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 di
stant; 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
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 di
stant; 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
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