Escapade à Byzance Olibere 2015

1902, when Constantinople was still the Orient.
In the covered market
the merchant asks the traveler,
if she likes spices.
She breathes in the colorful bazaar,
a rush of everything she likes and doesn’t like,
foreign and unattainable.
The cinnamon, she knows well,
but the red?
“Safran,” yes, she’ll take some with her.
“Ah, and a lemon,”
for refreshment, of course.

Deeper the traveler goes,
Kapalı Çarşı is the name of the market,
it burned down, so they say.
She can still smell the burning wood,
the ash, the wind that weakly reaches her.
Or is it the incense that wafts towards her from afar?
A church, here in the Orient?
As a Catholic, she finds it nice.
But then she sees the mountains,
piled up before her,
2 piastres per gram.
It looks like rock candy,
she thinks.
“I’ll gladly take some with me,”
for reflection, of course.

She wanders around,
her bag is full,
her head is buzzing,
the scent is too strong.
Finally, in the evening, she lies down in bed,
takes a bath,
or rather,
well,
the page was so kind.
She feels foreign,
a bit cold.
She closes her eyes
and it occurs to her,
it’s already Christmas back home!
And at home,
in the rough Munich air,
there are crescent cookies with
a lovely vanilla scent.
She wishes
she could take some with her,
for remembrance, of course.