A man pressed my thumb down onto the greasy black ink pad, and into the space labelled ‘thumb’ on the page beside it. Forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, baby finger, one at a time, were all smeared in the black ink and pressed firmly onto the page. The man had an American twang, but looked like a Turk, dark hair and sallow skin. I shifted in my chair, it squeaked.

I sat opposite five smiling black politicians, framed on the wall. A beaded tribal doll was behind glass on a shelf, beside a Springbok jersey and a bottle of Cape wine, tilted to one side. Piles of brochures about investing in South Africa were fanned out on the glass table top. A broad-shouldered blonde strode into the room. (Read on …)

“Allaaahuu Akbaarr.” The muezzin paused, drew breath. I held out a public phone’s plastic receiver, stretching the wire, and hoped my father on the other end could hear Istanbul being called to prayer. “Allaaahuu Akbaarr. Allaaahuu Akbaarr, Ash-hadu alla ilaha illallah.” The muezzin stopped, inhaled. Traffic snarled and casual banter dominated the city again. I bent my knees, bowed my head, and squeezed back into the small phone booth. (Read on …)

Monastiraki square bubbled with the bustle of Athenians and tourists alike. Fruit sellers, bananas hanging from the awnings of their wooden stands, bellowed the price of their wares in rich resonant voices. The sweetest seedless grapes were piled up in bunches. Heart shaped chocolate donuts wafted their merciless scent through the crowds. Koulouri, sesame bread rings, were sold hot. But in this land of treats, baklava was king. (Read on …)