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that was dinner, this was, for which we are prepared to forgive a multitude of sins, breakfast, kahvaltı (it remains, as I write this high above İzmir and the muezzin sings, the best), by bus and Bursa card we go to İznik, and, as it also was known, Nicaea, described

Goodbye Han Point Hotel, and to the streets of Fatih which every morning each of the four times we have set forth have like the stairs at Hogwarts and every night of each of our four days spent in Istanbul changed. Our street was always one more over, either left

perhaps a flashback to yesterday when J had the hamam to compensate for the disappointment and found it, designed again by Sinan, super. I didn’t want. Sit on a hot stone and be lathered up with a pillowcase of suds. Or doze under the minaret with a ginger cat.

To Sultanahmet. The Palace. Pass the sleeping dog and the four crows. Pay the exorbitant fee. Request audioguide. When asked for passports as deposit, gracefully withdraw.  And enter, avoiding the water cannon. In the first garden you will find bric-a-brac. Ignore. Admire certain symmetries. Find the amenities at your convenience

not in chronological order but a nice snap to start on, for an area full of shops selling musical instruments. Here’s where, after tram and subterranean cable car, we popped up: yes, it’s Takşim Square, next to Gezi Park. Remember 1977. Remember 2013. Remember Standing Man. I stood,