one with sugar, one without

lovely day

A çay on the ferry to Asia.

A feast of cherry kebap, aubergine stew, lamb intestines stuffed with barley and a mysterious kebap with pomegranate sauce at Çiya.

Fishermen on the Galata bridge catch something unexpected.

guilt

Somehow I have to get a 4000 word essay done by May 15th while apartment hunting, working, and doing a variety of other unrelated things. My brain is over-saturated with thought, and I can't focus on sounding academic or summoning up the drive to read any more. I am tired of black type on white paper and screen, and so I've decided I am taking a break until Tuesday. I feel guilty; guilty for enjoying my time with friends and my art supplies. I know everything will ultimately come together, but goodness... I'll be so relieved once the paper is complete and I am sitting on the floor of my new apartment with a hot mug of tea.

cosy on a silver plate

No trip to Kadıköy is complete without a visit to the amazing Çiya. You know that feeling when you've been outside in the cold, your cheeks burning, your nose red— and you come inside to the sensation of tingly, cosy warmth spreading from your toes up to that red, red nose? Is there a word for that? The yoghurt, chickpea, spinach and lamb soup tasted precisely like that feeling. Absolutely delicious. Absolutely cosy.

flavours of the day

I needed a few things before heading off to Kathmandu, like some pants (I only have one suitable pair), a bag (mine has worn down into holes), and one more delicious lunch at Çiya. Tilly had yet to experience the wonders of Çiya, so we took the 11:45 ferry to Kadıköy for a small feast and a wander about town.


Immediately upon entering the restaurant (as I have the past three Çiya visits), I sashayed up to the hot dish counter and enquired about the availability of their heavenly sour cherry kebap, which I've been repeatedly told is out of season until summertime. When does "summertime" begin, according to the chefs? Apparently, July! To my absolute joy, to my "vişne kebap var mı?", came the words I've been waiting to hear for a year: "Evet, var."

Sour, slightly sweet and dark, bits of sauce-soaked spongy bread, melting meat and bursting cherries...


Oh how patiently I had waited! There was only one thing to do after such an experience, and since I don't smoke, a good strong Turkish coffee would have to do.


After a tiny cup of silty coffee, a lokum and lively conversation, we moved on. This lovely lady offered us some fresh fruit juice, and with such a thick summer heat hanging in the air, how could we resist? Grapefruit was added to the flavours of the day.


I eventually found what I was looking for.

five parts to a great night

1. Hop on a ferry with friends to the Asian side.
2. Dine at the gastronomical perfection that is Çiya.


3. Sip on Turkish coffee, lightly sweetened, at Fazıl Bey'in Türk Kahvesi.
4. Converse, chat, laugh and discuss.
5. Head back to Europe on the very last ferry.

birds and powdered orchids

I always wanted to be a bird. As a child, I collected feathers in a secret wooden box, and leapt off walls and swings while vigorously flapping my arms. I took up the trapeze as an adult. As I stood atop Galata Kulesi, cold hands on the even colder railing, I marvelled at the labyrinth of Istanbul spread out below me. Red-tiled crumbling roofs, salmon-walled buildings, grey cobblestones and silvery Bosphorus, Golden Horn and Marmara beneath my feet. Seagulls and jackdaws soared and plummeted in the wintery sky, this, their daily perspective.


After wandering around Beyoğlu all morning, I hopped on a ferry to Kadıköy for a heavenly lunch at Çiya, which has got to be my most favourite restaurant in this city. The waiters and guys behind the counters were so friendly, happy to explain what was in every single dish and offer recommendations. Beet salad and cooked turnip greens, oregano salad, dolmas, something with eggplants, a spicy nut purée— oh! There was this soup with chickpeas, lamb and yoghurt that just enveloped me in warmth— a silver bowl of comfort on a perfect rainy day. Fresh herbs, bold spices and subtle sauces. Every bite was exquisite, every scent a delight.

Belly full and happy, a walk in the icy rain was in order. Fishmongers and grocers called out the names of fish and fruit, as people huddled under umbrellas splashed by.


I warmed my fingers with a paper cup of sahlep on the ferry ride back to Beşiktaş. Sahlep is a hot, sweet beverage made from the ground tubers of orchids. It's thick and delicately flavoured— a flavour hard to describe— a wonderful winter treat.


Even though the minibuses of Istanbul will terrify you with their speed and irritate you with their stuffed-in-a-can sardine feeling, I love them. I love watching people lost in thought. What are they thinking? What worlds live behind their eyes, inside their hearts? When I sketch someone, I hope to feel even the tiniest bit of what they are feeling.

the end of a season

Even though it has been several hours, I can still feel the waves of the sea rocking me, lulling me to sleep as I type this. I love that sensation; it's like the sea is holding on to me— or maybe I am the one unwilling to let go. I was in the mood for a little adventure when I woke up this morning. A new friend of mine was in town, and we decided a divine lunch was in order. We hopped on the Kadıköy ferry to Çiya, for a feast of sour cherry kebaps, green beans in yoghurt and mint, saucy aubergines and lentils, and a tomato and parsley salad with pomegranate seeds. Çiya may be on another continent (it sits on the Asian side whilst I reside cherry kebapless in Europe), but I plan on becoming a regular. Just look at this:


See? Oh, and this— this is lahmacun (lah-ma-joon)— typically Turkish, and ever so tasty. A thin, soft bread baked with ground meat, onions, tomatoes, parsley and spices. You can find lahmacun pretty much everywhere for about a lira and a half. A perfect snack, or in this case, a delightful addition to a feast. All that delicious food for about twenty dollars. Can you believe it?

At the end of a long, satisfying, festival of flavour, tea is in order. After downing what was my third tiny tulip-shaped glass of çay, we hurried off to the iskele to catch the ferry to Büyükada, one of the Princes' Islands— which some of you might remember I visited earlier this summer.


This time however, the streets were mostly empty, the quiet barely broken by the clip-clopping of horses. It was like being transported somewhere far, far away— Istanbul felt like a mere memory. We walked down shaded streets, marvelling at all the old villas, many in disrepair. Paint peeling, bougainvilleas fading— there was that beautiful melancholy that can only mean the end of a season has come.

October was rolling in with sooner sunsets— the ferry back to city madness was slow and full of pinks and violets. I sipped my fifth çay over laughter and stories. When we parted ways at Kadıköy— my friend heading off to Eminönü and I, to Kabataş, I pulled out a pencil and sketchbook and began to draw.