At the exact moment the sun was cradled by the horizon, the sky filled with the wild incoherent spread of pigeons flying off startled by the boom of the canon. A signal recognised by the villagers of Safronbolu that another day of fasting had been completed. Shops were left opened with the secured sign of "Mescid" dangling precariously from a rusty nail at most wooden doors that had seen their fair share of customers. Streets emptied. Not even the stray dogs barked. For a moment, even the air was so still that I didn't want to breathe in case I broke the fragility bore out of a sacred hour of the day.
This would be our last stop before heading back to Istanbul, having completed our Western leg of Turkey and culminating with a long awaited U2 concert before the pace picked up for the second half. I must admit that at moments I do experience certain pangs of heightened excitement mixed in a sour taste of worry that we would have to give up the luxurious contemplation of slow and speed up our tempo to continue the rest of our journey towards Iran en route to Syria, Jordan and Egypt. Given the current flavour of opinion, things certainly didn't look too positive for us to dive into another ravine of paperwork, visa requirements and the dark secrets from where only the brave ventures (read: bureaucracy) in order to secure the correct passage into Jerusalem. Quiet my restless heart. Be still and behold the moment.
Hmmm... that probably only worked for a slight second.
This would be our last stop before heading back to Istanbul, having completed our Western leg of Turkey and culminating with a long awaited U2 concert before the pace picked up for the second half. I must admit that at moments I do experience certain pangs of heightened excitement mixed in a sour taste of worry that we would have to give up the luxurious contemplation of slow and speed up our tempo to continue the rest of our journey towards Iran en route to Syria, Jordan and Egypt. Given the current flavour of opinion, things certainly didn't look too positive for us to dive into another ravine of paperwork, visa requirements and the dark secrets from where only the brave ventures (read: bureaucracy) in order to secure the correct passage into Jerusalem. Quiet my restless heart. Be still and behold the moment.
Hmmm... that probably only worked for a slight second.
Hence the peace and abundance of opportunities to indulge in a lady's contemplation of the more serious matters in life symbiotically with lounging in an olive garden devouring a sumptuous Turkish breakfast as my new friend, Inci (the kitten) purred like a well-oiled motor by my feet - was suffice to say, simply magic. The cold fingers of tomorrow didn't beckon too close and my body was rightly caressed by the mild early autumn air, just as any day would begin in Safronbolu. Ottoman houses by the plenty dotted in undulating pathways, hanging onto their mad web of wooden columns and purlins, eaten by the days of hundreds of years yet retaining a poignant air of grace and subdued majestic stance overlooking a town of young and old going about observing the holy days of Ramazan.
Hours were spent watching the delightful nuances of the many cats that performed a sketch of feline acrobatics and chasing invisible bugs that seemed to always be elusive to the human eye anyway. Of course it wasn't too much to ask to exert a bit on finishing another brilliantly written Turkish literature in between making small talks with the vendors and bargainers around town. Once the weekly animal market had concluded as evident from the trucks making their noisy way uphill with a cocktail of petrified cows, inconsolable for being subjected to standing as a merchant's means of trade with the farmers living around the the circumference of Safronbolu. Once every so you'll see a pair of goats, indignant and indifferent to the chaos while the lone donkey resigned to its future of hard labour as I ducked another truck roaring up a cloud of dust from the vegetables section. Tea salons were still packed with many a gentleman despite the fasting hours although there were a handful unabashedly consuming their thick Turkish cay while I review another sample of Ayran, determined to compose a mental publication of the many splendid quality of that cooling yoghurt drink in this tiny village.
We spent the fiercest hours of the day, usually two hours prior to breaking fast inside a hammam. Donning my pestemal, gingerly my feet tipped into the marbled womb of the feminine domain. Huge bathing ladies sat openly scrubbing each other, laughing and singing as the taps ran continuously bringing our worries and chatter down the drains. It never ceased to amaze me how this much of water got here despite the ancient pipelines and scaling heights and distance to indulge one's whim on personal hygiene. While the hot moisturised air under the starred dome mimed a watery aurora of light seeping through the glassed openings on the roof, I was carried away through the chorus of womanly voices and the delirious enjoyment of warm water, cold buckets of refreshing alternate and a thorough good scrub down by a pair of trusty, strong hands that were sure of their talent as they were of my demand. While my therapist blew mouthful of air into the lather bag to produce a cascade of bubbles and foam onto my body, it was a pure blissful moment of celebration being all and everything woman, interspersing with the smells of lavender, rose, lemon oil and the goodness of a hot room awaiting to sweat out any remaining doubt of the female form. I emerged two hours later, completely besotted in my ability to last that long enjoying my own company and triumphant in knowing I smelled and felt as good as I had arrived into a pot of exotic balms and herbs, straight from the day I sprung out of my mother.
Night descended upon us and the clatter of spoons and plates as families and friends discoursed in between servings of moussaka and guvec rang out to the streets. Not too far away I could hear a few cats yeowling and hissing. The town's ablution stops - dainty Ottoman pipe heads jutting out of a carved marble wall bearing the inscription of the Ottoman Sultan and Quran - were busied by hurried men on their way to perform their prayers. The baker tidied up the remnants of his rush hour sale and closed up the day's book balance. The dark warm cloud built above slowly as the gentle wind began to collectively grow into another cold night. Streets that were filled only a few hours ago were soon emptied again in the never-ending chain of filling up and out. Only the addicted backgammon players kept hanging on in tea salons as conversation decibels lowered into conspiratorial whispers and innocent gossip behind kitchen courtyard walls. A child in the distance called out to his mother in the not unusual Turkish equivalent for mother "Anne" and a few roaming dogs howled longingly in the hills above.
I laid down my head onto the soft pillow, assured that in the fast pace of my changing world, some places will go on in a secured common theme as established since many generations ago.
