Galata bridge and postcards

So it appears I'll be writing about our trip to Istanbul for the next year at the pace I'm going. Good thing there's no rush and you're a patient reader. After visiting the cisterns and Topkapi Palace as described in earlier posts, Ava and I bravely took the tram over to Sirkeci train station, one end of the original Orient Express's route. As we walked, I tried to convey a little of the cachet of taking such a journey, but Ava was a little distracted by her surroundings and pedestrian safety.

Have I mentioned that traffic manners in Istanbul are the polar opposite of those in Maine? In Maine, if you are walking down the street and turn to face the street, cars stop so that you may cross if you'd like (or to ask you how your great aunt's arthritis is doing). In Istanbul, if you are in the middle of crossing a street, cars will mow you down like a dandelion. Sukru was relieved to return to Istanbul after years in the US, precisely because there are few traffic rules. He says it allows everyone to use common sense. I'd read about experiments with eliminating traffic rules to do just that. Ahu reported, however, that Istanbul was not known for low traffic fatalities. I'm more likely to cliff dive into the Bering Strait than get behind the wheel in that country. On our way to meet up with Ahu, we crossed the Galata Bridge. It spans the Golden Horn, an inlet that divides parts of Istanbul. I think it's interesting that they used to close the Horn off by just spreading a big rope across it. When we read about the bridge ahead of time, there was usually mention of restaurants underneath it. I couldn't imagine what they meant - restaurants under a bridge? Then I saw it in person and it made more sense (see the top photo). It was getting late in the day, and the shadows were getting long. Ava crossed the bridge by jumping over the shadows of the fishermen. On the other side, we sat at a cafe in Karakoy. I ordered tea, or çay, pronounced just like chai, but tastes more like Lipton. It is traditionally served in an hourglass-shaped glass with a little spoon, because the Turks love their sugar. Ava worked on her postcards, anxious to share with her little sister that there had once been children who were living dolls for the princesses to play with in Topkapi Palace.