I admit it: I have a problem. I tried to fix it. I tried to do it in moderation. But then I thought, fuck it. Some people have children, some people have big houses. Everyone has a thing, and as far as things go, mine is not so bad.
My thing is traveling, and I am hooked.
I am. I don’t care what it says about me anymore, except for the environmental impact which I’m trying to be better at (did I mention I don’t have kids?) I know it’s impractical. I know it’s not what adulting is supposed to look like.
“Settle down,” my dad said to me the other day, in one of his famous de-motivational speeches. “Find somewhere that’s yours. Get some nice furniture.”
I do like nice furniture. Living out of a suitcase and dragging a schnauzer around is a pain in the ass. But when I compare the joy and fulfillment I get from travel versus what I get from nice furniture, I think we can guess what wins.
Yesterday, I made a big breakfast, with all the fresh cheeses and olives and bread that Jimi had helped me buy. In the afternoon, I put in my headphones and let the nice Google lady steer me to a nearby park. We passed a few suspicious street dogs, but I have gotten good at being fierce and intimidating (to street dogs, if to no one else). We arrived at this giant, walled-in stretch of grass and trees, something out of a film, with ponds and cobblestone pathways and stone bridges and ducks.
It went on for miles.
Django an I walked to one of the ponds, and sat down next to a giant tree. A street dog (park dog?) came over, her tail wagging slowly. She dropped her head, so I gave it a scratch. She closed her eyes. She snuggled up to my leg. Turkish people are generally very kind to street dogs, but I don’t know how often they get loved.
The three of us sat together for a while, me scratching her, her drinking it in, Django watching the ducks. Then, apologetically, I bid her farewell and we walked back home.
We passed an important looking mosque, which was also walled in and had these stunningly ornate metal gates. I wondered, as I always do: at what point in history did we in the West decide to make functional things look so… functional? Why do doors and gates and fountains and hallways made long ago (or in other parts of the world) seem to have been constructed with much more reverence? I’m sure this is a privileged statement. But even the working classes homes in Montreal built 100 years ago are made with so much more care than condos and modern houses of today.
Speaking of Montreal, we walked back along what seemed like the Decarie Street of Besiktas, a jumble of odd shops and businesses and street eateries falling over each other, none of them cool or trendy or glamorous. So many people we passed, even the young guys with their cigarettes and their buddies, stopped to say hi to Django. He is like a universal connector, bypassing demographic divides, confirming once again (like his park buddy) why dog is god spelled backwards. How lucky are we to have them on this earth with us? Why can’t they be the ones making the decisions around here?
Then I went to the supermarket. I got a bit lost on the way. I made dinner. I read Nora Ephron. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except I was paying attention.
I take solace in the fact that my root spiritual teacher, Namgyal Rinpoche, took his students travelling all over the world in the 60s and 70s and 80s for this very reason. Travel alerts us up to all the tiny moments of beauty we forgot to pay attention to in our daily lives. It gives us the grace to stop and stare. To watch people and wonder: where is that guy going tonight with his two bottles of wine? What about that girl with her glittery shoes? It nudges us awake. It reminds us that we are not here forever, and in fact not here for long at all. And in these difficult times, I feel like tuning into those moments is more important than ever.
A note about traveling alone. It can be stressful and tiring and, yes, dangerous. It is also, for me, one of the best expressions of self-love. When you get to spend the day doing exactly what you want, seeing what you want, and stopping and staring at what you want without having to justify it to anyone or ask for them to wait up: that is the perfect date. So being here feels like having a love affair with myself. And I neglected that person for a lot of years. I gave her energy away to a lot of people, because I thought that would make her feel whole.
Now I know better. So I’m making up for lost time. The nice furniture will have to wait.
I am so starting to look forward to these little thought postcards from you from Istanbul. Should you consider continuing on for longer from wherever your thoughts and feet take you, I’m signing up.
Your writing is so seemingly effortless and real and full of the details that make me feel like I’m seeing the world through your eyes. There are so few “travel” books by women, let’s change this.
My mother brought me up to feel afraid of the world: it’s taken me a lifetime to overcome the fear but I’m working at it. Thank you for showing what courage can look like, mixed with joy and struggle and the beauty everyday moments and connections can bring.
Very enjoyable. Something to look forward to. Thank you for sharing.