By Leah Schaffer
It’s easy to get whisked away in the ambiance of a European city. Coming from a country with a history that began relatively recently, it is hard to resist the desire to mold myself into the rich history of a place.
I could tell from the minute I stepped off the bus that I was a foreigner. My clothes were different, my hair was different, my speech was different—everything about me screamed small-town America in the middle of the metropolis of Istanbul, Turkey. I immediately settled into a constant panic, trying to do whatever it took to blend in as best I could—as is the case for many travelers in new and unfamiliar places. It’s the reason why we fly through 13 gigabytes of digital camera memory; it’s why we “ooh” and “aah” over the sugary sweet compliments of shopkeepers and restaurant owners and then flock to whatever authentic goods they have to offer.
You can buy a thousand evil eyes and dozens of ceramic plates or, if your pocket allows for it, even a couple of carpets. But if you really want to submerge yourself in the Turkish culture, you need to look no deeper than the bottom of the teeny, tiny Turkish coffee cup.
You can buy a thousand evil eyes and dozens of ceramic plates or, if your pocket allows for it, even a couple of carpets. But if you really want to submerge yourself in the Turkish culture, you need to look no deeper than the bottom of the teeny, tiny Turkish coffee cup.
