Fateful reading of coffee grounds on the Bosphorus
Güncelleme Tarihi:
by Caroline Stern
OluÅŸturulma Tarihi: Åžubat 21, 2009 00:00
The one who does the actual reading of the coffee grounds seems to matter little, since it is read with a vehemence that leaves little doubt that anyone else would see the same. It seems that a person’s ability to read the grounds lies more in the variety of detail, rather than the degree of veracity. This is reading a book, not telling a story.
Having your fortune read in a cup of coffee grounds by total strangers in the middle of a foreign country is the kind of risk guidebooks and worried mothers warn against. Such a caution is the first of many reasons that make this, in fact, a wonderful experience, if you can find it.Â
On a foggy, rainy day in Istanbul this week, after two hours of the "Bosphorus tour", infinite castles and a few drowned storks, I was dropped off in a town called Anadolu Kavagi, as far as the ferry goes. Passengers were herded to the left by signs in so many languages that a bid for the EU seemed superfluous. I turned right.
Tourist traps are skin deep, though, and the first street I came to in town was as it should be; quiet, pleasant with winding dirt roads and steep laddered inclines, the occasional visible inhabitant stripped of tourist guard in his protected habitat.
I pass in front of a yellow house like many others. Small, square and guarded by a purring cat. An insistent rap calls my attention, a kind hand beckons me forth and suddenly I am seated among friends. Before me are three women of diminished size and enlarged gait anywhere between the ages of 55 and 90. Immediately I was warmed by the exposed fire, the leopard print slippers and warm if incomprehensible introductions. I will call them Angie, Betsy and Gloria.
When I came in I saw they had been busy with three tiny white porcelain cups. I had read enough guidebooks to know that the cooling coffee grounds were to tell the fate of their owners. They take turns reading each others’ fortunes with rapt attention, staring for long moments first into the cups, then the saucers, tipping water carefully from one to the other.
Brown gunk looks like brown gunk to me, but I make a silent pledge to leave logic aside and attempt to climb the language barrier with a notebook and some phonetic phrase catching for someone to decipher later. How old are you, are you married, do you have children? The interrogation had begun followed by a pitying look of "Never fear, child. You will find someone, eventually". Three sad heads nod kindly, united vicariously in my misfortune.
I decide that a safe starting point is to use a newly acquired word to ask my friendly hosts about how old they were when they got married. Nothing offensive, nothing complicated, they will love me. Visions of dusty family photographs falling heavily onto my lap are at hand. I point to myself, say "bebek", meaning "baby", but I was using it to say "young". I signal to them, point to ring finger, raise palms in curiosity "Bebek, question mark?"Suddenly, the petite grey haired one I call Angie burst into tears. Coiled in the corner, staring out into the rain, she hiccups through explanatory movements, now all too clear. Pointing to her golden wedding finger, she flashes ten then seven fingers in front of her tear-stained face. Husband dead 17 years. Now look what I’ve done. Great job. But in a flash, the lively green flowers of her headscarf were whipped off in a snap, tears wiped up, and with one movement the scarf was back in place without so much as a knot or a pin, her tiny feet dangling happily a good 10 cm off the ground.
Sure enough, family photos emerge, pocket size, from an unused wallet. Gloria’s Bebek number 1, age 17, in a tight white shirt. Then, another picture of a man I wouldn’t trust in the street, shown by a proud, doting mother. Suddenly, the tapping hand near the ground shoots up, wrenching Gloria’s stocky frame onto short tiptoes, fingers reaching toward the ceiling. Bebek is a rocket? No, Bebek is tall. Next, Betsy lifted her rather large sweater, shook her belly heartily and laughed in my direction. This happened repeatedly, but I decided that the same motion was not required in response. Back to the coffee grounds, they continued to tell my fate in long streams of consciousness. Every so often, however, I sensed a flash of light.
"Köprü", Köprü", Betsy was shouting. With her hands lifted to the sky and shrugging fervently, I knew exactly what this was, I thought. I yell "Pray". As a particularly juicy glob took shape, I heard "Haber var". Though still smiling, Betsy was staring me down, a warning. Suddenly she began hyperventilating and beating her chest before pressing two fingers to her ear. "Telefon". Angry phone call. Got it. Beginning to think my fortune is turning for the worse, I seize the clock as a sign to leave.
Eager to have my scribbles of fortune translated into a coherent guide for howto live the rest of my life, I promptly recruited a volunteer upon returning to Istanbul. Köprü does not, in fact, mean prayer, but bridge. I am apparently fated to become an architect, since bridge, wall and mosque were all among the words transcribed. I suspect "long", "many" and "happy" refer not to a prospering career, but to future scores of bebek.
Only time will tell if I’ll build a mosque or fall from a bridge, but Gloria did get one part right. "Haber sevineceksin." You will rejoice. I did, in fact.
What’s In my coffee cup?
The origins of coffee cup readings stem from the ancient Chinese art of reading tea leaves originally by monks who ceremonially drank tea in bell shaped cups. This was later adapted to coffee grounds reading by Arabs, then Turks. The cup is covered with a saucer and turned upside down with its mouth turning toward the one whose fortune will be told, and left to dry. The patterns formed on the inside of the cup from the residue of the coffee grounds are interpreted by a seer, who can be anyone moved to "read" what is foretold. It is often believed that the drinker of the coffee should not read their own cup. White is considered a "good" symbol foretelling positive things for the drinker, while the grounds themselves are thought to form "bad" symbols. Symbols can include people, animals and groups of inanimate objects, which together typically form a prediction. Apple: knowledge; Candle: enlightenment; Cat: deceit; Dog: loyalty; Raven: bad news.
