Having your fortune read in a cup of coffee grounds by total strangers in the middle of nowhere is the kind of unmanageable risk guide books and worried mothers warn you against. This aversion is the first among many indications that this is, in fact, a wonderful idea, if you can manage it.

On yet another foggy, rainy day in Istanbul, my first experience with the much touted "Bosphorus tour" put me in the kind of close contact with the loud-and-obnoxious-tourist species which I have so ardently tried to avoid. Two hours, infinite castles and a few drowned storks later, we are dropped at Anadolu Kavagi, as far as the ferry will consent to take us.

It is tourist heaven. Or, at the very least, fish restaurant heaven. "Hello, excuse me"'s are immediately indignant, and the innocent interrogations into your place of origin are even more insistent than most. It is after all, the low season. The pack was herded left by signs in so many languages other than Turkish that a bid for the EU seemed superfluous. I turned right.

Tourist traps are only skin deep, however, and one street in the town was as it should be. Quiet, pleasant , with winding dirt roads and steep laddered inclines, the occasional inhabitant stripped of his aggressive tourist shroud, and returned to his natural, 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, an inquisitive head asks my name, a generous hand beckons me forth, and suddenly I am sitting among friends. Before me sit three women of that particular diminished size and enlarged gait which places them securely within the indeterminable grey ages of 55 and 90.Warmed by the exposed fire, the leopard print slippers and wide smiles, I attempt my introductions. After exhausting my newly acquired three words of Turkish, I succeed at regurgitating the vague guttural sounds which I take to be names incomprehensible to my as yet un-turkified ears. I name them Angie, Betsy, and Gloria.

When I came in, the women - hidden behind multiple layers of flowered silk and wool, their slippered feet shuffling across the spotless wooden floor - had been busy with three tiny white porcelain cups standing in waiting, only two of which awaited overturned. I had read enough guide books to know that the fate of the cooling coffee grains was to tell that of their owners, and managed to ask why only two of them had been so reserved. With passive scorn and flippant hand movements which would look at home on any New York street, the other two explain that Gloria is not interested in such silly things. She doesn't believe in it, they scoff. Interestingly, when the cups have cooled, and it comes time to read the grains, it is the supposed non-believer who is designated to be the teller of tales.

They take turns reading each others fortunes with rapt attention, staring for long moments into first the cups, then the saucers, tipping water from one to the other with the care of a surgeon and the consternated resignation of a cornered chess-master.

Though they kindly offer the honour to one another,who does the actual reading seems to matter little, since what is proclaimed thereafter is announced with such vehemence and security that little room is left to doubt that another would be able to see the same - so obvious -a truth. It seems that a person's ability to read the coffee grain lies more in the variety of detail, rather than the degree of veracity, the latter supposedly immutable and guaranteed. This is reading a book, not telling a story.

My Turkish has clearly progressed very little in the three weeks since I have moved to Istanbul, and I have no intention of adding to my language burden by attempting to decipher Coffeeish. Judging by the intensity with which Gloria jumps across the room to point at the little mounds of coffee and the small brown rivers the thick water has left behind, however, this is not an acceptable state of affairs. Unfortunately, brown gunk still looks like brown gunk to me, but we make a silent pledge to leave logic aside, and attempt to climb the language barrier, together.

They speak, I take notes, attempting to separate sounds into words to bring back something someone will understand. Amid a long string of vowels, the recurring melody of Bebek calls my attention.Why is this being said so often, and what on earth can be so urgently important and exciting? Bebek? Bebek! Not the neighborhood in Istanbul, but the Turkish word for "baby". This dawns on me just as I realize that their wild hand flapping somewhere near the floor is meant to indicate patting the heads of well-behaved children, and not how to slap a midget, as had previously crossed my mind.

Confirming what I had been told, there are indeed three basic questions older Turkish people will ask younger foreigners. How old are you, are you married, and do you have children? If the answer to the first is anything above the age of 18 (17? 15? 4?) , a positive response to the second question is positively demanded. Case contrary, interrogation begins, accompanied by that fateful pittying look of "never fear, child. You will find someone, eventually". Three sad heads nod kindly, united vicariously in my misfortune, confident that one glorious day the answer to number three will be in the high teens. Inshallah.

