In Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, Paul Theroux describes himself as a "mild Turkophile" - a label I would also claim.
Thursday evening Hania and I went over to Cinema Paradiso to see Fatih Akin's Soul Kitchen, then Saturday we drove to Hollywood Beach for the Turkish Festival on the Broadwalk.
We headed straight for the food booths. For all the fascination recently with Mediterranean cuisine, Americans seem to have overlooked Turkish, which is much more varied than Greek. Hania got some lamb cutlets, while I waited for gozleme (a kind of cheese and spinach crepe), eying the lahmacun (Turkish pizza) at the neighboring booth. The young woman selling gozleme had a sweet smile, and the lahmacun girl, in a low-cut T-shirt, cheerfully greeted customers.
I sat down at a table with a family from Ankara; Hania went grazing. When she returned one of the men immediately stood up and offered her his seat.
At the bandshell, a Turkish band played undulating melodies and a couple dozen people danced. We took seats on a bench and watched as a tall woman, carrying a toddler on her hip, swayed to the music. At one point she turned and asked if she was blocking our view. It was just like in Turkey, warmth and consideration for strangers at every turn.
