|Hagia Sophia, Istanbul|
Looking at my last post, I feel like a pensioner who has just traveled the world, had his fair share of new experiences, and secluded to his life of fishing off the dock, waiting for the next fish to swim by. No, not actively seeking fish or anything, because that would involve participating in life, and that’s not something I can endorse in my current state.
It’s like you have a few grand adventures, and then they just become memories. And for me, that means fading memories. I have a terrible memory and probably always will. I should take those Omega3 vitamins sitting in my cabinet specifically bought for that very reason…
That’s why I write and take pictures, because chances are in two years, this will all be a blur.
On our last day in Turkey we were running late, as usual, and we were on our way to catch the coach bus to Thessaloniki, Greece. The trains weren’t running at that time for some reason, so taking a bus out of the country was our only option. Some how – “some how” seems to be the defining term of our trip. If it didn’t happen unexpectedly, it didn’t happen at all – we found our way to the Istanbul bus terminal and were greeted by a lack of buses. So being the tourists we were, with our rather large packs strapped to our backs, we wondered aimlessly around the parking lot, panicking because we needed to be on an international bus in about five minutes. That’s when a very nice Turkish taxi driver approached us and explained that the buses were hidden behind the large obstructions called ‘buildings’, and we had to ‘walk around them’. I know, crazy right? Anyway, we started a light jog to the closest tunnel through the building, with the clock ticking down. The platform that we needed was around one-hundred and twenty, and we were at platform… one. After more panicking and light jogging we jumped on the correct bus, with snacks in hand and time to spare.
We sat down and got ourselves situated at the top and very front of the lovely double-decker coach bus, we stopped panicking and breathed easily. The driver started up the engines and took off. As soon as we started moving a man came around to collect our tickets. I reached into my coat pockets, and I looked at the man with wide eyes. “Oh shit, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Each spot I checked for the ticket got me more and more panicked. Of course I couldn’t understand the tall Turkish man, but he looked pissed. It must have took me about 10 minutes – felt like 10 hours – to find my ticket, sitting pretty in my main carry-on bag. I thought I was about to be thrown off the bus, and there it was in the most obvious spot.
After that I got pretty freaked. On a good portion of the bus ride, or at least to the boarder of Turkey (about three hours) I just kept thinking about how I wasn’t going to remember anything at all when I was much older. That none of this even matters because it would all be erased soon enough. It’s a funny feeling when you embark on a grand adventure, only to think that none of it will be felt ever again. That’s why I think writing and recording is so important, because we never know whats going to be around the next corner. But if its recorded at least you have a fighting chance at being able to return to these great places, and feelings somewhere down the road.
Even now I can close my eyes and step back into my shoes, in Venice eating gelato, sitting on a stone bridge with Alyssa, overlooking the canal. As we sit and talk, a man pulling a dolly with brown packages loaded on-top struggles to overcome every step of the bridge. Do not ask me why it would be so hard to implement a simple ramp for these poor fellows to get across these small bridges gaping the canals though. I can remember it so vividly. Like I am still there if I concentrate hard enough. It’s sad thinking that this wont be possible in a few years.
For now I wait for September where I can begin school again, and try and remember the things we saw our grand adventure.