Big B and I were scrolling through a list of the best cafes in Sultanahmet last night.
“Great restaurants on this list,” he mused.
“When was the last time you were in Sultanahmet?” I scofffed. He shrugged and muttered something.
“I wish I had like a billion dollars so I could have a proper ex-pat life.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“When people from home think about my life here in Istanbul, my friends and my mom and stuff, I think they have this very exotic view of it. Like, oh. You live in Istanbul. You must spend all your days in cafes that look like this, drinking Turkish coffee and smoking nargile, when you’re not wandering down charmingly ancient streets buying, I don’t know, spices from picturesque vendors, or sitting by the Bosporus drinking tea.”
“Nice life. Man, I wish I lived in Istanbul. Oh wait, I do!”
“Right. I may be an ex-pat, but I’m not Hemingway. The reality is so different. What did I do today? I taught for nine straight hours, came home and ordered shitty delivery food which I ate while making a power point about the SAT test, and now I’m having a beer with my roommate. I’ll be in bed by 10:30. I might try to watch an episode of The Americans, but dollars to donuts I’ll be asleep before the opening credits are over.”