As it hits the metal roof over the
terrace on top of our hostel in the Sultanahmet district of Istanbul
it sounds like a thousand of the smallest drums you’ve ever seen.
The water drips off the roof and crinks and crackles on the tile
floor of the exposed sections of the terrace. It’s raining in
Istanbul on the day Sofia is leaving on its tour of Turkey.
Still though, the seagulls are still
out in number, flying alone and in packs, their big B42 shape wings
floating through the grey, soggy sky. This gives me hope because, as
I said, we are going on tour today. A music tour to be exact. Sofia
has four very talented musicians, and we’ve decided to form a band.
Furthermore, we want to play our music in some of the most remote
villages in the country for locals who may not have cable (and thus
appreciate music more).
Liz, Sofia’s tour manager, places
tomatoes on her breakfast sandwich while looking indefatigably at the
forbidding weather. Grant, our front man from Texas, who decided to
shave (against my own objections) just to look good for the tour. He
holds up his laptop and makes some pre-flight announcements.
April listens intently, sitting
cross-legged in her torn jeans. Her long brown hair is still a
little damp from her shower. She’s our Joni Mitchell.
“How do you feel?” Grant asks her.
She shrugs and smiles, picks up a spoon
and plays her thigh as a drum, uses my thigh as her crash symbol.
We’re nervous about the weather. It
could make the trip from the hostel to the tram which takes us to the
huge Istanbul bus station. We’re nervous about going into an unknown
country to play for unknown people and sleep on unknown beds (or
floors). Turkish hospitality is legendary, especially the farther
east you get. It is not uncommon for a westerner to walk into a
small town and get mobbed by requests to have tea with nearly
everyone in the town.
We are trusting for God to provide, but
still the idea of trusting God and other people like this grates
against our Western minds.
“Anyone down for an MLP this
morning?” says Dez. “A music listening party?!”
The breeze blows
across my bare legs and in between my unprotected toes. The sky is
full
“We’re packed
up,” says Dez to a Brit that we made friends with while staying at
the hostel, “and we’ll be heading out around 10:30 or so.”
It’s
time to go. In the words of Lisztomania, my favorite Phoenix song,
Time to show it off, time to show it off. We’re in for the ride of
our lives.
