The afternoon brought its familiar heat. The air seemed warmest where it left the pavement and swirled around my feet, slowing my steps. People retired to shuttered rooms for a siesta, slowly emptying the streets. We made our way to the shade of the Parque del Retiro, a large expanse of green near the city centre, thick with trees, and strolled for a while, along the gravel tracks that spread confusingly in all directions and down next to a small canal and fell asleep. It was our first siesta.
Istanbul
“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.
“And the beds? Do you fit into the beds?” asked Dad, also six foot eight, laughing at the image I had just conjured: me hunched awkwardly over a telephone, head touching the roof.
“I curl up, or stretch diagonally, like anywhere. The beds aren’t any different.” But so much was different. I felt amidst the truly exotic for the first time and, because his reactions were so animated, enjoyed describing this unfamiliar land to my father. Continue reading Istanbul>>
