Sunday Market -- Istanbul, Turkey

For me, writing stories is a way of feeling connected to the Universe and God. 

~Elif Safak 

Saturday and Sunday were lazy family days. We strolled around the beach --

Turkish workout equipment. Notice how abandoned it looks.

Stray dogs are as prolific in Istanbul as prairie dogs are in Colorado.

-- drank a copious amount of chai and Seher took me to get a haircut.

 

I’ve spent the last couple of months in dire need of a haircut, but this frugal traveler has been postponing it due to the cost.

Istanbul is an expensive city. Clothes, food, coffee, transportation – all expensive.

But haircuts?

Fifteen Turkish lyra. This translates into a grand total of seven and a half dollars.

I was feeling like one of Istanbul's shaggy stray dogs and no longer had good reason to postpone the haircut.

The barber was a short, balding, well-dressed Turkish chap who spoke no English and was appreciative of the fact that I spoke no Turkish. Apparently, Turkish women just come into his shop and tell him how to do his job -- which is never a pleasant situation.

Seher acted as interpreter between the meticulous balding barber and me, making sure I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when I asked for “shorter”.

After he finished trimming the final strands (he really was quite the perfectionist), he offered to style it. Curious as to what he’d do, I asked him to go ahead. He motioned left or right for the part, and I motioned “back”, hoping that the result would be similar to the fabulous faux-hawk I had in Colorado.

I didn’t quite anticipate the space ranger quality of the final product... but he certainly followed my instructions and shaped the hair “back”.

The evening was spent with Umit’s adult students. Two Turkish engineers picked me up at 19:15 and drove us to a café to meet with another colleague. I did my best to slow down my sentences and enunciate clearly, but I believe I failed miserably. Near the end of the hour and a half conversation, the lost Turkish students were just watching football. I put in a valiant effort to instigate dialogue, but I got half-hearted responses.

Maybe they just really like football, I consoled myself as one of the taciturn Turks drove me home. I’ll slow down more next time.

Seher, Ayse and I walked to the open market on Sunday, tugging their trolley behind.

The open market is a wonderland. Never before have I set eyes upon such colossal cabbages and pomegranates. I wandered around in a dreamlike trance as Seher and Ayse did the shopping. I wanted to touch, smell, taste everything. 

This bread is sold by the kilo.