an itinerant observer

I recently revisited One Hundred Years of Solitude —this time through Netflix’s lush adaptation. The series swept me into García Márquez's Macondo with its breathtaking cinematography and meticulous attention to detail. Though decades had passed since I first read the novel, its spirit of magical realism, woven into Colombia's historical fabric, felt familiar. The cycles of time, the endless loop of beginnings and endings, reminded me of Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence, the whirling dance of Sufi mystics, and Taoism's tranquil acceptance of life's flow. But the truth is, like the insomnia plague in Márquez's Macondo, the story had faded from my memory over the years. I don’t know if my first reading of One Hundred Years of Solitude in high school truly shaped me. Perhaps it was that novel, alongside The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende and even The Lord of the Rings by Tolkien, that collectively left their mark. It wasn’t until last week, while watching th...

Gullibility was my middle name. Till I met Erdogan.   I met him, or maybe he met me, in Istanbul. I had been in Istanbul for just a few days. I was staying in a small inconsequential hotel close to the famous Istiklal Street. Travel to the most fascinating cities thus far was attributable entirely to Ash. Her work-related conferences would be held in lovely resort-type settings and I was not entirely reluctant to tag along. Given a good book or two, my laptop, and my thoughts, I was pretty much a happy camper.      The trip to Turkey was no different. Within the first few days I had already read my book, caught up on my biomedical research writing, and mulled over the intricacy of life; the requisites of any trip with Ash. By then I had also toured the aromatic Spice Bazaar, the majestic Topkapi Palace, the resplendent Blue Mosque, and the breathtaking Haga Sophia. The descriptors were not mine; they were per the tourist’s guide. On the fateful day, I had n...