Alaçati was hot. It was early morning and the temperature on the small thermometer outside read 34-degrees Celsius. I never mastered the Celsius-Fahrenheit conversion but knew once it was over 30-degrees, it was officially hot. The front garden of the small boutique hotel had mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout the yard. They were painted in shades of white and blue, evoking the Mediterranean, which was the dominant culture in this part of Turkey and separated it from the more Islamic east. The Turkish yoga instructor pointed this out to to me yesterday after savasana. This part of Turkey identified more with the Greeks and the Mediterranean lifestyle, she said. She also told me, “I think we have been lifelong friends.”
I was lying on a bed in the garden, having woken up early after a sleepless night due to the heat and a late Turkish coffee the night before. I slowly sipped a cup of instant Nescafé and creamer. I wished it was Turkish tea instead.
“You like breakfast now? Or you wait for the boyfriend?” asked the proprietor of the hotel. He was a tall, semi-balding Turkish man in his late- thirties with pierced ears and a small tattoo peeping out from under the arm of his shirt. He listened to a diverse collection of acid jazz and socially conscious hip-hop. His wife dyed her hair a bright auburn color and wore sculptural jewelry.
“Oh, I think I will wait, thank you,” I replied, still sipping the Nescafé.
He returned with a refill of the Nescafé.
“I play this music just for you. It is from your country,” he told me.
“Oh? Where is that?” I asked.
“It is from Asia. Called Asian Breakfast.”
Asian breakfast was interesting. It was a mixture of soft brass notes, probably alto-saxophone and some clarinet, with accents of wind instruments. A light but steady background beat of a hollow drum made for a generally pleasant sound but I could not quite place where in Asia this belonged. Regardless, it seemed appropriate to have Asian Breakfast in this country, the gateway between Europe and Asia.
