In many ways, it was the best night we had had so far, though we might as well have deliberately planned against it.
An hour left, we rode the Metro--people staring--two stops--have you ever seen such a tall Asian?--to a dimly lit street corner. The howling blasts of wind vaguely resembled the Chicago wind off the water at about a tenth the force, forcing us to bow our heads slightly as we followed in sequence the dozen or so sets of poorly, reluctantly, and incompletely given directions.
She smiled briefly--a burst of warm light--as she poured my tea--in a sea of anonymity, biting her lip, seemingly embarassed at presenting me with a paper cup. A few mouthfuls and it was time.
The dervishes entered one by one, pausing, then bowing low--it was not a bow of subservience, but one of entitlement, a demonstration of the power they had in knowing the secrets of their culture. We watched them spin for the next forty minutes.
An hour after being thrust back into the darkness, we gave up on finding our chosen restaurant and happened upon a promising prospect. A half-bottle of rose wine, a bowl of hearty red lentil soup, minced lamb and veal on top of home-made hummus, and a tender veal stew with a smoked eggplant puree finished with caramelized onions later, we were greeted with a plate of hand-picked turkish desserts and coffee. He proudly placed his selection between us, introducing each one carefully, stumbling over his English words. As we ate our sweets and bitters, we talked with our host about his childhood on the countryside. A sense of ease swept over him as he described it, in stark contrast with the hardness of the city. He was humble and profoundly honest. We thanked him rather handsomely for his wonderful company throughout the meal.
It was not until we were back on the streets did we begin to talk about how reasonable the price of dinner was, in fact, it seemed too reasonable (andthatiswhentheassassinsappeared). After running calculations in my head several times, we concluded that they must have given us the wrong bill. We walked back to the restaurant, and as I entered, a slight look of confusion appeared on his face. I tried to explain that I thought he undercharged us. I will never forget the hurt look on his face. His prior confused expression softly melted into an involuntary sheepish smile. He nodded once, embarassed, quickly relieved himself of the tray he was carrying, and led me to the register in the back where he began to count out a sum of money. I stopped him immediately. I explained again.
He bowed, beaming, and thanked me. I told him our experience that night was well worth it. As I went to leave, he rushed after me with a moderately sized box. I laughed and thanked him. He said not to thank him, pointed at my mother, and said it was for her. We laughed and parted.
Comments