Cats, Rabbits and Good Fortunes -- Part 1
Kediler. Istanbul is a city of cats. They crawl between your legs beneath restaurant tables. Cry outside your window day and night. They melt men’s hearts. Or at least in most instances, I see the men in this neighborhood feeding the cats. Engin, the carpet artisan I had mentioned in an earlier blog when discussing Wall Street, poured a bowl of milk today for a mother and two kittens. "I will have to move them somewhere, perhaps to the camii, the mosque, where they won’t get hit by cars." A ney or reed flute master, whom I met a few days ago, only after I waited for him to spoon cat food from a can into two bowls, one for each cat, that lived by his studio in the quiet medressah beside the Kucuk Ayasofya—a church, now mosque. Lastly, the waiter who took away my left over eggplant and lamb kabob, who said he had alti or six kediler to feed.
Kediler. Istanbul is a city of cats. They crawl between your legs beneath restaurant tables. Cry outside your window day and night. They melt men’s hearts. Or at least in most instances, I see the men in this neighborhood feeding the cats. Engin, the carpet artisan I had mentioned in an earlier blog when discussing Wall Street, poured a bowl of milk today for a mother and two kittens. "I will have to move them somewhere, perhaps to the camii, the mosque, where they won’t get hit by cars." A ney or reed flute master, whom I met a few days ago, only after I waited for him to spoon cat food from a can into two bowls, one for each cat, that lived by his studio in the quiet medressah beside the Kucuk Ayasofya—a church, now mosque. Lastly, the waiter who took away my left over eggplant and lamb kabob, who said he had alti or six kediler to feed. 
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