Rejoice, for I have found a Waffle House in Istanbul! Ah, but a little caution is advised, for copyright laws form the punch lines to many jokes in this city of back alleys and sly smiles, and imitation only seldom surpasses the original. Waffles are fashionable among the middle-class Turks, and the forward-thinking (but oft cloud-gazing) Turks prefer English names nearly as much as simplicity, so Waffle Houses are aplenty here. But, O wary traveler, they share nothing more than an appelation with the greasy pit-stop we all hold so dear.
Yet, alas! A true Waffle House seems to exist, albeit on the foreign shores of Bebek, so far from my world in geography and culture that we may as well not inhabit the same city. Yet, as a testament to the varying levels of sludge that capitalism flings across the world, I can promise each and every one of you a night out drinking on two different continents, followed by a triple order of hash browns and a diluted Waffle House (tm) coffee in the morning. All for only the price of a return ticket to this Queen of Cities, this Whore of Kingdoms, Istanbul!
For ten months I have been curling in a corner of a dilapidated office building, scrubbing mold off my walls, chasing cockroaches out the front door. For ten months I have suffered the indignities of mad Turkish businessmen, of mealy-mouthed landlords, of donkey-meat durums. For ten months I have slipped from pub to pub, glided from kebapcı to kebapcı, twirled from crumbling church to ruined mosque. For Ten Months I have been bereft of refrigerator, bathtub, and washing-machine, of comfort, purpose, and inspiration, of life, death, and only the brief stumble of innocence in between has roused me from my sweat-stained matress on tentative mornings.
And in seven days, on a soft July night, I will escape by Midnight Express, with the brightest jewel in this zirconia-encrusted empire secreted away in my belt-pouch. What will you do, O 
Istanbul, when you find I've stolen your treasure? Will your buildings tremble? Will your foundations shake? Will your adhaans become wails and your imams tear their clothes? Or will you even notice? Non omne quod nitet aurum est. And you never could tell the difference. But for me, perception is the only reality.
O Prague, you city-that-is-not-a-city, roll out your old Communist carpets, stock up your herna bars, and brush those German tourists aside, for in a few short weeks, I'll be returning to your sticky lipstick kisses, marching up Karlov Most, and snatching the crown from your head, if only for a short while. This time, there will be sparks, and there will be fire, and I will lovingly ground your embers into dust with the heel of my best boots. It will hurt, O my city, but it will be the sweet bite of pleasure, not pain, that makes you gasp as I wind my fingers into your ringlets and snap your head back in passion.
The islands are calling me, and the shores are far away. Good morning and good night, depending on your proximity to the sun.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih
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