Still Frames

Excerpts from my travel blog to Turkey Summer 2007:

It’s a lazy kind of day where little white puffy clouds sit on strings and float by your window as you sit contemplating the meaning of life. All in all it is a day where not much is accomplished, the breeze tickles the trees but you sit and drip with sweat. Each word is pried from my fingers letter by letter and every movement forced from inactivity and an absolute need to produce something. 

Beyond the scattering of blue couches and peach armchairs that embrace relaxing counselors and outside a domed window lays the river, beyond is Asia. Red tufted brick houses-- little white cubes with little black eyes and pale rose hats rest on the shores of the Bosporus. Now walking by the river, boys’ run, swim and shout and men fish, casting long lines from the cement shore. Car horns blare and the tires screech as the cars careen around and through the city streets. The city is alive. I stop for a waffle stuffed with your choice of creamy chocolate—hazelnut and peanut butter, white, dark, milk, take your pick, various fruits and candies. The dough melts in my mouth, the peanut butter sticks to my teeth and the flavor explodes banana and strawberry, simply fantastic. I sip a coffee in a Starbucks no less and watch as the river floats bye. It’s Sunday and I’m in Istanbul...

            There are many memories I will never forget. “Robert College Summer” provided one of the most interesting, educational and exciting experiences of my life. It provided faces and images that will resonate with me for the rest of my life. Blond curls, blue eyes, blue jeans, black t-shirt and tennis shoes—I am the white kid from Maine in the Middle East. My thoughts, and my pocket sized cannon camera are my only companions. This past summer provided a snapshot of Istanbul, the cross roads of the Middle East, Asia and Europe. It opened a window into the world that some will never know even exists.

I remember walking along the Bosporus… the river glistening in fading light, leaves trembling in the Mediterranean breeze. The river’s air is cool against hot skin, sticky from a day under a sultry sun. A red and white speckled fishing vessel with steel tussled rigging bounces white froth from the rivers waters. Images are burned into my memory; fishermen flex tall black poles chasing illusive fish and the water gleams.

A short ride on the tram consisted of bumping elbows with ladies in pink and yellow striped headscarves, a little boy with slender digits wrapped about a coke can, a pudgy man in blue striped and kaki shirt. I was bumping elbows with men and women from Albania, Bali and the Bronx. Here I am a white kid from the woods, watching as a striking willow of a woman carries a perky green-eyed baby. A country hick in the city, an American in the Middle East and I never felt alone or fearful. Simple smiles made sure of that.

A mother’s simple headscarf is draped upon her shoulders— she looks up, her dark eyes are pale and mournful in a shimmering summer sun. Her face is smooth, creamy, creased and careful, sure of her place but concerned-- of what I will never know. She is young but worn and tired. Her soft chin carefully tucked and subdued, her cheeks soft, slender. Her face is simple, brown freckles dot her cheeks and there is a slight dimple in her chin. Her lips perked but restrained. Her face is frozen in my minds eye. It’s haunting. Now I search the world for images, more windows to explore as a student of the world. The city’s history comes alive in my memories…

I will never be able to truly to capture the emotion, the truth in Ayasofya, the scope and grandeur of architecture. But I will try and capture the feeling of a simple student exploring a world far beyond his own. A buzzing murmuring washes over my ears as I explore the vast chambers. I find it disturbing, the noise. There’s contempt for those who are there for just another snap shot to post in their photo albums, like trophies to be displayed or hung on a wall. I can’t help but stop and sit. It washes over me, this rumbling, constant noise disturbing a place of peace. And then I can’t help but hear the silence, and in that silence the voice of angels, Mozart’s Ave Maria soaring through the vast chamber. Even in this contempt is a sense of unity—there are countless languages being spoken, Chinese, Korean, English, Turkish, Spanish, Italian, Albanian and they have all come together to revel in a human marvel. And in this human marvel of all the rooms, the columns the paintings I find the ramp to the second floor.

As you walk forward into the hall the temperature spikes, the warm tepid air taking you back through time. The ramp is hewn with stones scuffed smooth from thousands of feet and thousands of years. First the workers walked this ramp their fingers raw from prying and plying the stones into place. Then the priests and worshipers, the kings, sultans their fingers soft from plush living and the peasants hands calloused and brown from living under the sun, and now the tourists, the celebrities and historians fat from hearty living. These stones are markers for the years past. Sick orange light trickles through gray glass windows but it dances upon the gray granite and black cracks. There is no uniformity, each rock is unique, scuffed individually by millions of toes, placed one by one by the workers. Each stone has its own texture. It’s own shimmer and ruffle.  It’s the only place that you feel alone, it’s the only space that you can’t see more then ten feet forward, and it’s the only place that almost feels untouched. The only mark left is a slight stench and the feeling that someone has past before you. It’s almost as though you are alone with history. It’s almost as though you are truly alive...

Through the history, the streets, and city life it comes back to the people. Where ever one goes it always comes back to the children. I’m in Istanbul to work with them, teach them English. But more often then not they teach us. Their faces, ear splitting grins and stuttered English echo in my minds eye. Day one with kids: Hectic, frantic great balls of fire! The kids are cute, their English, above average. The opening day ceremonies bounced us around like a marble in a pinball machine. But I will never forget the moon faced, brown eyed girl who dubbed me “The Hoffa.” Her quiet, bright voice always brought a grin. The children’s affection for each other and for the counselors, their hugs and smiles over rode any early morning doldrums. Brilliant faces greeted us each day with the joy to be alive. The history and the memories that Istanbul provided will resonate for a lifetime. The city lights, the shadow of history and an orange moon reflect in the river. The Turks, their kindness and warmth taught me how to be a better student of the world. Taught me to be a better individual. There will always be more stories to be told, more to write, more to explore, to learn and to live. But for now this is the Hoffa signing off.