"Istanbul hums from all of the scenes that you might expect. There are notably very few females on the street, all of which empty as evening prayer call in the loud Holy Joes (men only) whose murmured prayers can be heard across the city's rooftops. The preachers preach and the sinners sin sincerely. Pelicans gather by the bay. At the city's oldest hammam we cleanse and purge, Brillo-padded to vanilla squeakiness, swabbed down on ancient tiles, where the men of Istanbul launder themselves slowly and twice-over lightly, buffed in the buff. Twelve thousand gather for the Morrissey concert, and the promoter smiles to me. 'You are very big here. I just hear Roy's keen on the radio.'
My smile crashes. Roy's keen? A bubble- headed choice.
The young of Istanbul chant the words back at me with clerical address. I had no idea. They urge me on, their arms outstretched in entreating petition. Why didn't anybody tell me? I like it here, can I stay? I am at my happiest, and I have the smarts as each song begins and screams of recognition run aground at the touch of each opening chord. How soon could I return?"
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