Dirt Lots and Plastic Flowers

Derya Yildirim & Grup Simsek- Nem Kaldi

Sat in a park the other day with my primo and a phone sitting between us. Two friends, from two different countries (although those two countries aren’t really all that different), enjoying a beer in an empty park flanked by empty lots, a soccer field and the train station. The sun wouldn’t set for a few more hours, yet the glass towers in the distance were bound to block it out, however quickly they could.

It was beginning to get cold, having just dipped below chilly. The beer was cold. Nem Kaldi came on over the tiny speaker.

I could say that I wished he and I were outside a cafe in Istanbul when it came on, with the smells of street food and tobacco, but I didn’t.

I was happy to be there, in that chilly-getting-cold park in the cement waste the city had yet to develop off, another sacrifice on the blood altar of city living, a city that erases it’s past.

We sat there, drank our beer to the memory of of times spent in that park where barely anyone goes, or even knows exists, the world shuffling on around us.

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