Letters

TO THE WOMAN WHO LED US INTO THE MOUTH OF THE JAGUAR

I heard your voice before I saw you. You didn’t ask me if I was OK. You just began a conversation, as if we had been talking for a long time. You took my daughter’s hand, and you told me the entrance to Ek Balam’s temple was just a few steps away.

TO THE WOMAN WHO LED US INTO THE MOUTH OF THE JAGUAR

TO THE WAITER IN BEYOGLU WHO LEFT ME A TIP

Pamuk, to his credit, understood the rarity of his good fortune and set out to do something purposeful with it. After collecting his loot, he conceived of a fictional project that actually, for once, merited the designation of “novel,” in the adjectival sense of the word, as something had never been tried before.

TO THE WAITER IN BEYOGLU WHO LEFT ME A TIP

TO THE WOMAN WHO SPARED ME AN ORANGE

Still, even as early motherhood plunged me into full-body, full-time fear, I wanted my baby to know the wild openness of travel: bus rides deep into the mountains, a tiny village down a dirt road, turkey calls, coffee and beer at shared tables with strangers.

TO THE WOMAN WHO SPARED ME AN ORANGE