Cloudy

There is a knock on the door. Jon is wondering if we are ready to leave. I jolt out of bed, turn around and squint trying to make out a Paula who was sleeping soundly. We are late. Only until we have crossed the outer corner of the Blue Mosque do I realize that it is cloudy. Maybe it will rain today, I think. Paula and I climb the seventy steps of the Seven Hills Hotel to join our group that is already in line. We are there to celebrate what I now know to be called Eid ul-Fitr or the festival after completing the month of fasting, Ramadan.

We eat a full Turkish breakfast: bread with sesame seeds, tomatoes, strong, salty cheese, pitted olives, some dry fruit, honey and salted yogurt. I carry my ‘Cok Seker’ Turk Kavesi—loosely translated as ‘a lot of sugar’ Turkish coffee—up some steps and gaze at what the hotel accurately calls “a spectacular and unique panorama, a rare one in the world.” From my spot on a terrace chair I am completely surrounded: left by the Blue Mosque, right by the Hagia Sofia, and straight onto the Bosporus Sea. It is a magnificent view for us all, but I am most ecstatic that for a few in our group—Xander, Kelli, and Carlos—this is their first Turkish breakfast since choosing to participate in Ramadan. We sit enjoying every pixel of our breath-taking scenery until Hugh notices drops of water covering my plate. We move underneath a terrace covering as a light Turkish shower envelopes the city. It is dream-like and I cannot help but feel as if a heavy burden has been lifted and carried across the sea.

We leave the city across the tramway to take a ferryboat to the Eyup Sultan Mosque. We are told it was built in honor of Eyup-el-Ensari, a standard-bearer and close friend of the Prophet Muhammad. It is hot after the clouds have dissipated and some of us fight with the heat and some with the people to squeeze our group in and out of the boat. We arrive and walk along a narrow street to get to the square. Venders are selling adorned prayer beads, decorated headscarves and pocket Qurans. I take out my scarf and tie it like a shower cap around my head.

The mosque is swarming with people and we struggle to push our way inside the outer gate. People are praying at a fence that lines the tomb of the standard-bearer; palms open, head bowed, and still, the people look like statues with adjustable lips. We crowd around the entrance to the musalla, take off our shoes and duck our heads to enter. I automatically head for the stairs since—here and with most non-tourist mosques—men and women are separated by a towering column that supports the surrounding balcony. I kneel behind the balcony’s stone railing and pier down at the scene: men placing their heads and feet between the lines of blue tulips that run across the red carpet, boys chasing their friends around columns, and all with a combination of whispers, yelps, mummers, laughter, and—weirdly enough—silence.

There is a tap on my shoulder as I turn to see Dr. Mallery motioned us to leave. We leave the mosque and wait for the ferryboat. As I watch Hugh sip some tea and hum to the faint song that I could hear from Paula’s ear buds, I can’t shake a feeling that I have forgotten something. I hurry to the apartment and empty my backpack searching for something that I am missing. Stricken with panic I reorganize my suitcase; I check the bathroom, scan my shoes, and even skim the pockets inside my shirts. A few hours pass and we leave for dinner. Before the lights are turned, I walk over to the sink and notice a small cut on my hand. I smile, bandage myself, and go to sleep.