Tuesday 8:00 a.m. Sitting on a plastic stool in a narrow alley still wet from a pre-dawn street cleaning, I sip strong sweet tea from a tiny curvaceous glass. I chose this place despite the cafes around because it is simply a 6×8 room with a young man standing at a 2-burner hotplate. On one burner is a tin kettle with heating water, on the other is a tin kettle with steeping leaves. The brew is so strong only half a glass is poured for me, with hot water topping it up and 2 lumps of sugar placed in the deep red and gold saucer that keeps the glass from sliding onto the cobbles. My first Turkish tea.
A leafy courtyard nearby smells rank from the urine of too many cats, who stalk, preen and lounge under the shade of an old tree. Begonias bloom in chipped garden pots. They are all well-fed. In Istanbul, felines rule. Only two street dogs seem to have escaped what must have been a general massacre some time ago.
Men, unshaven, sit on low stools, elbows resting on knees, in one hand may be a cigarette, in the other a small glass of tea or tiny cup of coffee. They stare at the ground, perhaps contemplating an upcoming visit with a razor. Cafes blink the night’s crust from their sleepy doorways. A faint whiff of salt air from the Bosphorus. I’ve found a modest grocery with one wall lined with deep bins of raw almonds, plump dried apricots and golden raisins the size of peanut M&Ms. They’ll make great road snacks.
Three days left before we take off for the east of Turkey. Brunhilde has arrived and is running well. Most important, for someone about to enter large expanses of desert in which she will have to wear long sleeves and cover her head with a scarf, Brunhilde’s air conditioning system purportedly has been fixed.
-Dina
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