To say that winter is bleak in Istanbul, is an understatement. It is downright depressing. The sky is grey, the city is grey, the people are grey. I used to find a poetry in the mournfulness, in the huzun, but currently, I am in a terrible state of unrest. My toes can't seem to warm, there's a rattle in my chest, and the grumpiness of the people on the street is souring my mood. A few days ago, it was nearly spring weather— so warm in fact, that crocuses popped up their heads towards the pale sun. We have since descended back into that wet, bone-chilling gloom, and there is an inexplicable amount of mud.
What else can you do but wait?
Wait, and have another çay.