On the ferry

Life is short

I’m at the park working out after last night watching the match. This morning, I woke up groggy and questioning myself. I wondered whether I made the right decision to go out and drink.

But I made the memories — next to the British folks at the pub, then at the local bar, watching the game. I got to be there drinking and rolling cigs with locals watching their team win in the biggest tournament in the world.

Life is short. We won’t be here forever. But I’m here now, sweating it out with tears in my eyes, because the light filters through the trees, and the breeze is sweet, and others are out here too taking in the fresh air and pushing themselves, too, and the golden leaves fall, and the little things don’t matter, don’t matter at all.

We’re here. It’s all about the little things. It’s all beautiful. I had fun last night. Made epic memories. Nothing wrong with that.

I just want peace (plus cats)

My friend showed me a video from a podcast where the host asks a Buddhist monk — I think he was — if he’s happy. The man responds, I’m not trying to be happy. I want peace. And I told my friend that I agreed. Because we can’t really choose to be happy. What is happiness anyway?

But peace — peace is moment to moment experience devoid of conflict. And mostly, that is something we can create, even amidst a challenging time. Well, I’m pretty peaceful right now.

I’m in the hills of Cihangir. It feels like I found the pocket. Lively cafe after cafe full of locals going about their business. Took me almost two weeks to find this. Yet I’m somewhat near my hotel, just up in the hills, having turned right instead of left. I’m following the cats. Been photographing them, and it’s been a fun game. Setting them against backgrounds, checking obscure places where they might be. The cats are everywhere. You can’t go 15 feet without seeing one.

There’s French music playing from the cafe. Indistinct foreign chatter fills the air. It’s perfect fall temperature, mid-sixties. Stylish people stroll by continually. I have no actual problems. Things get to me. I’m facing some challenges personally, and I’m doing my best in this life. But nothing life-threatening. Nothing serious. And I’m so grateful for that. This is my happy place. A cheerful pocket of the world, where life goes on, with or without me.

A dog just came over and scooted under my legs. The owner mumbles in Turkish and chuckles. I’m at peace, and, well, I am happy. Fueling my curiosity, drinking coffee, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette on a small table in the afternoon in a vibrant neighborhood (I don’t smoke cigarettes at home, but when in Rome).

I love small wooden tables on sidewalks that you find in squares around the world. Sit, have a coffee or a beer, and watch life go by — my favorite form of entertainment.

Leaves rustle and dance in the late October wind. Some little kids are kicking a soccer ball through the middle of the intersection. It’s kind of nerve-racking, but they’re local and seem to know what they’re doing. This neighborhood feels like Lisbon. Hilly, animated, pastel buildings, soft light, the warm glow of cafe lights, which mean so much when drifting, not knowing where to go.

They shine all around, some twinkling like a starry night, some resolute, like well-established hearts, shining, shining, all around the world is shining, shining in mystery and shining in love, shining in pain, shining in courage. Cafe lights remain shining, a place for broken hearts, wandering souls to rest and gaze, take peace, for they are shining, too. Isn’t it enough to sit here and shine? I do love it when the clouds roll in.

The Clarinetist

Out of the shadowed street
Walking down the middle of the road
A man in a brown leather jacket, shirt and tie
Slung over his shoulder is a clarinet case
In his hands a black clarinet
His hair is slick, his mustache thick;
He looks as though he’s done this many times
He plays melancholic music, beautiful and simple
And I may be the only one who watches from my table
On the sidewalk, I sip a beer
He plays with no hat collecting tips
I think he simply wants to play
He does so over the crappy bar music
And I’m transported to another time
A time neither of us knows
He finishes
I clap, and he smiles, then plays another tune
He continues down the road, walking slowly, and I hear
The clarinet, faintly now
A memory of music
Fading in the night

Tattoo

It’s my last day in Istanbul, crossing over to Asia to get a tattoo. This city’s been good to me. And I to it. The smell of chestnuts and roasting corn pervades the port. The reflection of the sun beams off the stones.

There’s something miraculous about watching the birds from the ferry. They must be playing, sailing on every wisp of wind; the sea so blue, tinged with green, the color of adventure. It’s a perfect day. Temperate, wispy clouds, boats and sights of intrigue all around. How there’s a tunnel going under the river, I just can’t understand. But we’re passing over it, cars beneath me — what a planet we live on. Birds, something so ancient. And below there’s an underwater tunnel.

The dude at the tattoo parlor who looked angry, or cool, or dark, brought me a Snickers bar after six hours on the table. God, how badly I needed it. He was actually very kind. They all were. I did it. Going back over the river. Lightning illuminates the distant sky — orange, purple, rain on the way.

It rains through the night — rain, just as it was when I arrived, book ending my trip.

Homeward bound

I’m on the way to the airport. It’s a rainy day. The driver is driving fast, but he’s clearly in control. I enjoy the satisfying thud of the stick shift moving; gray, damp skies remind me of Germany, Europe, and I think of my favorite things: a crisp day, fresh air, a forest, a road, somewhere out there. Thoughts of home. I smile, excited.

The Turkish airport is solid. You go through security right as you enter. What a blessing to have this passport. The world is open to me. This thing fills me with a lot of joy; the pages fill with stamps, and I’m reminded of a computer game I used to play.

I forget precisely what it was, but in it I traveled the world, gathered stamps. I’m living that life. I love this life. Being in an airport, the vastness, the steel and marble and glass; walking around with nowhere to go; strangers ask me questions (do you know what time my plane boards? Do you know where the smoking area is? I guess I look like I have answers). Coming and going, never ceasing. I stop in a bookstore. I stop for a bite. Perhaps the most important thing I own is this passport. It’s freedom. Everything else is just stuff.