Cay vakti (Tea Time)
I remember the warmth of ladies who lived in our apartment in Istanbul. Ayse Anne was the matron of the family. Wrinkled and slightly bent at the back, she spoke to me with a smile and I smiled and nodded back without a clue of what she was saying with her thick village accent. Three of the others were wives of Ayse Anne’s sons and they treated each other like sisters—giving parental advice, spoiling each other’s children, taking turns taking care of Ayse Anne, making runs to the pazar (farmer’s market) with one another every Thursday and getting together in the evenings to watch the latest soap. They seemed to get together almost every afternoon for a tea break in the midst of the hectic housewife schedules that ran their lives. I was young and would timidly knock on one of the yenge’s (sister-in-law’s) door with a plate of cookies and she would graciously invite me in. I felt welcome . They always sent me away with a smile and a heart-felt her zaman