I’ve been wondering what is so charming about Istanbul.
In every man I see my grandpa.
Conservative in self expression. In the use of color and patterns, in conversation, in smiles, in dance. The eyes become more keen to small shifts, for the expression exists, between the call to prayer and our next cup of cay.
Muted, overcast days give us the permission to nap into the night.
Cool hallways keep us cozied in our small room where daylight is allowed, or not allowed, depending on our motives.
The woman in the pastry shop, big sweater, slices our guilt in four and hands them over glass display cases of cold and savory pastries. We learn fast, and eat in jackets, scarves, hats. The bounds between inside and outside are minimal, and you will feel winter in Istanbul. You won’t erase it with heaters.
I love this.
The sun sets behind the ships that slowly move shipping containers into the sea. A bunny is used as a toy for passing families and men wander up the coast selling cay, hands in pockets, ears in hats & hoods. Don’t look from the sun, one distraction, and it’s sunk, a tiny red glow. Bright purple and orange lit clouds. We turn our backs to it, and walk the familiar and temporary streets.
Cats sleep and eat, well fed and housed here, keeping the rodents at bay and the tourists entertained.
Big fish play in the wake of the ferry to kadikoy, a daily experience, and one lira simit tease satiated bellies.
Soak it in honey and divide the check by 2.