Before beginning my year abroad, I had never lived in a big city. On the contrary, the only two towns I had called home were the sleepy suburb of Prairie Village, Kansas, and Williamstown, Massachussetts, where the 2,000-person college makes up a quarter of the population. It was thus a rather rude shock to come to terms with the sprawling metropolis of Rio de Janeiro. My response to the impossible magnitude of the city was to consult my guidebook at every turn. Since my days primarily consisted of scavenging for food and playing music, the restaurant section got especially dog-eared. Most nights I cooked for myself, but the few times I treated myself to a meal out it was with Lonely Planet´s blessings. Once or twice, I got a bit bold and forayed out without a recommended restaurant in mind, but those instances tended to end poorly because I could not yet read Portuguese. I recall one instance when, in my ravenous state, I ordered too quickly and ended up with a massive dish of fried sausages and three side dishes of bitter greens. My stomach did not sit well for the rest of the week.

It was only in my later months that I finally built up enough courage and language skills to venture out into the restaurant-unknown. I lived on the hill of Santa Teresa, and at the bottom there lay the seedier neighborhoods of Lapa and Gloria. I remember the first time I walked out of a hole-in-the-wall joint in Gloria, having successfully ordered a steak with french fries and rice. Although the meal was terrible, I felt great. The experience was indicative of a newfound ability to exist independently of Lonely Planet without making a complete ass of myself. It was as though a whole world opened up within Rio, and I only lamented that I had not gotten a bit braver earlier.

In Istanbul, I was determined to get off-book as soon as possible. Since I had adjusted to big city life, only my Turkish language skills were holding me back. Learning Turkish has been slow-going here. My funds have prevented me from taking intensive lessons like I did in Rio, and English is more broadly spoken here, so I do not get to practice my Turkish unless I wander off into sidestreets and the less-frequented pockets around my apartment. Last week, though, I decided enough was enough. Speaking abilities notwithstanding, I was going to have myself an adventure. I headed into one of the less English-friendly neighborhoods and ducked into the first eatery I saw. It was a single room, with a vertically rotating spit laden with chicken that was shaved off with a large knife, a plastic box of rice, a pan of mixed mystery meats floating in a tomato broth and some vegetables. Nothing more. The owner was a stout little man with a bushy moustache and a thickly jowled frown. I liked him. He grunted at me when I entered, and in response I pointed to the mystery meat. He nodded and prepared to serve me. As he began ladling, I tried to ask what kind of meat it was. He looked at me sharply, and I was quite sure he misunderstood me. To confirm my suspicions, he spooned a piece of steaming meat into his bare right hand, declared it “good,” and then unceremoniously shoved it into my surprised mouth. I was in shock, having never reached that level of intimacy with a strange man before, but he, unfazed, simply ordered me to sit down. I did. The meal was good. God knows what part of what animal I was eating, but it was tempered nicely by the fresh yogurt.

I am now almost halfway through my time in Istanbul, and a little more than two months away from my return to the United States. I am looking forward to a slew of visits from family and friends in upcoming weeks. It is usually during these visits that I realize how accustomed to life in foreign cities I have grown, and to be able to share my favorite reading spots, music and cafes is a welcome interruption to my mostly solitary lifestyle here. I will be keeping my favorite mystery meat joint a secret, though. With that kind of service, it is a place I want to keep all to myself.

Much love,

Auyon