Gangs of Istanbul

I apologize for what I predict will be a light number of posts this week. In my sleep deprived state I should not be allowed on the internet. But here I am.

Istanbul has a gang or two and they meet a few feet outside my window almost every night and every morning.

A kitty gang.

I’m still not quite over the festivities of my birthday weekend (laying around in your ‘jamas with a mild case of, aherm, indigestion can do that to you) so that’s why I’ve taken to writing poetry.

Cats of Istanbul
Why do you meow under my
Window like to fight?

CatsIstanbul (2)

Francis Ford Coppola had a cat trapped underneath the box thing. Poor kitty would later get tossed to the fishes.

I kid you not. This happens every morning. It’s maddening and brutal. That black one who I’ve taken to calling “Choco” is little Al Pacino in feline form. I’ve seen that little devil de-fur another cat in 2 seconds flat.

And this little guy?

CatsIstanbul (1)

He’s just adorable. I’ve taken to calling him “Chippy.”

What? You wanted something a little more substantial (why are you on this site?)?

Try the archives or read Tolstoy.

I get a tour of Ottoman bankruptcy by Anatolian Posh Spice.

I explore the Grand Bazaar.

I get attacked by doggies.

Controversy: young women and fear and traveling alone.

I get sentimental and deep over cookies and cakes.

I force passengers in my car to degrade other drivers.

More sentimentality.

This interview of Michael Caine on being Michael Caine.


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