An old Turkish friend, who now lives in Milan with his family, recently brought me a 1-kilogram bag of Arabica beans from Sant’Eustachio, my favorite corner of Rome. It was the perfect gift. There are souvenirs that you appreciate for a moment before placing them on a shelf and forgetting about them. Coffee, by contrast, is the gift that keeps on giving.
One cold morning, I brewed a cup before heading out to row on the Golden Horn. The city was still waking up. The mosques scattered across Istanbul’s historic peninsula were half-lit. And the air was sharp enough to sting one’s hands. I poured the coffee into a thermos and set off. Rowing is rhythmic but lonely. It’s you, the oars, the tide, and whatever thoughts don’t fall overboard.
During a pause, somewhere between fatigue and calm, I took a sip.
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