two weeks

Kathmandu, there are only two weeks between us.
Two weeks until I am home again.

This is the beauty of being a nomad; the concept of home is not tied to a specific geographic location or a handful of people. It moves with and within you, like a pulse. You build a collection of homes as you move.

You find family wherever you meet them.
You find home wherever your heart grows.
You find love.

the sound of sunday

The sun has fallen behind the hills of salmon and sand-coloured 70s-style block apartment buildings, between which every now and then rots a wooden Ottoman beauty. Summer heat, chased away by the growing shade, waits patiently for another day. Sandalwood, paint and ginger blend into my apartment's very own perfume, and I wonder if I carry the scent on my skin when I leave. Swallows sing as children squeal and shout incomprehensible things; it must be about the football match they are playing with great seriousness in the street below. If I close my eyes, beyond the percussion of little feet, I can hear glass rolling on pavement, the low growl of a motor, the cooing of brown doves. A woman is laughing. A door is slamming, another is creaking open. Earlier this morning, I heard church bells among the gulls, and I thought I was somewhere else.

I want more hours of today. I want the sun to hold its position.
I do not want the children to go in for supper.

the small victories

On this fine, unexpectedly sunny Sunday, I decided to tackle the assembly of the dreaded Ikea wardrobe. When I laid out all the pieces of white particle board on the floor of my empty living room, I thought there was no way in hell that I'd be able to put this monstrosity together without a second pair of arms and hands. After three cups of coffee and some peanut butter, I set my drawing aside, turned up my music and got out my screwdriver.

I built it, swore only once and thought, surely I cannot lift this thing; I'm much too small.
I ate some more peanut butter.



My friends, I now have a wardrobe. I only swore three times, I sang a lot, and I feel mighty proud.
Here's to the small victories!

scenes from a stroll

shou helwa

I've been taking advantage of the hot water and home cooking at my mum's house this week, and luckily managed to see my Tante Leyla, who was in town from Lebanon for a few hours before catching a cruise ship to Dubrovnik with her friend. We had enough time for a lightning speed catch-up over a few cups of Turkish coffee and lunch. My aunt is a fantastic reader of coffee grounds. Each time she visits, we go through the ritual of cooking the coffee in its long-handled pot, watching it rise, pouring it into little cups, and sipping it carefully until the grounds are in a glistening, muddy mound at the bottom.

I gulped down the piping hot kahve and thrust the cup into her hands. She flipped it over onto its saucer, set it to dry, and calmly lit a cigarette. When it was ready, she slowly turned the little cup over, raised an eyebrow, and took a long, thoughtful drag from her cigarette.

"Ahhh... shou helwa!" she smiled, and consulted her friend.
"Helwa iktir!" her friend agreed.

In a cloud of smoke and Arabic, I learned that many wonderful things were in store for me. I'll be keeping them my delicious little secrets, as I don't want to jinx the good fortune drawn in my cup. You never know. I am reminded of a quote I read recently by Roald Dahl, one of my all-time favourite writers:

"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it."

soothing frustration

Last week I was in a bit of a foul mood. It generally takes a lot to put in me in a foul mood, but after dealing with the bizarrity of the gas company's regulations and the sloppy workmanship of their hole-makers, I was on the verge of losing my temper. Supposedly, if I allowed the gas company to put holes in a couple of windows and one door, I could then get gas and hot water. It's been about a week and I'm still bathing with a red plastic tub of water heated by my electric kettle. I actually don't really mind the whole plastic tub of kettle water; it's kind of weirdly nostalgic. My years in Cairo were often marked by blackouts and water shortages. I remember filling up buckets and basins with water to bathe with when it wasn't coming out of the shower. Bathing became more of a ritual, every drop of water appreciated.

I decided I needed a good old-fashioned burger to soothe my frustration, so I headed down Istiklal toward the only two "American-style" burger joints that I know of: Dükkan Burger and Mano Burger. After dropping my jaw on the street when I saw the prices at Dükkan, I decided on Mano, two doors down. I sat down, ordered a side of spicy fries and the Ottoman Burger— smoky aubergine sauce, hellim cheese and caramelised onions. I like Mano. They make a nice Turkish take on an American burger. My anger being chewed away into satisfaction and a calmness I hadn't felt in days, I was coming back to my regular self. I noticed a crowd of people gathering outside on the street, staring at something that was just past my line of sight. Suddenly, a mad tune from violin rose above the noise of the city, followed by guitar and drum. I scarfed down my burger, practically threw money at the cashier, and jumped outside to find three men in a spontaneous jam session outside one of Tünel's many music stores.

