Things I Didn't Know I Loved

it's 1962 March 28th
I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
night is falling
I never knew I liked
night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain
I don't like
comparing nightfall to a tired bird

- Nazim Hikmet, from Things I Didn't Know I Loved

I was sitting in my university library last week. Everyone was scrambling around, looking at all the EFL books and materials, when I found a massive photobook called Konstantinopolis'dan Istanbul'a. From Constantinople to Istanbul. I grabbed the book, sat down at a nearby table, and heaved it open. Inside, I saw a picture of Beşiktaş from the 19th century. There were a few Ottoman-style houses scattered across sparsely forested hills. Where were the crowds? Where was the traffic? The stained, crumbling, soulless apartment buildings? They were absent. And in their absence, I realized something important. I grabbed the nearest teacher by the arm and gasped, "Look! Beşiktaş was a park!" She nodded, and walked off with her grammar books.

Why was this so important to me, and not to anyone else? They had all seen pictures of Istanbul in the past, but so had I. I had looked at similar pictures before and thought, "Wow, I bet Istanbul was cool back then." The difference this time was that before, I was looking at the crown jewel of one of the world's great empires in it's glory, impressive, but distant; this time, I was looking at the history of my city. At that moment, Istanbul's history became my history, and I realized that I'm finally home.

Why was it so difficult to see this for the last three years? I've been thinking about that for the last few days, as I've been sitting in Sofia, waiting for my work visa to be processed so that I can return to Istanbul, to my home and my job. I think I've found the answer. Istanbul could never be home to the boy who left Ohio 3 1/2 years ago. I wasn't ready for a home. I was ready for gothic cathedrals, for biergartens, for espresso mornings and jazzy tobacco evenings. I carried my Americanness with me to Europe, and I kept that image of myself: quiet, reserved, bitter, hopeful, wanting something better, but unwilling to adjust my definition of good. Coming to Istanbul was a shock, and I raged against it for the first year, accepted it in the second and came to secretly love it in the third. But admitting that love to myself was tantamount to admitting that I was no longer the boy wearing the tweed jacket and fedora who stepped off that plane in Philadelphia 3 1/2 years ago.

But I admit it now, as I begin my fourth year.

It's a funny feeling, you know. Home is what most people are born with. But I've grown into mine, as it's grown into me. I may not live in Istanbul for the rest of my life, but when I think of home, I'll always think of my dear, dirty Kadıköy.

Belki tanışmak zor, iyi anlaşmak zor, peki görüşmek çok mu kolaydı. Çok kısa bir zamanda belki birazda zorla, bence gayet iyi de anlaştık.

I'm heading to the consulate now to pick up my visa, then I'm jumping on the train home. It's been a long week, and I miss the city I never knew I loved.

Aaron

Oh... Beautiful Day.

Some of you may have seen the comic strip in my wallet. There are three panels. On the first, there is a dog chained to a post saying, "I start every day believing today is the day I'll be unchained." In the second panel, he says nothing, but stares blankly into the sky. On the last, he says, "Oh... Beautiful Day."

That comic strip has been in my wallet for the last 3 1/2 years now, and it's been pulled out at pubs in at least 10 different countries, as I drunkenly try to explain the significance. "Lookee, friend! He zhush doeshnt give up, you know. Like you and... like me! We'z zsush differnt. We'z shtrong."

However, the point really is, I believe, that although the dog knows that he won't actually be let free, he hopes for it every day, and that hope keeps him happy.

Well, I guess that's a lot like me and Istanbul. Even as I was packing my bags and jumping on that train to Bulgaria, I knew I'd be back here. I wanted to get back to adventure, to new and exotic places, to freedom. However, I didn't firmly believe that I'd be able to stay away, and I was right. In the end, as I was stumbling drunkenly around BAPHA, waiting for my job to begin, I got a very important email, and I had to make a difficult and adult decision, (Yeah, me! Adult decision!). I chose to forgo Bulgaria and come back to Istanbul for my career.

Özyeğin University, a new private university here in Istanbul (opening in September) offered me a job, and I'd have been a fool not to take it. Basically, this rich philanthropist, Hüsnü Özyeğin, has decided to open up a university and is determined to make it the premier university in the region (Eastern Europe and Middle East). To this end, he's investing A BILLION DOLLARS of his own money, purchasing the best equipment money can buy and hiring the best teachers he can find (not yet sure why I got the job). And if he succeeds in his goal, my being one of the founders of the EFL department in such a cutting-edge university means my career is set.

So, here I am, starting a fourth year in Istanbul. Got a few mixed-feelings about it, but I've already met a lot of cool new people at the university, and the year's already starting out really well. I even went on a short holiday down to the south of Turkey with one of my colleagues, Anna. She's Armenian, but she's more LA than any American I've ever met.

I'm going to start my DELTA (Diploma for English Language Teaching A...something)in October, which is almost equivalent to another M.A. Maybe this is what I need. A serious job, a career, a work permit, stability... I guess it's about time for those things.

To that end, I went and rented myself a fantastic apartment, and spent way too much money at IKEA. Bloody IKEA... It's in downtown Kadikoy, with a fantastic view of the Bosphorous, like none I've ever seen. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right.

I'm putting down roots, God help me.