.Tonight, in the warm lights of the Limon Cafe as the rain comes down outside. Outside, raindrops make rings in puddles. I'm playing backgammon with Padraic and losing, but the salep is warm, thick, and cinammony, and the sounds--the murmuring of voices, the click of the tiles, the dolloping rain, is hypnotic.
On the way home, the rain is sluicing over brick and tile. Cats dash out of my way. A dog is looking for a dry place to sleep, and the only non-libatory place open is the old Antique book store, Osmanli Esyalar, where I buy an old picture of the city after rummaging through a mound of antique maps and pictures. Two cats slept on a pile of books on either side of the cash register. Outside again. Rivulets glittering with the lights of bars and cafes and restaurants. On the corner, where the narrow road suddenly turns steeply down to emerge at the mosque is a corner bar, all windows, filled with lone men facing forward and nursing beers. Most of them are young, black hair and black eyes, the rain drops blurring their figures a little, the neon lights extra bright in the rain.