In Turkey, tea is served in these little thin-waisted – ince belli, they call it – clear glasses. You grasp them by the very top rim, so as not to burn your fingers, and you sip the piping hot black liquid. The glasses sit in little saucers to catch any spillage. In my own kitchen, I have a stack of them, with designs of ladybugs, flowers and hearts, but the ones that seem to be universally available at tea gardens have red stripes.

You might drink several glasses at one sitting – with sugar if you prefer, but never with milk. Tea seems to punctuate every conversation and every relationship, so it was the perfect symbol for my book.

I remember watching people drop sugar cubes into their tea and stir until they dissolved, the notes of the little teaspoons tinkling against the glass. Others would put a sugar cube between their teeth and sip tea through it. That seems to have fallen out of fashion in recent years, now that sugar is in single serve packets, but the memory stays with me.

There is always time for a glass of tea. With a friend. On the ferry. By the seaside. While shopping. In narrow crowded streets, men carry hanging tea trays with steaming glasses, taking orders from shopkeepers and delivering the beverage for a few lira.

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