I take coffee, you take tea my friend

Last night was bizarre as most nights are after a day of jetlag. I wandered the streets until about 6pm then settled down at an open air café to watch the people in line for the Galata tower, expecting to slowly get stoned on foreign beer and sleep deprivation, which doesn’t entirely suck. I suggest you try it next time. You mind does a tightrope walk of boozed filled mind wanderings accentuated by the total lack of sleep you have. Good times. Unfortunately there was no beer (or alcohol at all) to be had at the café so my waiter suggested coffee or tea. I opted for coffee and he brought me Nescafé. Whatever. I’m so goddamn tired I would drink motor oil. About 30 mins into it the waiter comes back and asks if, since I was just one person at a four person table, I wouldn’t mind sharing with someone else. Looking forward to the distraction and possible conversation I say of course. He proceeds to bring five people over. All about my age, maybe a little younger. Mixed company college students. We talk about America, about Turkey and about nothing at all. They switch to English and back again without pause. They watch me curiously, maybe a little concerned as the evening prayer comes over the loudspeakers. It is as they say. Haunting. Other descriptions that that I don’t have words for. The crowd does not change. No one rolls out a prayer rug. Everyone continues with their evening. Holding hands. My group orders tea. In fact, everyone has ordered tea. Why the fuck am I drinking coffee and Nescafé at that? I order tea. It arrives. I ask my group, “is it strong?” The women reply “no, not at all.” They are liars. This “tea” (çay) is brewed with paint thinner. The women laugh when I put a sugar cube in mine and the men pass me theirs. Untouched.

They leave after an hour or so and I pay my bill a little while longer and walk to the bar that shares a wall with my apartment building. Beautiful on the inside, playing American jazz. I order a beer. “what size?” the waiter asks. Large. I drink it. Surrender. Sleep.

The screams of seagulls and cries of cats is Istanbul’s nocturnal soundtrack. The first looking for a place to crash, the second for a good time. I’m in bed for 10 seconds before I’m unconscious. I am very awake again at 2am (4pm back home). I toss and turn. My mind in an epic battle with my body. The debate ensues, both sides with seemingly logical points. After an hour or so body finally and thankfully wins. I sleep until 9am.

Our apartment is right below the Galata Tower. Which is about as central to the old town as you can be. Great location. Bars, restaurants and everything in between are here. A perfect HQ. A quarter mile from the tram station but I think we’ll be doing cabs. They’re cheap and, more importantly, I’m a grown ass man.

So much to say for only having been here 14hrs, eight of which were asleep. I’ve seen nothing like Turkey before. Closest thing would be Croatia. A far cry at that. I’m a genetic specimen (if I had a nickel every time I heard that…) here. No blonds in sight. Put me in the carnival and charge 2 Turkish Lira to see me. Maybe pet my head. Everyone here as natural eyeliner and mascara. I’m not joking. Men. Women. Babies. All look like they just got out of makeup on the set of The Man Who Would Be King. Beautiful. Natural. Fashion is fashion here like anywhere else. Most elderly women wear head scarves. The occasional younger girl does as well but I get the impression that women ditch it once they’re about 18 or so. There are no long beards. No long, flowing white thobes. Normal people going about their day with purpose. Smells of meat (though not pork) and pastry waft up the street like any European city.

Coffee is everywhere. I love Turkey. Germany:Beer, Turkey:Coffee. Even the most hardened coffee drinkers would be humbled here. It’s brutally strong and dangerously hot. Most places try to ease you into the experience with “Café Americano”. Fuck that. “Bring me your strongest ‘Turkish Coffee’ and marvel and this westerner’s palate.” Stupid. Arrogant. American. All true. Two sugar cubes and I choke it down with only the slightest expression of surprise when I discover the “mud” layer that makes up bottom half inch of the espresso cup. There are two Starbucks within walking distance to me and I couldn’t give a shit. I was pleased to see when walking past that they weren’t even remotely full and not a single American was inside. Two isn’t bad where every third shop sells coffee. A thought that just occurred to me: this coffee might be lethal to Paul. Probably ought to mention it to him before he orders.

I had two breakfasts. To be fair, the first was more of an appetizer – two tiny pastries. Decent. Nothing to write home about. The second was one of the greatest things I’ve ever eaten. Phyllo dough deliciousness. They’re flat, about 1 ½ inches. The first one was potato and once he started cutting it I order a meat one too. I have no idea what either had in them other than the aforementioned major ingredients except that the meat one had caramelized onions. I couldn’t finish the order so it sits in my fridge to be scarfed at a later time that has yet to be determined. I’ll take Matt and Paul there tomorrow for breakfast and laugh as their eyes glaze over.

Random observation: shopkeepers will change the music when I walk in. Not all but about half I’ve been in, especially if I’m the first or only customer. Today it changed from obviously traditional Arabic to, I shit you not, a mixed tape of Elvis Presley’s gospel butchery and Dolly Parton’s Christmas music.

The unfortunate task of getting where you're going

Its 11:02am. It’s 10:02am. It’s 3:02am. It doesn’t matter. Jet lag isn’t the end of the world. It’s not terminal. You’ll get through it. Eventually. It fits over you like a heavy wool blanket, softly whispering “sleep now. And when you wake, you’ll be itchy and sweaty”. They say that after you arrive in Europe from the states, you’re not supposed to sleep again until the local bedtime. You’d think after having done this 15 times, I’d have some secret trick. I don’t. They also say alcohol exacerbates jet lag. I’ve never believed that. Even if it’s true, what fun is that? Bottom line is jetlag is pretty much the same the first time as it is the 15th time. You’re so off that when you’re trying to identify the smelly fucker in line, you start to wonder if it’s you. I mean, your deodorant has been working for about 18hrs at this point. Only difference is you have a little less adrenaline because you’re a little older and you’ve been through this before. You know what comes next. And you can drink. The simple act of typing, something I’ve been doing for 20 years is difficult. Random T’s, R’s and L’s appear out of no were. Unappreciated and scorned.

If airports are the rock concerts of people watching, this morning, I’m at Woodstock. Frankfurt International Airport. Germans. Ze Germans. Where the men have a real fondness for frosted tipped hair and square wireframe glasses. Where the women are either “cut off my right arm to see you naked” or “cut off my right arm so I don’t have to see you naked”. It’s 10am local time and I’m having a beer. I’m not drinking alone. More people are drinking beer than are drinking coffee. It’s normal. To them.

But as the saying goes, the Germans are nothing if not efficient. Well that’s not true. They’re obscenely clean as well. You could eat off the airport terminal floor. I imagine if someone did, not only would they be fine, but a worker in a clean green jumpsuit would immediately clean up the spot for the next person to eat off the floor.

No more open smoking in Germany. German men and women crammed into a walk-in glass closet inside of airport terminals. On display for all in the airport to see. Being kept alive by their camel lights and a special filtration system that whisks away the smoke. But not before it delivers its precious nicotine cargo just in time for the flight.

Walking through the crowd you can spot the Americans blindly. You don’t need to notice the broad shoulders, jeans, trainers, baseball caps. You feel them in the crowd. American’s slice through crowds of Europeans like a hot knife through butter. Reckless abandon. People flinch, dart, give us right of way. When you come into contact with another American you know it because it hurts. Neither of you move and you’re both keenly aware and only a little irritated.

What will Turkey be like. A far cry from the Indiana Jones depictions. Hot. Dry. Noisy. I think the latter might be the only one we experience. It will be cool. Cold even at night.