Monday I’ll begin a few weeks of putting myself at the mercy of strangers in Turkey as I try to learn their remarkable language. This will most certainly lead to a series tracking my slow climb from failure to intermediate. For now: a Turkish novelist I hold dear paired with a photo of Budapest–a city so easy to love and home of a stranger who has become like a sister.
On a beautiful April day, you went to see if the handkerchief you left on our tiny balcony that morning was dry yet, and finding it still wet you realized the sun had fooled you, and just after that, as you stood there listening to the children playing in the vacant lot and looking so mournful, I loved you.
–Orhan Pamuk. The Black Book.