The bus creeps its way through the maze of traffic just as dusk begins to settle in around the Bosphorus, bringing with it the excitement of three dozen students and teachers, one two year old boy, and a bus driver who has not allowed even water to pass through his lips all day. As we pass the crumbling, ancient Roman walls surrounding Sultanahmet, I can feel the young man beside me grow tense with anticipation. He is new to this ritual and to this city, only earlier this week having parted from his family and made his way from the small town in which he has spent his entire life.
As our driver maneuvers the oversized vehicle through streets designed for horses and carts of a bygone era, it becomes increasingly apparent that we may be thwarted in our efforts to make our way through these narrow streets without some help from-but ah! Yes, the men on the street have obligingly lifted a small car and moved it aside to help us make our way around the final turn: we have arrived. I use my "teacher voice" to dole out some last-minute instructions to the students on the bus, then make my way to the street below and inhale the marvelous odors of roasting meat and frying sweets that fill the air all around me. My friends and I
begin making our way through the throngs of people and soon break into smaller and smaller groups as we search for the stalls containing our favorite foods and take in the sights and sounds of the carnivalesque atmosphere. Women fully clad in traditional
hijabs flock together like crows, while tourists in shorts and t-shirts jostle their way through the crowd, unaware of the disapproving looks cast by some of the more conservative members of the multitudes. Small children clutching their sticky-sweet tufts of cotton candy reluctantly allow their mothers to pull them along as they try to fill their mouths with as much of the pink sugar as they possibly can. I dodge their small bodies as my friends make their way ahead in search of roasted meats and fried doughy balls of syrupy sweetness; we snap a few "tourist photos" along the way of the more ostentatious of
the local foodsellers and their wares. Eventually I part from the group after my belly is filled with spiced meats and Turkish sweets, and make my way back to the shops selling jewelry, porcelain bowls, and trinkets for the tourists that I will use for Christmas presents for my friends and family back home. After securing
arkadas (friend) prices for my treasures with a few Turkish phrases and Minnesotan charm, I wander back to the entrance to the
Hippodrome and take it all in one more time before returning to my friends...This is
iftar, the breaking of the fast, in Sultanahmet.
The bus creeps its way through the maze of traffic just as dusk begins to settle in around the Bosphorus, bringing with it the excitement of three dozen students and teachers, one two year old boy, and a bus driver who has not allowed even water to pass through his lips all day. As we pass the crumbling, ancient Roman walls surrounding Sultanahmet, I can feel the young man beside me grow tense with anticipation. He is new to this ritual and to this city, only earlier this week having parted from his family and made his way from the small town in which he has spent his entire life. 
As our driver maneuvers the oversized vehicle through streets designed for horses and carts of a bygone era, it becomes increasingly apparent that we may be thwarted in our efforts to make our way through these narrow streets without some help from-but ah! Yes, the men on the street have obligingly lifted a small car and moved it aside to help us make our way around the final turn: we have arrived. I use my "teacher voice" to dole out some last-minute instructions to the students on the bus, then make my way to the street below and inhale the marvelous odors of roasting meat and frying sweets that fill the air all around me. My friends and I 
begin making our way through the throngs of people and soon break into smaller and smaller groups as we search for the stalls containing our favorite foods and take in the sights and sounds of the carnivalesque atmosphere. Women fully clad in traditional hijabs flock together like crows, while tourists in shorts and t-shirts jostle their way through the crowd, unaware of the disapproving looks cast by some of the more conservative members of the multitudes. Small children clutching their sticky-sweet tufts of cotton candy reluctantly allow their mothers to pull them along as they try to fill their mouths with as much of the pink sugar as they possibly can. I dodge their small bodies as my friends make their way ahead in search of roasted meats and fried doughy balls of syrupy sweetness; we snap a few "tourist photos" along the way of the more ostentatious of 
the local foodsellers and their wares. Eventually I part from the group after my belly is filled with spiced meats and Turkish sweets, and make my way back to the shops selling jewelry, porcelain bowls, and trinkets for the tourists that I will use for Christmas presents for my friends and family back home. After securing arkadas (friend) prices for my treasures with a few Turkish phrases and Minnesotan charm, I wander back to the entrance to the 
Hippodrome and take it all in one more time before returning to my friends...This is iftar, the breaking of the fast, in Sultanahmet.
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