That day, boarding that tram amid the downpour driven by the north wind must have been such a delight for the people of Istanbul. And if you’re lucky enough to snag a seat in one of those single wooden seats by the window, you’ll feel completely at ease and at peace. A charming journey, adorned with modest details and lasting exactly thirty-five minutes all the way to Fatih, now awaits you…
Listening to the steam whistles of the old Şirket-i Hayriye ferries—with their slender funnels and a range of tones from deep to high—echoing from the depths, or watching the bridge piers and the silhouettes gliding gracefully across the water, visible only as a distant—the steam whistles of the old Şirket-i Hayriye ferries with their slender funnels, echoing from the depths with high-pitched sounds; or watching, with a dreamy gaze, the reflections of pedestrians scurrying along the sidewalk as they fall upon the mosaic-paved ground; quickly wiping away the layer of condensation covering the window like a fine veil with the palm of one’s hand to clear a small enough section to see outside, pulling the collar of one’s thick, dark gray overcoat up a little higher to tuck one’s head as far inside as possible, and with half a kilo of aged cheddar cheese—purchased from the old, cherished neighborhood grocery store in Kemeraltı—a half-kilo of aged Kashar cheese, purchased from the old-fashioned grocery store in Kemeraltı that’s been a family heirloom for generations and placed on my lap with a cloth during the journey—along with the 100 grams of pastrami added as a taste, all wrapped in dark brown packaging paper—wrapped tightly around the thick ropes of the provisions package, with the metal carrying handle’s cylindrical cardboard tube wrapped firmly around his index finger to secure the bulky bag, imagining that warm, strongly brewed cup of tea that will have the honor of accompanying these deliciously fragrant dishes at the makeshift table set up on the spot upon arriving home toward evening, just as you’re about to succumb to the drowsiness pressing down on your eyelids—which are waiting for a chance to doze off, if only for fifteen minutes, to shake off the day’s fatigue—and are on the verge of drifting off, the conductor’s warning, “Let’s not crowd at the door,” and snapping back to life, trying to get as close as possible to the warmth of the iron by leaning at least one shoe against the protruding heating pipe that runs along the base of the wooden benches by the window, and gradually relaxing to the soothing, monotonous sound of raindrops—falling in slanted strokes from the Küçükpazar-Yemiş, and gradually relaxing to the soothing, monotonous sound of the raindrops; being startled by the sudden crackling of the red-blue sparks scatter in all directions like fireworks, then, resting your head against the window once more, continuing to observe your surroundings from where you left off—sheltered beneath the roof of an old, wooden train car, staying dry, without getting cold or tired—with the privilege of experiencing it firsthand—and continuing to watch the surroundings from where you left off, accompanied by the soothing, monotonous clatter of the metal wheels, as you make your way toward the Eminönü-Sirkeci area…
Especially if, just at that moment, the afternoon call to prayer begins to ring out from the twin minarets of Yenicami, delighting the ears with the indescribable and inexhaustible harmony of the Hijaz mode…