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But what of Aysin? She'd be here by three. 
What seemed to me the perfect metaphor 
(young Ankara was her, old "Stamboul", me) 
was not an easy drive - five hours, and more! 

It's midnight in my Turkish hotel room. 
The good news is, the mosque across the square 
is one of Sinan's - soaring through the gloom, 
two graceful minarets piercing the air. 

The bad news is the teenage Turkish boys, 
all three of them, on duty as night porters. 
Ingenious at thinking up new ploys, 
they pound my door to offer sparkling water 

so they can ask more questions. "Is it true 
that Elvis is alive? What do you make 
in salary? This trip, what will you do?" 
"I've got a Turkish girlfriend" Big mistake. 

Appalled and fascinated, they demand 
to know how come a foreign guy like me 
can "pull" a Turkish chick. How was it planned? 
I say she'll be arriving here at three. 

"What? You, and her - in HERE?" Dark eyes dilate. 
"It hasn't been discussed. I just don't know." 
"They do like this, the women in the States?" 
It's nearly half-past two before they go. 

I try to stay awake, but suddenly 
there's banging on the door. I must have dozed. 
"The Turkish girl is here. She's pretty. See!" 
There's Aysin, wearing figure-hugging clothes. 

We clinch and kiss. I kick the door to close it, 
although this room (no aircon) is a sauna. 
Young Aysin is a beauty, and she knows it - 
as do three pairs of eyes, around the corner! 

She has a brisk and breezy bedside manner. 
We'll both sleep here. She's sure I wouldn't harm her. 
Comes out of bathroom wearing, like a banner, 
both bra and panties under her pyjamas. 

But when I want to, I can be persuasive. 
Some kisses, compliments ... "Don't be afraid ..." 
Although at first her tactics are evasive, 
by dawn, impressive progress has been made. 

In some old film, Pacino says a thing 
that I've found true. We don't recall the sex. 
It's details which strike home. Some song she sings, 
the angle of her chin, some light effect ... 

As things reached crisis-point, she grabbed my arm - 
"You hear it?" It was starting! It was there! 
The muezzin's song, just like some ancient charm, 
was calling Stamboul's faithful to their prayer.
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