Due to the fact that I had about ten days in Istanbul with
the best host family in the world prior to joining Omid's group, I had the good
fortune to have already seen most of the optional sites. So whilst my friends
were all headed for Topkapi Palace, I decided to visit St. Chora Church.
Another adventure all alone! One day I'll learn how to
really share these experiences with another person, but at least for now, I far
prefer to go it alone. And I needed the alone time on this day in particular. I
had made a total fool of myself the night before trying to communicate with a
waiter, didn't feel like I was upholding the expectations of the ART\Islam
team, and was feeling generally lonely. I was about fifteen days into my
travels, and was finally coming to terms with the fact that it would be a very
long time without Ian's insane laughter, without my mother's hugs, without antics
in the kitchen with my dad, without Emily's tender and unwavering support,
without Merle's expertise, without James' often hilarious commentary and
encouragement. It made me very sad. Travelling is my very favorite thing. I
like who I am when I'm abroad. But jumping between casts of characters, to have
people in your life for just a few days at a time, can be hard. As much of a
loner as I am, I really love my friends and family.
So, some alone time to calm myself was much needed. I headed
for a cab, requested a ride to Kariye Muzesi, and headed on my way. As we began
the drive, I looked at the meter, which was set at 15 TL.
"Are you going to set the meter back?"
My driver dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
"Please set the meter back."
"It's broken. Where you from?"
And we proceeded to have a lovely conversation in English
about the charms of Istanbul and my reason for being there. By the time we
arrive at the church, the meter is at 25 TL.
"25 lira please."
"No. You didn't set the meter back. Here's ten."
Furthermore, I had taken a taxi to Taksim the night before, which is about the
same distance if not further, and it was only ten. So I knew I wasn't nuts.
He pushes my hand back and starts rambling loudly and
angrily in Turkish.
"You didn't set the meter back! I'm not paying 25
lira!"
This only leads him to raise his voice and gesture angrily.
I shove the 10 lira in his hand and begin to get out of the cab.
"American bitch! American bitch! Get out!"
I slam the door and he speeds away. Residents of the street
are watching me with a sort of disgusted interest, and I nearly burst into
tears on the spot, ready to allow myself to melt into nothingness and flow
between cobblestones into the Bosphorous. I walked toward the church, trying
really hard to hold my shit together, when tears start rapidly leaking out of
my eyes. I sit on a little ledge outside the church and pull it together pretty
quickly, before calling my mother (costing me a lot of money and cementing me
in her mind as an eight year old), who quickly makes me feel at least a little
better.
I pay, and enter the museum/church. They have a lovely
grassy area with flowers and benches, and I look forward to hanging out that
after going inside. I have the pretty awesome idea to get Mimi (my mother's
mother) a rosary while I'm there. I decide that this will be a good trip.
Whilst inside, I listen to some Eric Whitacre on my iPod, and survey the
frescoes depicting the Virgin Mary's life. Once again, I feel deeply touched
and feel another ginormous wave of emotion coming on. Looking at the depictions
of the annunciation of her birth to her parents hits me hard for some reason,
and I stare at it for a long time. I decide to take some pictures, and before I
can even get to the part depicting the life of Mary, my camera dies. In the
moment, this is a profound blow to my fragile composure. I move into the gift
shop, ready to purchase the rosary for my grandmother and pray it out in the
garden.
Not a rosary in sight.
And that's the end of it. My lips start trembling and my
temples do that weird tightening thing when you're about to cry. I push my way
outside and ungracefully make my way to a bench, where I plop down and sob for
about ten minutes. There's an Italian family trying to take pictures a couple
of feet away from me, and I feel bad for killing the mood, which only leads me
to cry some more.
It was about 4:30, and the museum was closing. I headed for
the café across the street, ordered some tea from a clearly concerned waiter,
and let the sun dry my face. It was in this moment of post catharsis relaxation
that I realized I had a video camera and an iPhone with me, and easily could
have taken photos with them. Drat.
Instead of rushing back to the hotel, I sat at the café for
about an hour. I wrote, I people watched, and drank as much tea as my little
heart desired. I watched the church and tried to imagine it as it would have
been a thousand years ago. Contented, and feeling quite a bit calmer, I caught
a cab back to the hotel.
God granted me the grace of a kind cab driver.
No comments:
Post a Comment