My Istanbul. By the Yeni Jamii.
Like the pashmina i left behind on Base Camp 4,000 metres up in the Himalayas and my coin pouch (which slid out of a hole in my jeans pocket) on a bus ride in Aleppo, i think we all leave behind a bit of ourselves in those places where we have stayed in for a period of time - which by my definition, is one which involves having to do the laundry.
A bit of my heart is still in Istanbul. Many many laundry trips there, and trips to the local kebapci for breakfasts and baklavaci for sweet snacks, and down Galata bridge on evenings and Independence Street, Istiklal Caddesi in the heart of Galata.
I am a Galata boy. Cim Bom all the way.
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