an itinerant observer

I didn’t think much of it back then - Konya. A few days carved out from a longer trip. A loosely held plan. But now, years later, I can still recall how it felt. Getting to Konya wasn’t easy, or at least not emotionally. I took a ten-hour overnight coach from Gaziantep. It wasn’t just a geographic shift. It was me, testing myself. Years ago, on my first trip to Istanbul in the late 2000s, I was mugged; trapped, manhandled, left shaken . That experience embedded a quiet anxiety whenever I thought about returning to Turkey. But this trip was different. I needed to reclaim something. I wanted to prove to myself that I could be in this country, move through it alone, and feel safe. And I did. Nothing happened. Not in Konya, not elsewhere. That, in itself, was a kind of healing. Now mind you, Konya wasn’t dramatic. There was no thunderclap, no burning bush. Just presence. And silence. Not empty silence, but the kind that listens back. I stayed two nights. Walked between Rumi’s tomb an...

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...

The sun was rising just beyond the cliffs along the sea coast. I was out for my early morning jog; nothing unusual about that. I was making my way along the harbor towards the docked sailboat Sofya. Although the man on deck had his back to me, I could tell from the ponytail and the cigarette smoke that it was him.   It was intriguing that I was able to smell something as specific as Turkish tobacco amongst all other olfactory stimuli at the harbor.   Without turning around Mehmet greeted me. "Salaam-aliekum my friend”. "Waaliekum-assalam. What are you up to?” "I’m fixing her sails”. He said in a rather matter of fact manner. “How long have you been sailing Mehmet?” “As long as I can remember. At times, I think I might have been born on a ship .” “ Why do you think so?”   “ That's the narrative I prefer. I was  born an orphan. I don't know anything about my biological parents. I was found abandoned outside a small orphanage in Ko...