Istanbul

Istanbul awakens all senses. The smell of tea and spices, chestnuts and kebabs, the aroma of coffee blended with the picture of a grinder at work, hard sweat, sweetness, permeate the streets. Another one of those over-enthusiastic sellers asking me if I have a plastic fantastic; another attempting to konichiwa-me; yet another recommending turkish viagra with equal vigor. Strange yet familiar tastes melt delightfully in my mouth: pomegranate, coconut, mint. A harmonious experience of voices and colors, a boy carrying a tray of turkish tea cutting in and out of the crowd, a man pushing a cart of sesame, no, olive breads, a man pulling a cart of chopped wood.

The mosques are comparable to Roman cathedrals. Clothed in mosaic grandeur, flower shadows cast across a carpet weaved in rich symbolic meanings, the voice of the imam reverberates, fills the heart with calm, a blue-red haven. Broken tiles, worn out pillars, carved stones, fading paint, overflow with beauty and history.