"This is where her pregnancy waters broke," Hasan explains in his charming English. We sit for hours on a simple floating porch, laughing, sharing, watching the light fade on the sea. Behind us, darkness falls on a street of pastel houses fringed with frilly wood- and ironwork. A chill wafts in over the water. The waiter lights a candle, covers our table with still more delicacies. (When we finally return to New York, we will be unable to eat for several days – compared to the food in Istanbul, everything in America will taste like packaging or grease.)

Night has arrived. Hasan tells us of his friend, DJ'ing tonight at a club which can only be reached by ferry. The show will begin at midnight. We beg off. I'm about to tell Hasan that we are still feeling jet lag, but Joan decides to inform him of her health problem. In a subtle way, her honesty, along with Hasan's response, brings the three of us still closer together. We begin to feel that Hasan is our brother.