Sailing to Byzantium
When my plane landed with a thud in the Washington Dulles International Airport on Monday, it felt as though I was waking up from a wonderful dream. The plane sped off on the runway in the all too familiar race-car like manner, while the passing scenery crumbled in my periphery. Raindrops splattered and spread against the passenger window as I reluctantly confronted that – Toto, I wasn’t in Istanbul anymore.
In the last week, which felt like a lifetime of it’s own, I would wake up each day to the astonishing view of the Istanbul skyline. Peppered with mosques and tightly packed, colorful, apartments, the view from my friends’ apartment didn’t cease to amaze me. Every day, like clockwork, I would wake up, step out on the balcony and relish in the magical city I saw in front of me. Perhaps no other words could come to mind in the face of such beauty, but all I could think of was “It’s just so beautiful!” And I said it every single day.
This place of history and rich rich culture. It could have been overwhelming, but I truly felt…at home, alive. It’s no wonder to me now why this city has drawn such a vast array of expatriates from all over the world; why so many poets have tried to capture it in their work.
Perhaps in a selfish attempt to nurture my post-travel depression and nostalgia, I will try to capture it in my own work.
