A Quiet Neighborhood In Istanbul

After him, an older woman in a burqa, her empty shopping bags tied to the back of her belt like some makeshift bustle. [...] that the sexes are becoming a little more equal, young women too sit in cafes for long hours, talking to people at adjoining tables as well as their companions. The cafe on Purtelas would serve you a good Turkish breakfast any time: two kinds of cheese, chopped tomatoes and cucumbers, olives, bread, olive oil, honey, a few pieces of what may have been salami. A couple of those, and you’re ready to walk down Purtelas to face the world, your face still set in a funny expression, still reacting to extreme bitterness. [...] they do spend their days prowling the streets, and the residents throw them food — scraps from the table, leftovers from the restaurant. There were no rug merchants, no stores selling endless varieties of souvenirs, no frail young men peddling guidebooks to this or that. [...] when one looks up from the floor far below, one sees half a vaulting dome and half metal rods imprisoning the thick columns all the way up. People were unfailingly kind and generous to us; many spoke English and wanted to try out their language skills. Merely the hum of conversation as people walked home, having first stopped at the produce store at the top of the street.