nablopomo

nablopomo

Back in December of 1994, our last days walking the streets of istanbul felt like that sublime moment when you find yourself desperately reaching for pen and paper, hoping to record those bits of dreamland opiate you fear forgetting nearly as much as you fear not falling back in step with the dream in progress.

You could filter the city of its imperfections, much as you do for your closest friends, and we were tested, trying to put rose colored excuses onto the detonation of a Mercedes outside the café on our second evening, laying the blame at the feet of nameless extremists, averting your eyes in shame from the women who were not allowed into the mosque while you snapped photos, confessing over too few drinks with too many strangers the kinds of mistakes that might cause you years later to chastise, Love as I say, not as I do.

I find my self-worth reflected in how perfectly my mouth fits over her collarbone, validation in how easily her back arches with so little pressure from my fingertips, justification in how I can control the pace of her breathing with the pitch of my voice against her neck.

How can it be your fault when everything flows so naturally, it would be like blaming the river for overstepping its banks, like blaming the blood red maple for distracting you from the road mid-Autumn, blaming the cold for causing you to doubt a hasty decision to travel too lightly.

Almost wholly by accident, we find ourselves underground, craning our necks to test the dwindling powers of a concrete Medusa, holding up the walls of an ancient cistern until we give way to exhaustion from the banality of it all, yawning, hung over deep inside the bowels of a history entirely too lost upon us.

We have to run for the train, underestimating the length of this city, falling victim to the misperception that all the ancient towns remain constrained being as how they were raised before the invention of the automobile, the running shoe and the energy drink, none of which we carry.

At the station, I find I have more currency than both my travel companions combined, and though it only amounts to roughly two dollars and a train ticket, it is enough to buy one final hard croissant, the entirety of which has to sustain us until we reach Bucharest, having long since expended our cache of Moon Pies and starry-eyed wonder.

Let there be no confusion, however, because in spite of it all, none of us got laid in Turkey, so I cannot in good faith count it among my most favorite trips EVER.