View from the kitchen balcony of our house, in the middle of our street. Take a short walk heading west. Always cats, of course. And dogs. But that’s not all. A pen behind one of the houses is home to a rabbit and, much more surprisingly a cheerful black pig. Seems very friendly - that is if a wagging tail means the same in pig language as it does in dog lingo. If, on the other hand, it means the same as it does to cats then maybe not so enthusiastic. Would like to take its photo but can see that doing so through the fencing of its pen wouldn’t do it justice. A little farther along the road we spot the probable source of our early morning wake up call.
Then head down toward the supermarket. We’ve just passed the little café we keep promising ourselves to visit when we hear someone calling. It’s a man at the window and he’s beckoning us to come back to the café. We do and are welcomed heartily, table and chairs moved into the sun for us. Two Turkish coffees, and we do know how to ask for them without sugar. But it rapidly becomes clear how little else we can say. The man and his wife join us at the table. There are biscuits, and we convey a surprising amount - though not nearly enough - to each other, much of it through sheer force of good will. They wonder if we have a house. Tell them Aphrodite, the name of the owner’s company. The man gets it immediately. Doğan! Yes, that’s right. Big smile. Seems Doğan‘s hello greeting is promptly followed by his bye bye, but he is good. We all laugh and agree - yes, he’s good but very busy. We’re given two large oranges and small knives. J cuts one and gives me half. Sweet, seedless and juicy. No, we can’t eat two, but the man insists we take the other with us. A café whose whole point is relational. It can’t possibly be a paying proposition and clearly that isn’t why it exists. The owner likes people and no one could fail to like him.
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