The longer I’ve lived in different cities, the more I understand there is a common thread that connects them: a cosmopolitan crowd, a constant cacophony of all the life around you, the phantom of history echoing from the buildings—this city, whichever one it may be, was a Muse for many before me and it will continue to be long after I’m gone. What transforms a city from just another one to a favourite, a city you’d want to write about for a test post, then must be memories. My favourite city is Istanbul; my fondest memories are in Istanbul.
I remember walking on my own for the first time, waiting for the metro, having a city open up its secrets to me as I walked. I remember the first time I’d gone on the red tramway, a centennial by that point in its career, groaning at the labour of ceaselessly carrying all that weight for years. I remember the first time I’d heard the Eine Kleine because the busker playing the piece knew it was bound to attract audiences. I remember, perhaps most vividly and longingly, however, the ferry.
Unless it is cold enough that I cannot feel my toes, I will do my best to sit on the top of the ferry, where the wind cradles you as you hear the waves lapping, creating a foam such that Aphrodite might emerge at any moment inside her shell, the smell of iodine is gently making its way to your nose. Swaddled by the sounds of conversations melding into one gentle lullaby, you think you must have found Time’s pocket and there you can find shelter until the ferry’s horn breaks the spell and the journey is over for now.
