the city is under construction. the newly planted trees provide no shade. students pack every morning into the dolmus with peasants and workers. In the centre new buildings go up and look old before they are finished. nothing matches.
we sit at a table with Turkish tea. glass cups. redish tint. a gypsy girl calls us sir and madam from the road. we eat our cheese gozleme. talk of interracial couples as the dust blows around us and a man with a hose sprays down the footpath.
women collect water near the mosque. build 1292. almond eyes in the desert. the sun scorches. we drink ayran.
crowds crack seeds in their mouth and spit empty shells on the street. there is music. blood and geography. constant beeps from the old yellow dolmus. mules. wedding drums and mopeds. negotiations on the fly.
this is a dusty town. men with slicked hair and tight jeans. covered women. old men with sticks. modern gals with bright lips and blond hair. Turks return for the summer buying up cartons of cigarettes and purchasing mobilya to ship back to Holland or Germany.
yesterday a ship captain fed us popcorn, green melon with honey, and white cheese.