A Cold-Sunshine Wednesday Walk: Picking Up My Heart Decor, Finding a Locked Mosque, and Falling for “Kürt Böreği”

Winter has this funny habit: it can look like a bright postcard and feel like a freezer at the same time. Today was exactly that—sunlight everywhere, blue sky showing off, and a cold that cut straight through my gloves like it had a personal grudge.

I headed out for a simple mission for my shop: I needed to pick up my heart-shaped metal decor before painting. It’s one of those pieces that looks minimal at first, but when it’s finished, it carries a lot of emotion—simple lines, one clear message, and that “this belongs to someone” feeling. I love that part of making things. A small object can hold a big intention.

The painter’s place was in a neighborhood side street—one of those tucked-away spots you’d never randomly find unless you had a reason, or a very determined Google Maps dot to chase. I took the bus and got off nearby, then checked the route on my phone. The map said it would take me 17 minutes on foot, and I started walking with that quiet excitement you get when you’re on your way to something you created.

The streets were lively in their own modest way: a few people moving quickly to stay warm, cars passing, sun reflecting off windows and puddles. The cold didn’t ruin the walk—it sharpened it. Everything felt clearer. The air felt honest.

When I reached the painter, the heart decor looked really good. The finish had that clean, smooth look that makes you think, “Yes, this is becoming exactly what I imagined.” But then I noticed something: one small area hadn’t been painted. It wasn’t a disaster, but it was visible enough that I couldn’t ignore it. If you sell handmade products, you know this moment well—your brain instantly zooms in and says: “We’re fixing that.”

So I handed it back and told them about the missed spot. They took it seriously and said it would be ready in about an hour. Perfect, I thought. One hour is just enough time to turn an errand into a mini “Wednesday Walk” story.

A Short Walk, A Small Surprise: The Mosque Door Was Locked

I decided to go to a nearby mosque while I waited. It was close, and I liked the idea of using that hour peacefully—stepping away from the practical world of paint and timing, and into something calmer.

But when I got there, I saw something that genuinely surprised me: the mosque door was locked in the middle of the day.

It wasn’t late at night. It wasn’t an unusual hour. It was daytime—normal, bright, ordinary daytime. For a moment I just stood there thinking, “Is this really happening?” Because I’m used to mosques being open, especially during the day. In my mind, they are places you can always step into when you need a pause, a prayer, a breath.

Luckily, the man responsible for the mosque was nearby. I told him the door was locked, and he came right away and opened it. Simple problem, quick solution—but the surprise stayed with me. It made me reflect on how even the things we assume are always available—spaces, routines, comfort—can suddenly be behind a locked door. Sometimes literally.

I went inside, prayed, and let myself settle for a while. The warmth indoors felt like mercy after the cold outside. When I finished, I checked the time: not even an hour had passed yet.

So I stepped back into the winter sunlight and continued my little waiting adventure.

The Sweetest Accident: Kürt Böreği and Powdered Sugar Magic

With time still to fill, I started looking around for something small to eat. That’s when I found a börek shop nearby—and by pure luck, they had Kürt böreği.

If you’ve never tried it, here’s the special twist: it comes with powdered sugar sprinkled on top. Some people call it “küt böreği,” partly because of pronunciation differences, and you’ll hear both names depending on the region or the person saying it. But whatever you call it, the experience is the same: soft, layered pastry meeting sweet powdered sugar in a combination that should not work… but absolutely does.

It’s one of those foods that feels like a cultural secret—simple ingredients, no dramatic presentation, yet the taste hits you with a quiet “wow.” The contrast is the whole point: flaky, warm, slightly rich pastry with a sweet, snowy finish. I ate it slowly, enjoying the warmth of the shop and the comfort of that sweet-and-soft bite.

This is the part where I have to say: if you ever come to Türkiye, you should try it. Not because it’s trendy, but because it’s oddly unforgettable. It’s a small taste that carries a big feeling—like so many things here.

After finishing my tea and my Kürt böreği, I stepped outside again and noticed the sky shifting. The sun was still there, but clouds were gathering, and the air looked like it was preparing to get even colder. The kind of weather change that turns a pleasant walk into a “let’s not push our luck” situation.

At that point, I decided not to stretch the day too much. Walking is wonderful, but winter skies can flip moods quickly. I didn’t want to get caught in a colder, darker version of the afternoon.

So my plan was clear: go back, pick up the heart decor when it’s done, and head straight home.

Because sometimes a Wednesday Walk doesn’t need a long route. Sometimes it’s enough to have a small mission, a little surprise, a peaceful prayer, a sweet pastry you didn’t expect, and a sky that reminds you: “Okay, story complete—time to go.”