On the trail of Dervish Baba...
We sit on the roof and listen to the cry of the gulls as it mingles with the call to prayer and the sounds of street life buzzing from below. A plate of fresh olives (black, yellow, green), a glass of Turkish Shiraz, and bread from the corner store with its hard crust and inside soft as cotton candy. This is the great cosmopolis I love.
I hope and pray that the Americans stay away from here. They would never understand or appreciate this place and, consequently, don't deserve it. Life here doesn't proceed in a straight line from point A to point B; it wanders like Dervish Baba through the winding alleyways of Cihangir with its own sort of crazy wisdom.
