Table Talk

It was my first day in Istanbul. I set out for a walk on that pleasantly cool day. I remember walking on the cobble stoned street which was wet from the rain. The breeze got cooler as I walked higher up the slope that would eventually lead me to Hagia Sofia. I saw shops with colorful shoes and bags on display. A tram rushed past me creating it’s unique music as it made it’s way on the cobble stones. I saw a cafe called 4Donor where men were baking enormous naan like Turkish bread in a traditional oven. I let the aroma warm me up as I took a picture. All the men willingly left the bread to get a photo clicked.
After visiting Hagia Sofia I went off to 4Donor. As I entered, the smell of the naan welcomed me warmly; my attention went to the counter where an array of Turkish sweets stood glistening. That’s when I saw the Donor guy (that’s what I called him because I never got his name) He smiled and welcomed me inside. I sat on the chair rather uncomfortably looking around at the cafe, the little black and white images on the wall (memorabilia perhaps) and back at him. His tousled hair framed his face perfectly and his smile lit it up. I ordered for coffee, a chicken roll and Baklava which he recommended. I nibbled on the scrumptious Baklava as I looked at him. As far as I can stretch my memory, he wasn't very tall, had a chiseled face with a slight stubble. He came in a while and asked me how it was and I told him how much I loved it (I wasn't lying, Baklava is delicious!) He asked if I wanted to try the Ayran, I just nodded ignoring the stomach that was bursting out. He was from Cappadocia (where I was to go in 2 days) and worked with his brother in Istanbul.
He waved as I left.
After getting swallowed in the magic of Topkapi Palace something pulled me back to 4Donor the next day. I ordered for a cup of Turkish chai. He brought it with a smile. It was nearly 12 and I had to leave for a tour. I couldn't see him. I had to go.
That was the last time I saw the boy from Cappadocia.
The memory of him lingers in my head like the view of Istanbul from the top of Galata Tower, like the wind from the Bosphorus that brushed my skin, like the first bite of a Turkish meze, like the sight of floating hot air balloons across the horizon in Cappadocia and the view of the sun setting against Cappadocia’s camel shaped rocks. That was the last time I saw him and eventually Turkey. However the memory lingered like the sweet fragrance of a Turkish perfume.