There is a rooftop under a full moon, overlooking the sea. This rooftop is on the island of Adalar in the calm waters of Marmara. On this rooftop, tea is served. Not any tea, but tea that holds a spoon suspended it is so strong. Always served in a small glass cup. This robust nectar tastes best while sitting on the ledge of the rooftop, stars and moonlight reflected in its dark water. I am sitting on that rooftop. I am sipping and savoring that dark water. I am far from home. Yet.I am home.
I am nowhere and everywhere. I am American, I am Turkish, I am Iraqi. On this island, I am everyone. On this island, I am.
Taxis with inches to spare in their passing, prayer calls blaring from suspended speakers, ashtrays filling at astounding rates, people and people and more people moving, moving. Red flags with sickle moon and venus waving, waving. Water and ferry boats, fishing boats, cargo ships and cruise ships. Impossibly narrow how-can-these-be-two-way streets. Fish, fish, did I mention fish? Minarets. Short skirts, long sleeves, head scarves. Leather. Carpets. Whirl on one leg with me. Insatiable, insistent, Istanbul.
I see it all while sipping mud tea from a rooftop on full moon island.