Big Empty. I had started humming that song the minute we landed at IST, as we were walking along the shore of the Black Sea. Maybe it was the vastness and almost horizonless view where the water and the sky meet in that infinite shade of blue black. “Too much walkin’, shoes worn thin.” Those were the only lyrics I could remember at first. That and the fact that I have worn my Oofos for 97 straight days since grabbing a new pair prior to departure. After something upwards of 1 Million steps over the last 2 months, I can now feel every cobble, every tiled seam, every cigarette butt I step on. And the souls have thickness and the texture of watermelon skin. “Too much trippin’ and my soul’s worn thin.” Not that kinda trippin’. Nobody wants to end up in a Turkish prison.
Istanbul. The only major city on Earth that sits on two continents. We stayed on the European side. And they put that side on a hill. Steps. Like climbing Angel’s Landing each morning for coffee. Then again at lunch.
The place is littered with cats, and that’s barely scratching the surface. Highly revered and respected here and all across Islam, cats have been a part of this town’s story for a millennium. When it was called Constantinople. Longer perhaps. Byzantium. They, the cats not the Romans, are highly admired for their cleanliness and at points early in written history were used to safeguard Arabic libraries. They kept the mice from making nests of the books. Now the hordes of them are fed, watered, even housed on the streets and at restaurants. They sleep on tables, motorcycle seats and the hoods of cars. I saw one on a Jaguar at one point, I flashed quickly to Tawny Kitaen. Wrong song. Bad kitty. They sleep everywhere except in the shelters that are provided for them by their local philzoothropists. The streets and stairways are lined with cardboard boxes, cat trees, cat hotels, etc. When they brush up against your leg at lunch and you go to give them a friendly head scrub, frequently you end up bleeding in your baba ghanoush. We made a few friends and left with a few scars.
We doubled down on our coffee because it just didn’t taste like home so we did that strangely human thing; we drank more of what we didn’t like in an attempt to fill our cups. Every table at every restaurant had an ashtray and we started to believe that every human in Istanbul still smokes. And more lyrics arrive, floating in front of me like drifting smoke, “smoke a cigarette and lie some more…” The humming continues where the lyrics are still absent.
The most glaring absence in Turkey was the commode-side hose. I could have sworn that I ended a 54 year romance with toilet paper somewhere back in Vietnam. Once you make friends with that little bathroom buddy with the chrome nozzle, your life just changes somehow. You tend to get a little glimmer in your eye each morning about that time. I did have a shitty experience in Hoi An where the guy in the stall next to me was showering with it. That wasn’t enjoyable for me.
The city is stunning. The mosques and their towering minarets, the modern architecture sewn into the historic neighborhoods like patches on grandma’s quilt. The finger-like streets and the back alleys with their murals, graffiti, and casts of characters and cats, have your attention with every step. The bazaars filled with spices, fabrics, leather, souvenirs, and good lord, people. So many people. It’s shoulder to shoulder and the smells and sounds folding into the crush of humans feels heavier than guilt.
Unfortunately, we did not speak to many people. Not for lack of trying. Language was certainly a barrier, and translator apps, not all that helpful. Most locals look at your phone screen like it’s speaking Greek. The few conversations that we were able to sustain were with young people. And most of them expressed consternation with some frustration. “Too many rules.” “It’s so expensive. We feel like we can’t live here.” “Everything has changed since covid.” One particular conversation with an older gent, who, along with his two sisters, owned the restaurant we were eating at, eschewed the same concerns. He stated that he did not know how long they could remain in business here and that the city was changing fast. All in all, it was somewhat isolating.
“Conversations kill.” I think Scott might have been high. We missed having them in Turkey. What we noticed and felt primarily was a sort-of coldness. Certainly not in the temperature, but maybe in the current culture. There was a lack of warmth, of intimacy. Almost no PDA, very little touching, handholding, close conversations, hugging. The city moved with a brisk pace, but gave the impression it was primarily about business. Commerce. Where’s the love, man? “Time to take her home, her dizzy head is conscience laden.” So the next step; we are heading for home. Spain. And some hot-blooded Spaniards. And maybe a place to live.