Sunday is Yours -- Istanbul, Turkey

It's Monday. Monday morning at 10:02. Ayse and Öykü are sleeping. Ümit and Seher are at work. Ayse's phone is persistently ringing on the ottoman in front of me and the teapot is rumbling in the kitchen.

I would answer the phone, but I don't recognize the number and the only bit of Turkish I feel comfortable uttering is a single, desperate, "Merhaba!"

Which doesn't exactly make for good conversation.

It is my last day in Istanbul. Some might tell me to go to Ortaköy or visit Buyukada or browse the shops of Taksim, but I've had it up to my remarkably bushy eyebrows with metrobuses and I'm choosing to spend my final day in Beylikdüzü. I will pack my BAG (singular, see?), charge my electronics, print off my travel documents and prepare a dinner for the family.

Cooking for Turkish people causes me so much stress.

But it is the last day. Should I make a  horrible mess of it and irrevocably offend their delicate tastebuds, they can only tease me for approximately nine hours. Which is a manageable amount of time to be teased.

Yesterday was my last day in city center. I asked Cesim if he would spend it with me.

"Yes," his facebook message read. "Sunday is yours."

So I boarded the loathsome metrobus at 10:00 and was surprised to easily slide into a seat.

That's right, I smiled smugly. It's Sunday. All Turkish people are lounging in bed thinking about breakfast. 

I arrived in city center at 11:15 and Semra let me in, standing patiently at the door whilst I removed my tedious boots.

"Yemek?" she motioned to her mouth and then to the plates of cheese and olives cluttering the counter.

Ah. Body language. How I love body language. 

"Lutfen," I responded and held my thumb and index finger together to indicate that I only wanted a little of the breakfast they'd just finished. Which is something most Turkish people don't understand, regardless of whether I use Turkish or body language to communicate. 

"Where you want go?" Cesim asked as I skipped down the stairs.

"Piere Loti!" I exclaimed excitedly. "For a final Turkish coffee."

"Okay, if you want."

"Do you want to go?" I suddenly felt insecure, as if I were pressuring my friend into doing something he found extremely unpleasant. Like eating sweet things for breakfast.

"Yes, sure. Piere Loti nice. And near to us."

Conscious slightly assuaged, I sat myself down in the passenger seat as Cesim expertly backed out the long driveway between a moving truck and parked cars.

I wouldn't survive two minutes driving in Istanbul. 

As most Turkish people were still washing the dishes from breakfast and drinking their after-breakfast tea, we were able to find a parking space relatively easily. We ambled through the nearby streets (which were fantastically empty and automobile free) --
 

wove in and out of a mosque's courtyard --

 

I was always so puzzled about what these little gazebo like structures were for...

... but I finally found out. This is where practicing Muslims wash their hands, feet and faces in preparation for the call to prayer.

Cesim was wonderfully patient as I snapped pictures of gravestones and feet (much more than Joe had been with the mushrooms). I thought of Cathy and our mutual love of old cemeteries and wished she could have shared the moment with me.

When we finally boarded the gondola for the top of Piere Loti, it was well after one o'clock.

"Gondola rides always make me think of my favorite town in Colorado. We have a gorgeous little place called Telluride, tucked away in the San Juan Mountains. Part of the town is just over one of the mountains and you have to ride a gondola to get there. One of my favorite things in the world is to buy a chunk of cheese, some chocolate and a bottle of wine and just ride the gondola up and down and around again at night. While eating those things."

Cesim was patient as I took pictures from the top.

Cesim was patient as I took pictures of the café.

Cesim was even patient as I took pictures of my coffee.

We strolled around the top and then decided to forgo the gondola ride and walk down the hill through the cemetery.

Walking down was a wonderful decision.

We headed to a local food fair and I experienced one of the best sensory overloads of my life. Everything was hustling, bustling, chaotic, crazy -- but everyone was having a marvelous time and everything looked and smelled heavenly. 

A spaghetti soldier.

I felt as if I'd somehow stumbled into Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Except instead of chocolate rivers, there were Ayran fountains.

This is the best possible version of "the sword in the stone".

I didn't feel overwhelmed in this crowd of foodies, which I found rather odd. Usually, crowds make me panicky and cause a bit of hyperventilation. This crowd just made me happy.

As did this. Most enormous kebap of all time.

Even though we'd just spent an hour passing by some of the most delicious food I've ever seen, we were not hungry. Turkish breakfast is a meal that renders further eating quite impossible until at least five o'clock.

"We are going new bridge," Cesim informed me as we boarded a bus towards Eminonu. "It will be my first time too."

We both took pictures on the bridge, so I felt less guilty about being so trigger happy.

"Are you hungry?" Cesim asked when we'd stepped down the final stair.

"No," I mourned. "I'm not. Too much Turkish breakfast."

"We go to Uskudar. When we come back, we are being hungry."

This is the metro station for Uskudar. It is more beautiful than some of the mosques I've seen.

Lemon juice is a popular condiment in Turkey.

It was five o'clock when we finally returned to the food fair. It was five o'clock and we were hungry at last. 

This sour cheese is the perfect combination of dry and juicy. It has the strangest texture of any cheese I've consumed on my travels thus far.

I had one small sample of camel sausage --

And we finally feasted on cag kebap. Which is sublimely flavorful, fatty, salty chunks of lamb served on a skewer. If you should someday find yourself bound for Istanbul, make sure to try cag kebap. And don't wait until your last day like me. You'll want as many days as possible to fully enjoy this mouthwatering bit of meat.

I know that I get overzealous about my love of food -- but it isn't just food that I love. I love the culture of people who love food. It's the talking and laughing and connecting and enjoying that I find so very pleasant. I like that food is a tradition that is passed down from generation to generation and that it can remind people of mothers or fathers or grandparents or friends.
 
Spicy chicken tortilla soup makes me think of my mother and our family dinners. I feel my family when I eat spicy chicken tortilla soup.

I feel my friend Sara when I drink chai.

I feel my friend Janet when I drink whiskey.

I feel Baris when I eat duck or drink a liter of wine on my own.

I feel Alex when I drink coffee. I remember the time we spent drinking coffee and reading together at Roasted and Main Street Bagels. 

Food is attached to home. Home is (hopefully) attached to warmth, trust, sharing, community.

Perhaps I'm merely reasoning myself out of feeling like a complete glutton, but I do believe that these are some of the reasons I find so much pleasure in food.  I would prefer a meal with locals over a trip to famous monuments any day.