Bus 57Can you imagine, she sayswith nasal n's patently from a remote corner of Eastern Anatolia,she eats pork, drinks wine, dances with boysand then she comes to the mosque to pray with us.I can see her reflection in the window of the busor her beautiful face when I fake looking at something in the back rows:She wears a colorful head-scarf, a fashionable hijabmost likely made out of silk from Bursaand her cell phone cradled between her scarf and temple,she has her hands free, holding with onea bottle of purple Smart-Waterand gesticulating with the otheras if her friend - I assume a friend- were standing right thereCan you imagine, she says again in a higher pitch voice this timethe old man who sits in front of me has a pony tail longer than a donkey's.I turn aroundI am not that old, I say smilingly, trying to imitate - maybe with a touch of malice – her provincial n'sand my pony tail is not that long.For a long second or two, we look at each otherin complete silence,then she exclaims again:Can you imagine,she yells at her cell phone.the old man understands Turkish,in perfect teenager Americanbut with an accent similar to mine.