Kahvalti at First Light

“There is nothing like a doorbell to precipitate the potential into the kinetic. When you stand outside a door and push the button, something has to happen. Someone must respond; whatever is inside must be revealed. Questions will be answered, uncertainties or mysteries dispelled. A situation will be started on its way through unknown complications to an unpredictable conclusion. The answer to your summons may be to a rush of tearful welcome, a suspicious eye at the crack of the door, a shot through the hardwood, anything. Any pushing of any doorbell button is as rich in dramatic possibility as that scene in Chekhov when, just as the Zemstvo doctor's only child dies of diphtheria and the doctor's wife drops to her knees beside the bed and the doctor, smelling of carbolic, takes an uncertain step backward, the bell sounds sharply in the hall. ”

Kahvalti means "breakfast." I know this because an old man with a large white mustache asked me to say "breakfast" into his phone, and the word kahvalti popped up. It means, however, a very specific type of breakfast, at least to the proprietors of the sorts of cafes tourists find open at dawn.

Said breakfast being the standard cucumber, tomato, wrinkly olives, and divers cheeses plate. With tea, bread, and honeyed butter.

I had earlier learned the dish I thought a variant of shakshuka is called menemen. I would like to try it again some day, but the men run away to prepare kahvalti when I approach.

While I waited, I entertained fantasies of cooking menemen for all my friends. I would have a cabin, they would spend the evening, and I would awaken them with my signature dish and muddy thimbles of coffee. I would need the recipe, a cabin, and some friends for this to happen, however.

I was up very early to read heavily and explore lightly. Today's only goal was to finish two books to lighten the bag for tomorrow's flight to Almaty. 

As an emotional experiment, I went out without my phone or camera. I wanted to experience things as they were, to look at them as they were without "framing" them or recording them. What I saw would be in the moment, ephemeral.

I immediately regretted it, as one of the first things I saw was three cats lined up in a brick gutter, blinking and stretching. The photo would have translated very nicely to bookmarks and mouse pads, and I would be writing this from a pile of lira-full cement bags. Alas, my potential fame lay in the gutter with those scenic kittens.

Very quiet on the cobblestones at that hour. Very still at the cafes. After I ordered, another man with another mustache sat next to me. He wore the uniform (mock turtleneck, sport coat) and appeared distinguished in every way.

"Where you from?"
California
"Ah! United States America."
Yes.
"Your Doe-Nal Troomp. He very bad."

There was some apprehension here. Was it a trick?

I said yes, though. Because I think he is very bad.

He laughed and made a thumbs-down gesture. "Very bad, Troomp! Very bad."

I smiled and returned to my book. The cucumber plate arrived as did a magnificent treat: grapes! And such grapes! Golden with a slight brown tint to them, brushed perhaps by the hand of an Old Master Painter. They seemed plucked from a still life. And the flavor! Sweet and ancient. I have never tasted such grapes, they were a revelation.

Sat and ate and felt the street come to life around me as I finished the Huxley novel. He's marvelous. His books feel like a conversation. Complicated, but he's willing to wait for you to catch up. Sensual as well. He's almost like if Fitzgerald had gone to Cambridge instead of Yale and got high on mushrooms instead of killing himself with cocktails.

The Nevertroomper interrupted my reading of the appendix to tell me a choorch would be starting service soon if I wanted to go. I thanked him. He told me he taught a secondary school and I should visit tomorrow. I think. I told him I would. I will be on a plane to Kazakhstan, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings.  See you in choorch. Goodbye.

I was too full to finish the Old Master Grapes and knew regret.

Took a different way back home. This is a very sweet, very interesting little neighborhood, and unless something radical happens to the economy, Balat will be a kind of Williamsburg, Brooklyn in two years or less. The signs are all here.

There are "precious" things for sale and many specialty shops. One offered "vinegar jam" and when I saw the sign, I had the lyrics to "Mein Herr" in my head for hours.

Did some cleaning up to be all ready for tomorrow. I fell quite in love with the room during this stay. Cozy little day-bed and dark little sleeping area. Perfect for this short trip, ideal for acclimating myself to this time zone.

Did some research for Almaty and pretended I was hungry again to give myself an excuse to go back out. The weather was gorgeous; I was comfortable in a t-shirt and felt inspired and free with a Stegner novel.

This guy, Stegner. He's like if Salter was fun to read.

Trendy little lunch at an upscale place, incredible meal of baked eggs in yogurt with a few strips of a strange bacon. It was called... I meant to write it down. It took me three days to catch up to menemen, so...I'm sure somewhere on the banks of the Aral Sea, I'll figure it out. I enjoyed it very much.

That's what this early wing of the trip has been. I don't feel any pressure to memorize or record. That will change, I think, when I'm in the totally new (to me) culture of the 'stans, but I feel completely relaxed here and free... not to know things.

I've had some simmering concern that I lost some cognitive ability when I had the "brain tear" a few months ago, but I am reading, writing, thinking, and responding emotionally in what I think is the manner I am used to. Something is different or "off," but I can't quite name it. And I can't quite tell the effect either. It's just a general lingering concept that... something is lost.

It may be a speed-of-thought thing or a dulled sense thing... but it's hard to name. I'll just proceed as if things are as they were.

Read for a long time at the trendy place, spooning up as much of the yogurt-yolk-and-bacon-grease as the little coffee spoon would allow me to. Moved on to an iced coffee place and read for yet another hour. When you're not racing to catch a mini-van to an historic site, you can really tear through a novel.

Back at the apartment, I made my farewell to Joyce. It is unlikely I'll see her again in the morning. I leave early. Her life is interesting here, and I wish her the best of luck.

The real adventures begin tomorrow. Wild new countries and menus and languages. I have very little idea what to expect. Will it be like Morocco without the murder? Romania without the Romany? Fitzgerald without a cocktail? It will soon be told. Whatever difficulties I encounter, this easy start in Istanbul has shored me up.

Bring on the 'stans.