Curious, but cautiously aware of my limited ability to express myself onomatopoeically, I decide that a good safe starting point is to use my new word, and 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 fall heavily onto my lap. Success is guaranteed. I Point to myself, State, "bebek" (meaning young). Signal to them, point to ring finger, raise palms in curiosity "bebek, question mark?" (Bebek is now indicative of age) Well done, my friend, what linguistic prowess. What cultural sensitivity.

Suddenly, the petite grey haired one I have identified as an Angie burst into heartfelt tears. Out of nowhere the soft smile turned to a painful squeal. Coiled in the corner, staring out into the ever grayer rain, she hiccups through her explanatory movements, now all too clear. Big mistake. Points to her golden wedding finger, spreads hands horizontally, pushes away the air between them. 10, then 7 fingers flash before the tear stained face. Husband dead 17 years. Well, thats just lovely. Great job.

But, without so much as a second for me to attempt to decipher hand motions of apology (Level IV lesson, at least) the smile returned, triumphantly. The lively green flowers of her Hijab were whipped off with a snap, tears wiped up, and with one movement, the scarf is back in place, miraculously equilibrated without so much as a knot or a pin, her tiny feet dangling happily a good 10cm off the ground.

Sure enough, family photos do emerge, pocket size, from an unused wallet.
Gloria's Bebek number 1, Age 17 in a tight white shirt which would have made The Beatles proud. Then, another picture of a man I wouldn't trust in the street, accompanied by the pleased smile of a proud and doting mother. Suddenly, the tapping hand held low to the ground shoots up, wrenching Gloria's stocky frame onto short tiptoes, fingers reaching towards the ceiling. Bebek is a rocket? No, Bebek is tall. And clearly no longer a Bebek, but this word seems to be suiting us well, so we'll stick with it.

Suddenly, Betsy lifted her rather large sweater, shook her belly heartily and laughed in my direction. This happened repeatedly, but I decided that no such response was required of me. Back to the coffee grounds we had momentarily ignored, my fate continued to be told in long streams of consciousness I was totally incapable of deciphering. Every so often, however, I saw a flash of light.

"Köprü", Küprü", Betsy shouted. With her hands lifted to the sky and shrugging fervently, I knew exactly what this was. Proud of my interpretation skills, my life as a fluent turkish speaker flashing before my eyes, I yell "Pray", as if my own indecipherable tongue would prove to her that I knew what she was talking about. Self satisfied, I congratulated myself on my excellent interpretation skills. Perhaps a new career awaits as turkish translator of fortune tellers. A niche market, to be sure, but sure to grow inversely proportionally to the worsening financial crisis. Desperate times.

As a particularly juicy glob of coffee dripped down, I heard "Haber Var" quite clearly. Betsy was serious now. Though still smiling, she was staring me down, a warning. I had no idea what she was trying to say to me, and decided that smiling a stupid smile was an appropriate response. When in doubt, just agree.

Suddenly, the ringleader started to hyper-ventilate, beating her chest wildly with an enthusiasm usually reserved for religious fervor, the two fingers humanity has designated as indicative of communication pressed firmly to her ear. "Telefon". Telephone, I get. Even I could not possibly mess up what they mean now. Angry phone call. Got it.

Beginning to think my fortune is turning for the worst, between an apparently urgent need to pray and the ominous arrival of a mysterious angry phone call, I seize the fast moving clock as a very readable sign to leave.

A few hours later and a world away, I return to Istanbul, eager to have my scribbles of transcribed fortune translated into a coherent and completely accurate guide of how to live the rest of my life, I promptly recruited an unwitting volunteer. Köprü did 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. Either that, or I will throw myself off one or the other. I have a strong suspicion that "long", "many" and "happy" are not in reference to a prospering career, but to possible future scores of Bebek .

"Ben Adak", they had told me. I promise you, I vow to you, eerily similar to the strained "belieeeeve me" which sprouts so easily from carpet vendors' lips if you ever dare to question the provenance or quality of any of their first class merchandise. Only time will tell if I will build a mosque, or fall form a bridge, but they seem to have gotten at least one part right. "Haber sevineceksin" You will rejoice. I did, in fact.