We strolled through the Old City past soldiers carrying machine guns at the ready.
Pops didn’t seem to notice, intent on educating us.
“This gate only looks old,” he said. “Ottoman Turks built it in 1898 so the Kaiser didn’t have to walk. Wide enough for a carriage.”
An armored car idled in the square, its bristling guns lending it the appearance of a dangerous insect.
Pops walked past, talking. “Homer wrote that dreams pass through gates. The Gate of Horn is for true dreams. False dreams pass through Gates of Ivory.”
I heard a distant explosion roll across the rooftops.