I was surrounded by people clapping, smiling and even dancing.
I remembered why I love living in Istanbul so much.

a few sketches

1. Taksim Square
2. Istanbul Gar— the last stop of the famed Orient Express
3. Inside the Grand Bazaar
4. An alley way in the Grand Bazaar
5. The gate of Dolmabahçe Palace

starting over

Sometimes you spend hours, days, weeks or months on a piece of art, and it just doesn't come out right. It's tempting to go with it, rather than starting over to get it the way you really want it to look. I've wanted to create a comic of short stories for the past two years, but life keeps getting in my way. I wanted to get back to it, and finish this story I had started over a year and a half ago, but the face was irking me in this panel. As much as I tried to accept the face and move on, I just couldn't let it go. This has to be right; it has to look the way I see it in my mind. Sometimes there's a disconnect between my brain and my fingers, and sometimes all my nerves are firing in perfect rhythm.

I have a long way to go with all the shading in pointillism, but I am so much happier with the drawing.
I've got my fingers crossed, hoping I can get the rest of the panels to reflect what I see in my head.

near and far

under a cloud of apple-scented smoke

Javier sketches while Lapin exhales from a nargile pipe in Ortaköy.

starting from zero

Ladies and gents, I have officially moved into my new apartment downtown. After five patience-grinding days of struggling to get my internet set up, losing my desk lamp to some sticky-fingered movers who also broke my bed, I am once again, a city girl. I may not have hot water, a cooker, a fridge or furniture, but I do have an electric kettle, plenty of tea and this beautiful carpet— a housewarming gift from my family. Speaking of carpets, I've managed to win over my upstairs neighbour! How? By letting her wash her carpets on my balcony! She's actually a very lovely lady, and after being warmly welcomed with coffee and chocolate wafers by her daughter, I am positive this is going to be a wonderful experience.

The feeling of starting from zero is as thrilling as it is frustrating. As much as I am anxious to go out and buy a new bed, a wardrobe and sofa, I think I'll hold off until I get back from Nepal— which is, by the way, in an astonishing 29 days! I cannot believe it's almost been a year since I first set foot in Kathmandu. My goodness, how time flies...

after hours

At the Grand Bazaar and by the Galata Tower.

fortune in a cup

I love a tradition that involves a hot beverage, imagination and a long chat. When you reach the end of your dainty cup of silty Turkish coffee, it's tradition to flip your cup upside-down on its saucer, and examine the patterns formed by the grounds for signs of love, adventure and money.

I see dancing nudes, the Himalaya, a shirtless bearded man and a sea horse.
What do you see?

water and sky

light lines and washes

I'm working on not overworking my sketches; keeping them light, minimal and free.

istanbul delicious

What kind of friend would I be if I neglected to take Lapin and Javier on a gastronomical tour of yumminess? There is no shortage of ways to feed your hunger in Istanbul— from lip-smacking, finger-licking street food to the delicate wonders of Çiya.

Our first stop on the tour was the infamous islak burger, or "wet burger." Yes, wet burger. Imagine a hamburger drowned in a vat of garlicky tomato sauce with a vague hint of cumin. This saucy beast is then stacked upon others who have suffered the same greasy fate, then heated by light bulbs in a foggy vitrine. It has taken me two years to taste one of these monstrosities, and ladies and gentlemen, I must report that the two lira islak burger is actually pretty damn tasty.

Next stop, perfection in a half loaf: balık ekmek. Mackerel, onions and lettuce thrust into bread that threatens to burst on your lap. Pour on the lemon juice and salt to get it just right, then end it all with a little tub of lokma— fried dough bathed in fragrant syrup. A great way to spend six lira.

So you've been getting lost in the maze of Istanbul— your feet are aching and your stomach is starting to make noises that are almost audible above the cacophony of honking horns. A man yelling something incomprehensible is pushing a little lopsided cart with what looks like an aquarium full of rice and chickpeas. Nohutlu pilav is simply rice and chickpeas. Sometimes you can add some chicken to it, but why bother? It's so good on its own. You might pay anywhere between one and two lira, depending on the mood of the guy pushing the cart. 

Ah, the kumpir. A ten lira massive baked potato with its innards whipped up in butter and cheese, stuffed with toppings of your choice. I like mine piled high with a tomatoey bulghur mixture called kısır, black olives, pickled red cabbage and hot sauce.

And to think I haven't even included the famed döner kebap or lahmacun...

the yeni camii, in two sketches

the yeni camii, in four photographs

As friends and fellow sketchers Lapin and Javier are in town, I've been spending my days in a fantastic frenzy of sketching and sight-seeing. One of our first stops was the Yeni Camii, or "New Mosque" which is as new as 1663, when its construction was completed. The Yeni Camii is that impressive, massive mosque in Eminönü, right next to the Spice Bazaar. This marvellous granite and marble structure is home to sixty-six domes and semi domes, two minarets and an enormous central dome with a ceiling of thirty-six meters in height. As you can imagine, it's not easy to draw.