memories of a city

Ok so I kind of stole that from Pahmuk, but it seemed fitting.
I am entering the last days of my time in Istanbul and reflecting on my experiences here and around... rather an overwhelming thing to try to 'process' (for want of a better phrase). From watching turks straddle their Gelibolu monumental canon to develop my own standards of offensiveness in the gaze of men around me (a staring turk is acceptable-- a staring german tourist is filth, somehow!) I have certainly come a long way in getting used to the ways and manners of the city.

This becomes even more apparent when I step outside the city as I have over the last few weeks. Barcelona seemed outrageously international with its hoardes of backpackers and English language signs and menus. London's bus drivers drove me crazy with their pointless and petty sarcasm and everywhere I walk seems empty by comparison with this city of 21 million people.

Being a tourist in another country is a strange experience also because I realise I don't know anything (dur)-- the language, the culture, just how to manage myself. It is pleasing but also sad to realise how much I have learnt in Turkey and how homely it feels by comparison to other places.

I have discovered a newfound respect for nationalism. For a possessive approach to one's 'women'! And when the Turkish bus drivers on my bus to Greece bought me breakfast because I had no euros I was in love all over again with the absurd generosity and warmth of the working class Turk.

The first time I went overseas (south east Asia like most good Aussies of my generation) I was struck by the possibility of another way of life. That there were people whose daily life and broader social structures and ethos were completely different to mine.... and they kind of worked.

Living in another country (and such a vibrant, beautiful and sometimes crazy one) has given me this awareness all over again and on a different level, and I am so thankful for that.