Like most of Nicosia, the Atolye Cadi Kazani Cafe feels nostalgic. It is awash in jazzy piano music, the scent of cardamom-spiced coffee and an Ottoman ambience that reminds the owner, Nilgun Guney, of her grandmother's house. “This is the magic zone,” said Ms. Guney, a Turkish Cypriot painter who lives in northern Nicosia, the Turkish side of the city, Cyprus's capital. “Here we try to create something new from something old that is fading away.” You need a little magic to see Nicosia, the last divided capital in Europe, as one city. For decades, the Mediterranean island-nation of Cyprus has been cleaved between ethnic Greeks and Turks into the wealthy sovereign south and the poorer, Turkish-occupied north. Nicosia, called Lefkosia in Greek and Lefkosa in Turkish, most visibly symbolizes this estrangement; to visit both sides, you must cross a checkpoint and change your money — euros on one side, Turkish liras on the other. Reunification talks have failed for decades, but in recent years Cypriots from both sides of the island have grown tired of the stalemate. The new president, Dimitris Christofias, won election in February partly by promising Greek Cypriots that he would restart reunification talks with Turkish Cypriots and their leader, Mehmet Ali Talat. Talks are scheduled next month. It's much easier to travel between the two Nicosias since border restrictions were relaxed in 2003. And last month, a 230-foot-stretch of Ledra Street, part of a central shopping street that served as a barricade between north and south, was reopened after 44 years. The recent thaw has opened some lines of communication among the Cypriots; Ms. Guney and her Greek Cypriot friends, also artists, meet at her cafe every month to plan joint exhibitions. Like many visitors to Cyprus, I began my exploration of Nicosia in the south. Home to around 270,000 people, this Nicosia is a moneyed urban center with boutiques, malls and sprawling suburbs of Mediterranean mansions. On Archbishop Makarios Avenue, named after the iconic former president and church leader, sushi restaurants are filled with Prada-clad diplomats and tanned 20-somethings. In the medieval walled city, locals hang out at the arty Oktana cafe or head for bouzouki-riffed Greek pop music and Mediterranean food at Domus, a bar and restaurant. The walled city, which is also divided, was where I found Nicholas Panayi, a Greek Cypriot painter who later introduced me to Ms. Guney. Mr. Panayi, a Nicosia native, is based in the old city, where he has a gallery featuring his searching, tension-filled paintings and runs an art school with his Portuguese wife, Teresa. “This used to be a place full of big homes with gardens, but unfortunately all the typical architecture was left to rot,” he said. “Yet this part of the city has an allure and warmth that feels very familiar.” The old quarter exudes a restless, worn beauty. Retirees ride bicycles along pedestrianized Ledra Street, passing fathers sharing ice cream with their toddlers. Tourists feast on grilled halloumi cheese and spicy sheftalia (sausages) at the traditional taverns of the Laiki Geitonia (“folk neighborhood”). On Eleftherias Square, the area's anchor, chic young couples mingle with Black Sea immigrants. Nicosia is planning a modern redesign of the square by Zaha Hadid, the Pritzker Prize-winnng architect. In a tree-shaded, jasmine-scented corner of the old town, lawyers, musicians and teenagers hang out at Ta Kala Kathoumena (Out of the Blue), a low-key cafe run by Symis Shukuroglou, who offers political commentary as Mr. Panayi and I sip frappés. “We're not the Israelis and Palestinians,” he said. “We don't have to love the Turks, and they don't have to love us. We just have to tolerate each other.” Cyprus has been divided along ethnic lines since 1964, when fighting between the majority Greek Cypriots and minority Turkish Cypriots got bad enough for the United Nations to create a buffer zone. The dividing line was named the Green Line because a United Nations officer used a green pen to draw the border on a map. In 1974, Athens, then run by a military dictatorship, engineered a failed coup that was supposed to unite the island with Greece. Turkey reacted by invading the northern third, which it has occupied ever since. With Mr. Panayi as my guide, I crossed the Ledra Palace checkpoint area, a stretch marked by the lonesome hulks of buildings and the once-luxurious Ledra Palace Hotel, now a barracks for United Nations troops. As we neared northern Nicosia, posters denouncing the invasion gave way to crimson signs declaring a “Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus Forever.” The signs refer to the breakaway state in the north, which is not recognized internationally. Northern Nicosia, home to about 85,000 people, has an intimate charm. Anatolian folk music echoes from car stereos. Men hang out at hookah cafes as young mothers in head scarves trail children on bicycles. Since the partial border opened in 2003, this side of Nicosia has enjoyed a surge in tourism. The Gothic and Ottoman architecture is stunning and well preserved; for instance, the restored Buyuk Han, an Anatolian inn built in 1572, is now a hub for art and photo galleries and cafes. Though many Turkish Cypriots live in the suburbs, the old city remains a haven for artists. Osman Keten creates his mystic, earth-toned paintings in a sunlit gallery near the Cadi Kazani Cafe, where he often joins Mr. Panayi and Ms. Guney to talk about art and their city. The artists have exhibited together often, most notably in the Open Studios exhibition, a visual arts festival held in the historic center of Nicosia. ON a balmy evening, I headed to Cadi Kazani to meet Mr. Keten, Mr. Panayi and Ms. Guney, who were sharing dishes of tiramisù at a big table in the back. They spoke to each other in English, sometimes straining to find the right words, but their rapport was easy and relaxed. When I asked them about their early memories of Nicosia, they turned somber. Mr. Panayi recalled the Turkish bombs falling on the capital. Mr. Keten remembered how Greek Cypriot radicals had set his family home on fire. And fighting also forced Ms. Guney's family to flee her grandmother's pretty Ottoman-style house. “I still remember the dolls I left behind,” she said. “That's what you see in our city,” she added, “lost childhoods, old lives, links that you don't want to cut. It's what keeps us together and what keeps us apart.” - NYT __
