One of those kinds of Sundays.

We woke up early, went to the farmer’s market. Bought things and then too many things: eggs, tomatoes, leeks, mushrooms, and a single, unidentifiable squash. Kate had to be talked out of going to a second market. Instead, we walked through the park that had Flintstones shaped slides and went back to her place. A man came with us. An elderly Greek artist who’d been commissioned to draw storefronts and street scenes from around the Greek consulate. Eventually, they’d be hung up inside for visitors to admire. I forget how we met him.

We cooked lunch, and we cooked big. Stewed tomatoes, eggplants, green spinach with poached eggs , leftover yogurt and cucumbers, fresh grapes. We ate until we burst. Then we walked to the Galeta district where there was an art class happening in somebody’s living room. We went in and were then blindfolded and given charcoal pencils.

“Smell this,” the teacher said, folding something soft and small into each of our hands: pieces of cheese and small cups with peeled lemons and fresh coffee beans. We each smelled. It’s very hard to identify scents without sight. (Did you know this? You did.)

Then we drew blind. For one hour and a half. We sketched without seeing, drawing the shapes and colors and feelings that occurred, forced to translate all of our first impressions into lines.

“Stop drawing real things!” the teacher chided me at one point, when I thought I was getting away with it. I had been drawing a woman. My grandmother, because I was holding a sprig of rosemary and the scent reminded me of her.

Later, when I removed the blindfold, I saw that I had rendered her face perfectly, just missing one eye. Shocking!

We had mimosas and carrot cake and laughed. We talked about Georgia and hiking the Caucus mountains. 16,000 feet and the most biologically diverse somethingorother. I started to forget almost immediately. But a restless part of me rippled, like somebody had pulled a chord tight.

We walked then, home. Down Istiklal and through the Galeta district and all around the tower and back up past both consulates.

We went to a show that night. A Lebanese singer who performed in Arabic and wore belly shirts. We couldn’t tell if she was actually singing or not.

Later, at home again, just tea and spooning the innards out of the unidentifiable melon. We roasted it with the seeds still in, because why not?

“There’s only one way to find out!” said Kate, but I forget what she was referring to.