There was a man waiting for me at the airport. He waved his sign – my name misspelled, crossed out, misspelled again – then took my bag and gestured for me to follow him. The hot air hit as soon as we stepped outside; it was dusty, loud, chock-a-block with beat-up buses idling by the…
It is so cold in Istanbul that it cramps my spine. Hiding my face from the cutting air, I see an old lady chopping painted doorframes small enough for a stove or a fireplace, bracing herself for winter. She is too poor to have the choice of not breathing toxic fumes until spring.
Childhood memories,…