Sitting here I think I should travel like this always. This is so comfortable. I'm sitting here listening to Martha Wainwright. This might be better than a warm Saturday morning at chez moi.
Finally, after so many years, I'm sitting on a flight and scribbling. I've been waiting to write an epilogue to this trip- perhaps just after I write the bloody summary. But my epilogues have a nasty habit of jutting into the fray, of plotting the novel before it's been written.
And so this is it. What is this trip? What has it been? When do the sights fit in?- among the people, the smells of strange cities, sometimes pretty bad, like my laundry in Istanbul after it came back supposedly clean.
I think the trip took off, I mean really took off- well it seems so unfair it took off at this one place. In Edinburgh, I remember laughing looking at the scenery, 'maddled' by its beauty. In Glasgow, the moment the sun burst into Kelvingrove Park on Sunday afternoon was special, quite special.
In Istanbul, there were two moments, maybe more. The fourth day being led, around Istanbul, I realised Evrim was feeding me the city in little bites. It's a strange feeling, being a big baby. That day ended with me eating stuffed mussels at 2:00 am in Taksim in Istanbul.
The next day we wandered through the spice and sweet market in Istanbul picking and choosing among the many varieties, eating while we pretending to be only tasting . Sometimes I find myself somewhere, in the middle of something doing things I cannot believe I'm doing and I cannot believe it is me, there, in that place, doing that, living that experience. That was the sweet and spice market for me.
Berlin was all that- three days of mayhem, good mayhem.
I haven't, I haven't, I haven't - and now I have- what? what's happened?
What is it about a great trip that makes you feel changed that way?
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