On a foggy, rainy day in Istanbul this week, after two hours of the "Bosphorus tour", infinite castles and a few drowned storks, I was dropped off in a town called Anadolu Kavagi, as far as the ferry goes. Passengers were herded to the left by signs in so many languages that a bid for the EU seemed superfluous. I turned right.
Tourist traps are skin deep, though, and the first street I came to in town was as it should be; quiet, pleasant with winding dirt roads and steep laddered inclines, the occasional visible inhabitant stripped of tourist guard in his protected habitat.
I pass in front of a yellow house like many others. Small, square and guarded by a purring cat. An insistent rap calls my attention, a kind hand beckons me forth and suddenly I am seated among friends. Before me are three women of diminished size and enlarged gait anywhere between the ages of 55 and 90. Immediately I was warmed by the exposed fire, the leopard print slippers and warm if incomprehensible introductions. I will call them Angie, Betsy and Gloria.
When I came in I saw they had been busy with three tiny white porcelain cups. I had read enough guidebooks to know that the cooling coffee grounds were to tell the fate of their owners. They take turns reading each others’ fortunes with rapt attention, staring for long moments first into the cups, then the saucers, tipping water carefully from one to the other.
Brown gunk looks like brown gunk to me, but I make a silent pledge to leave logic aside and attempt to climb the language barrier with a notebook and some phonetic phrase catching for someone to decipher later. How old are you, are you married, do you have children? The interrogation had begun followed by a pitying look of "Never fear, child. You will find someone, eventually". Three sad heads nod kindly, united vicariously in my misfortune.
I decide that a safe starting point is to use a newly acquired word to ask my friendly hosts about how old they were when they got married. Nothing offensive, nothing complicated, they will love me. Visions of dusty family photographs falling heavily onto my lap are at hand. I point to myself, say "bebek", meaning "baby", but I was using it to say "young". I signal to them, point to ring finger, raise palms in curiosity "Bebek, question mark?"Suddenly, the petite grey haired one I call Angie burst into tears. Coiled in the corner, staring out into the rain, she hiccups through explanatory movements, now all too clear. Pointing to her golden wedding finger, she flashes ten then seven fingers in front of her tear-stained face. Husband dead 17 years. Now look what I’ve done. Great job. But in a flash, the lively green flowers of her headscarf were whipped off in a snap, tears wiped up, and with one movement the scarf was back in place without so much as a knot or a pin, her tiny feet dangling happily a good 10 cm off the ground.
Sure enough, family photos emerge, pocket size, from an unused wallet. Gloria’s Bebek number 1, age 17, in a tight white shirt. Then, another picture of a man I wouldn’t trust in the street, shown by a proud, doting mother. Suddenly, the tapping hand near the ground shoots up, wrenching Gloria’s stocky frame onto short tiptoes, fingers reaching toward the ceiling. Bebek is a rocket? No, Bebek is tall. Next, Betsy lifted her rather large sweater, shook her belly heartily and laughed in my direction. This happened repeatedly, but I decided that the same motion was not required in response. Back to the coffee grounds, they continued to tell my fate in long streams of consciousness. Every so often, however, I sensed a flash of light.
"Köprü", Köprü", Betsy was shouting. With her hands lifted to the sky and shrugging fervently, I knew exactly what this was, I thought. I yell "Pray". As a particularly juicy glob took shape, I heard "Haber var". Though still smiling, Betsy was staring me down, a warning. Suddenly she began hyperventilating and beating her chest before pressing two fingers to her ear. "Telefon". Angry phone call. Got it. Beginning to think my fortune is turning for the worse, I seize the clock as a sign to leave.
Eager to have my scribbles of fortune translated into a coherent guide for howto live the rest of my life, I promptly recruited a volunteer upon returning to Istanbul. Köprü does not, in fact, mean prayer, but bridge. I am apparently fated to become an architect, since bridge, wall and mosque were all among the words transcribed. I suspect "long", "many" and "happy" refer not to a prospering career, but to future scores of bebek.
Only time will tell if I’ll build a mosque or fall from a bridge, but Gloria did get one part right. "Haber sevineceksin." You will rejoice. I did, in fact.
What’s In my coffee cup?
The origins of coffee cup readings stem from the ancient Chinese art of reading tea leaves originally by monks who ceremonially drank tea in bell shaped cups. This was later adapted to coffee grounds reading by Arabs, then Turks. The cup is covered with a saucer and turned upside down with its mouth turning toward the one whose fortune will be told, and left to dry. The patterns formed on the inside of the cup from the residue of the coffee grounds are interpreted by a seer, who can be anyone moved to "read" what is foretold. It is often believed that the drinker of the coffee should not read their own cup. White is considered a "good" symbol foretelling positive things for the drinker, while the grounds themselves are thought to form "bad" symbols. Symbols can include people, animals and groups of inanimate objects, which together typically form a prediction. Apple: knowledge; Candle: enlightenment; Cat: deceit; Dog: loyalty; Raven: bad news.