the work of the twelve or so professions a four year old knows and believes in.
The garbageman takes the trash away. A fireman waits for fire. A cop waves an ambulance through with a polite smile rendered with three strokes of a pencil.
Below that, there is a subway, located mere inches below the street. A train rides along the bottom of the page, loaded with the full menagerie of humanity obscured by animal archetypes.
A solemn bear reads a newspaper; a goat waits by the platform with a hint of anticipation in the arch in his eyebrow. That perfect city map does not have dogs, or fire, or three soccer teams like Istanbul does.
It doesn't have their fans, either: stuck in the subways throwing firecrackers out of the doors, shaking their fists in stadiums, and periodically stabbing someone because they're wearing the wrong shirt.
The stray dogs, Galatasaray fans bum-rushing television studios, government protests with clouds of tear gas and scurrying police vans, the random antiquity that falls out of a fresh subway tunnel: none of them are ever part of the plan, and always butt their way in regardless of the blueprint.
At no point in any map of the city does it depict the moment you stumble and grab hold of that live wire of human emotion: the bent of the faithful at a mosque, the sizzling anger of a crowd with its eyes fixed on the beetle-like forms of riot police, the profanity of soccer fans shaking their fists in a particular way and demanding blood in exchange for their love.
There is never a place on the map for that, nor any need. It doesn't render well, doesn't flatter the idea of a plan or order. It's not something you have to accept if you want that map to be alive, filled with the living and not the sanitized notion of the dead.
It would be a cleaner, simpler world. That place would also not be a city. It certainly wouldn't be Istanbul. So if you're looking at Istanbul sliced on the half and want to do it right: that corner on fire is Galatasaray's stadium, moved out to their own cordon but still shaking fists and burning flares in front of the VIPs trying to dull their knife-edge fandom.
That thing in the subway is a pre-Roman dig site, and the men surrounding it are befuddled construction worker and one terrified man from the Turkish ministry of culture.
There are old men making muddy coffee strong enough to kill a dragon, and huge mosques with muezzins drinking tea and biding time between calls.
There are dudes cruising in VW Sciroccos on the shore road at night, drinking beers subtly in their cars and adjusting their hair in the mirror.
There is traffic choking the city at every point. There will be police, and plans, and from time to time it will all burst into flames and screaming.
And sometimes, just when you want it to most, it will refuse to combust at all. On the way to the airport you rewind backward through time. You start at that insane Agatha Christie hotel, the one with the doomsday sunset views of Istanbul, then up through the streets, past the Ottoman-era wooden buildings and the giant construction holes.
You lurch through Galatasaray's home territory, through streets spotted with tea tables and backgammon boards left empty in mid-morning.