istanbul

December 1994

Listen here my sister and my brother,
What would you care if you lost the other?
I always wonder why did we bother,
Distanced from one, deaf to the other.
Oh, oh, but sweetness follows.

We are Traveling

The train car natives have left us now, three filthy Americans huddling together for warmth on the Bulgarian express. Travis asks if he can remove his shoes and place his feet underneath my arm pits, but none of us can force a smile in this bitter cold. The Turkish border approaches, and I think of dates and apricots and other warm weather fruits, but to no avail. The train car natives have moved on to the forward cabins of this unheated train, no warmer than us, but somehow closer to Istanbul, if only by 40 meters. Those 40 meters, however, might spell the difference between hypothermia and reprieve.

Except for Eric. Eric remains behind in this empty car, faithful to his new friends, but more importantly, further from his destination. Eric wants to stay at the back of the train, as far from Istanbul as possible. As his joint Bulgarian-Turkish citizenship requires, he must enlist in the army once the final whistle blows. The Turks demand a year of his life.

In typical Monument Valley bravado, we at first cheer Eric on, making rat-a-tat-tat motions with our hands at each other like playground boys. Eric looks at us solemnly and says, “I don’t want to shoot anybody.”

We are Eating

We eat in a restaurant where Eric has translated our hand gestures into Turkish menu items. Over coffee and baklava, we talk about our future. Eric turns his cup over onto a napkin and pokes through the grounds with a toothpick. I wonder what he sees.

Outside, a flash of light and our ears pop. The fork rattles on the plate. The water in the pitcher quavers. Eric closes his eyes and returns the toothpick to his mouth.

“What was that?”

“A bomb.”

We don’t believe him. Outside, people run past us, away from the noise, but we are curious and run against them. A pile of twisted metal, the remains of a car, fuel a black fire, and a green open-canopied truck whistles past us, two rows of AK-47 wielding soldiers sitting calmly in the rear. I look at Eric, and those soldiers don’t seem so frightening to me now.

We are Sitting

We are sitting in the courtyard of a mosque near the Grand Bazaar, where we sip cups of apple tea and smoke from 3 foot tall hookahs. Every now and again, a young boy returns to lift the ember off the rose bulb of tobacco with metal tongs and shake loose the ashes. He blows heat into the coal in a way we’ll remember when we board the cold train home. He sets it back upon the tobacco and we each inhale anew, roiling the water of the pipe.

Except for Eric, who doesn’t smoke. Eric has very blue eyes, which contrast with his dark hair and olive skin and broad shoulders. His eyes are too soft for his appearance. His eyes are too soft for what they'll see.