O Istanbul

Its name carries a myth and the city never disappoints me.  Its melancholy permeates the streets and its people.  There is a dark side that wears like an old sweater, and the mood can be further mellowed by the sweetness of baklavas.  Attractive men with curly black hair.  Beautiful women in oriental dresses.  I have friends who call me from time to time.  “When will you come back?”

I know the streets.  I know the people who run the little gift shops, the hawkers in front of the restaurants and in the parks.  But it has been three years since I was there.  Will I see the same people doing the same things when I go back?  Chances are:  I will.  I can count on them being there pouring tea or raki into little glass cups and wave a welcome as if I have never left.

A friend writes, “See you in November.”