The ferry ploughs and skips across the Bosphorus,
glittering like a broken mirror in the sun; the fracture between two
continents. I stand on the deck with my face in the wind, eyes half closed as
my hair whips across my face.
I buy a black tea from the vendor on the deck. They are
found all over Istanbul, these stocky, dark men with delicate trays in their
thick hands. The steam hits my nose, a rich smell of old books and burnt
leaves. An older woman sitting near me stirs a cube of sugar into hers
carefully; clink, clink, clink. We sip our teas in a broken ceremony, strangers
sharing this timeworn tradition. Istanbul is a city where one never feels
alone; moments of shared culinary delight embrace the most solitary
individuals.
Later, I am lying on the grass in a park fringed by aged
wooden houses, the afternoon sun making me feel limbless. A teenage boy
carrying a circular object on his head and a stand on his shoulder approaches
me. In a seamless movement, he kicks out his stand and places the tray down.
Atop it is a huddle of mussel shells, half open and glistening with salt water,
alongside a basket of cut lemons. I study them in wonder; we’re miles from the
fish markets that occupy the harbour side, selling small battered fish in
aluminium trays (to eat whole), crusty buns stuffed with charred white fillets and
salad, squid that writhe under the hands of their owners who smile and hold
them out to you.
I point to a mussel; he cracks off the top of it with a flat
wedge, douses it in lemon juice and hands it to me. I tip back my head and it
slides into my mouth. It is light and tender on my tongue and fills my mouth
with a pop of citrus. A smoky, salty taste follows, as if it has been imprinted
with every day that the ocean has washed over it. I stand for a while, choosing
mussels. He sneaks a few for himself; we exchange shy smiles.
When I’m done he counts the empty shells and I pay. He nods
to me and with a quick lift and flip, he’s off to the next group.
