I Stumble in Istanbul

Istanbul. As it blows through my hair, the air continues to change its smell from bitter to sweet. It’s warm here: moving my feet up a hill, the tips of my blue jeans pass by each other with so much speed they make a flapping noise, and it promotes an honest sweat. Every person I pass returns my smile. Not seeming shocked, or uncomfortable, or even put on the spot, they just smile back. I actually love this city.

Caucasians used to be Turkish slaves. Oh, if only all of America knew about this. What a fascinating and different world high school would have been for me: the say-it-out-loud ebony Emerald may have seen me as a person and not as some dumb white girl obviously trying to ruin her day since she’s black and I must hate her. But that’s a different story.

I’m dying to see this city. Our tour guide looks like Robin Williams. I imagine that maybe some day this man, Orhan, will do something so noteworthy they’ll make a movie about his logical Istanbul adventures, climbing hills, trailing students throughout the miraculous parts of the city… and no one could play him better than Robin Williams. It’s a good thing the star of Flubber is so great with accents.

A Turkish fly crawls about everything I own: my hand, pants, purse, notebook…but has yet to touch anyone else. Minutes pass, many actually, and it still crawls about. I wonder why! If I close my eyes and focus on the tickling the dark grey and dull red insect is causing by stumbling its tiny little legs about the hairs on the back of my hand, I can imagine it’s drawing a picture on that flat light surface. It’s a classic puzzle piece. I consider the significance. How might I describe the buzzing of a fly? Zatta za nah za nah. It moves finally to another set of possessions, belonging to another student, listening to a different element of Istanbul than the sounds of the 6-legged flying critters.

The people in Turkey are absolutely dazzling. I think this is why I love it so much—they’re all so genuine and loving life. Everyone seems to be going somewhere, and whether it is for play or for work, it looks intriguing and exciting. I would follow one person an hour if I could, just to see where I might end up. I imagine I would be taken to the Bazaar and to the men lined up along one bridge, with their fishing rods in hand, hanging loosely, awaiting a tug. I might pet a kitten if I were following a child or wash my hands and feet in a Muslin footbath in the middle of the city if I found myself following on a Friday. I see twelve-year-old boys walking together, one with his hand on the other one’s shoulder, and wonder what they too are up to. What a loving community.

I want to come back here with my dad so badly. I want him to see the city as I see it: a blessed center of every person you’d ever want to watch. A hub of joy and laughter and suffering. Clean and dirty. Up-close, personal, and distant. Daddy, you’ll see it. We’ll make it here together someday soon.

There the sun goes: beating hard on me as if to make up for my intense feverous chills last night. My feet may throb in its heat but I’m enjoying the sensation for the sun and I have a lovely relationship. Here I am, eating tough, old rubber corn spiced with warm salt, I’m deciding how much I’m actually enjoying it or if I just enjoy out-standing experiences such as this one. Note-worthy ones, which are so intense in their horribleness, greatness, or rubberiness that just thinking about them you can’t help but laugh.