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ISTANBUL — In the end, the question feels inappropriate. A little ridiculous, even. Arda Turan is sitting on the terrace of an impossibly lavish hotel, picking at a platter of fat grapes and sweet oranges and slices of fresh watermelon. The Bosporus shimmers a perfect blue. The sky is bright and glorious and it stretches all the way to Asia.
It is not the time, or the place, to ask anyone where it all went wrong.
Besides, Turan does not have an answer. Or, rather: as he sits and he picks at the fruit and he talks, it becomes clear Turan has only part of the answer.