I am sitting in a hostel cum internet cafe, on the terrace over-looking Istanbul’s Bosphorus. I am drinking a small hourglass-shaped glass of Turkish tea, no sugar, as the air turns fuzzy with dusk. I am over-hearing snippets of hip, young, international travelers with tattoos and square thick-rimmed glasses and white cardigans, and beer. They are speaking of their tactics for world travel. How to navigate the bazaar. How to avoid the tourist-traps. I am glad I am not them.
I am glad I am rocking it mad style with my mother-galavanting through spice bazaars and Turkish baths and river-restaurants and mosques (does one really ‘galavant’ through a mosque?). Glad we know each other, mom & I. Don’t have to talk. Can just listen.
This ancient place has no time for bar talk, no time for silly tourists ‘philosophizing’ about what it all means, to think they know its stories. Just listen.
I am so glad I can travel without talking about traveling, so glad I can cut short my blog posts so I don’t miss the setting sun, illuminating a skyline, gold glinting off a thousands year-old city.
