Worth Missing Biscuits

There are intermittent bellows of the (foghorns) on boats crossing the Bosporus that ring around the city, till they fade out to a buzz and die. On the terrace there is a constant squawking, hooting, toweee to gurgle hoo, to gurgle hoo, clatter clatter of birds on the roof, they sound like sasquatch killers stomping above you, waiting to drop through the roof and onto our pavilion. Five times a day, if you are awake around 4:30- and till 11 at night or so, you can hear the mosques rippling off each other with their calls to prayer, bouncing discordantly or harmonizing as the day and time will have it. Everything stops then. On the streets there is a thrum, a purr of car engines and honking outbursts, sometimes not directed at anyone in particular. Late at night there is heated excitement, the pitch of voices rises, and discothèques blast music for empty rooms, until later they fill one by one with bopping people whose noises cannot be heard.