The waiter in Kalkan at a café overlooking the sea, the Mediterranean to be precise and a touch particular, the waiter asks, pointing to my diary, What you do in book? I show writing and the Blue Mosque quickly sketched in Istanbul. Ah, he says. Artist. He was kind. I go to art school for one year. You know caricatures? I like. Will you draw in my book? No. No. It does not always work. We talk. We know this language. Images, words will not always come when sought but may appear unasked, when so happy or sad or alone…