I spent the last few days of October at the Istanbul Tanpinar Literature Festival.

According to my schedule, which I had received only a few days before my departure, my first event was titled “Coffee Reading with Hare.”

Although the word “hare” has pleasant associations with Alice in Wonderland, I wondered what exactly would be going on during a reading with a hare.

In the summer of 2003, I did a book tour in the Netherlands with a goat. It was a promotional effort for my novel The Asylum Seeker. What the goat was to my novel, the hare was to the festival—a gimmick.

But my guide, a Dutch woman working on her Ph.D. in Istanbul, explained to me that “Hare” was the sponsor of the festival. It is the name of a coffee liqueur in Turkey. This was the reason why there was free coffee liqueur at many of the events.

This was probably also why my first event took place in the back of a trendy café in a posh neighborhood of Istanbul.

I was supposed to read with two Turkish authors, but shortly before the event was supposed to begin, one of the authors left. According to him, there were not enough people in the audience.

This is always tricky. Sometimes authors travel to the end of the world only to discover that 12 people are sitting in a venue that can hold 200. If you don’t appreciate certain absurdities, don’t go to literary festivals.

The other author who decided to stay told me, “This is typically Turkish.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t take it personally,” I answered.

The following day, after an opening ceremony at a beautiful hotel—again with lots of coffee liqueur—I was whisked away to a television station where I was supposed to talk about my book and the festival.

The anchorwoman of the news program was professional and friendly.

One of her first questions was, “What do you think of Turkish literature?’

Besides Pamuk, I haven’t read much Turkish literature.

How to answer such a question without being rude?

What is more important, honesty or kindness?

“I read Pamuk, of course,” I answered, “and I was told that there is another Turkish author I should start reading.”

“Tanpinar probably,” the lady said. “This festival is named after him.”

I blushed.

To the author, the literary festival might appear absurd. But to many other people, it’s the author who is absurd and surreal.

After having displayed my ignorance in such an obvious manner, I did my utmost to answer her other questions without causing embarrassment to my country (the Netherlands), to my country of residence (the U.S.) and to world literature in general.