Late on this one, super late actually. My week feels almost over and still not a word about Sunday. It was, perhaps not surprisingly, all about nesting. I had friends over for a pot of tea and biscuits and we lamented over the newfound state of Australian politics. They were both heavily involved in the election, so were as disappointed as they were tired.
But in the afternoon I browsed second-hand shops and an old Turkish boutique on King St. It's a place I've walked past maybe a hundred times and never quite managed to stop by. But we want a new rug (or two) for the house, and as you can see, they had quite the range. It was a dark old shop that reminded me of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, a city I visited with friends when I was just 19. It was my first glimpse of the rest of the world, having grown up in quiet Adelaide and spent just a few grey months in London. It was the first time I'd been so immersed in words thick with accent and felt the hustle and confusion of someone else's capital. We spent days wandering the Grand Bazaar and I fell in love with Hagia Sophia, the falling-apart cathedral full of mosaics and aged stone. We got Turkish baths on slabs of marble, under high domes cut with stars and gold-rimmed tiles and had countless delicate cups of apple tea. I'd love to visit again, to wander the lanes and canals and better get to know the unique blend of east and west.
I am still deciding on just which rug to get. I got so distracted with colours and textures and memories that I couldn't quite make up my mind.