I have been thinking about re-writing the first chapter of this story for a while. If you have been reading this blog since the beginning, you'd know that it abruptly starts with a trip from Havana to Buenos Aires. As if I left home for the first time back then, but I did not. Here is how it all actually started:
When I was getting ready to leave Turkey, the first time, I was already booking my return ticket for the winter break. The reason for leaving was to get a western education, just like the high school I
went, to receive the knowledge and come back home. Ensure a good job, secure future, etc. Until then Turks who left for longer periods of time or forever were either exiled lefties or immigrant workers. I used to listen songs about being away, could never figure out why they did not come back once they could. The bourjois always came back. That was what we supposed to do. Talked about their college years in dinner parties when years gone by. (The few who stayed stayed because they got much better jobs, but they never cease to have Turkish friends abroad, listen to Turkish music, read Hurriyet newspaper instead of the local one, everyday.)
That afternoon in 1997, I waved at mom and grandma, thinking I will be back as a prepared potential fashion editor in 4 years. Funny how it did not turn out that way. Not only I did not become a fashion afficionada, but I became an immigrant, a nomade, by choice not necessity, to pursue a life full of adventures, knowledge but not only the western one, and learn to be alone and accept it as a life style.
went, to receive the knowledge and come back home. Ensure a good job, secure future, etc. Until then Turks who left for longer periods of time or forever were either exiled lefties or immigrant workers. I used to listen songs about being away, could never figure out why they did not come back once they could. The bourjois always came back. That was what we supposed to do. Talked about their college years in dinner parties when years gone by. (The few who stayed stayed because they got much better jobs, but they never cease to have Turkish friends abroad, listen to Turkish music, read Hurriyet newspaper instead of the local one, everyday.)
That afternoon in 1997, I waved at mom and grandma, thinking I will be back as a prepared potential fashion editor in 4 years. Funny how it did not turn out that way. Not only I did not become a fashion afficionada, but I became an immigrant, a nomade, by choice not necessity, to pursue a life full of adventures, knowledge but not only the western one, and learn to be alone and accept it as a life style.
My plane is about to land to Istanbul once again, and strangely enough I feel excited to be back home. Though, I am not even sure if this is my home. It has been a long time since I left, so much has changed or nothing has changed but me. I keep asking to my self am I going back for good this time?
Pilot dives towards turquoise waters of the bosphorus, in short I will be able to see the architectural treasures, minarets of the blue mosque and the last palace of the empire watching the city from atop.
Soon I am going to get my Turkish passport stamped while listenning hundreds of accents in the line. I am going to watch those like me coming back, but they are happier than me, they might even kiss the
floor (literally, I saw that happening more than once) and thank god for enabling a safe return home. I admire their connection to a piece of land, but don't quiet understand it. To me home is where I am, or so I thought for a long time.
Soon I am going to get my Turkish passport stamped while listenning hundreds of accents in the line. I am going to watch those like me coming back, but they are happier than me, they might even kiss the
floor (literally, I saw that happening more than once) and thank god for enabling a safe return home. I admire their connection to a piece of land, but don't quiet understand it. To me home is where I am, or so I thought for a long time.
TODAY: I guess home is not 100% where I am. I am back in Buenos Aires, in my beautiful flat, where I have lived for the last 14 years (not always in the same place but the entity itself) but I don't feel complete. First couple of days are usually hard after visiting home, or better said, homes. After being surrounded with so much love, laughs and affection, coming back to an empty home, hits me. Even though I enjoy being alone most of the time, the withdrawal is a bitch. I turn on my computer, getting ready to relax with a cup of coffee, and the universe plays a trick on me as the shuffle picks, out of my 10 thousand songs, this one: Un Jour Sans Toi !
Un peu de brume, un peu d'automne
Presque personne dans les rues
C'est un jour triste et monotone
C'est un jour qui n'en finit plus
D'où vient cette mélancolie ?
Et ce silence autour de moi ?
Ce ne sont pas des gouttes de pluie
Dans mes yeux, car il ne pleut pas
On dirait un jour comme un autre
Et c'est mon premier jour sans toi
A la maison c'est comme toujours
Je mets ton disque sans arrêt
Il y a du feu comme tous les jours
Et le chien qui dort à mes pieds
Il est sept heures, sept heures du soir
Un soir monotone et brumeux
Je suis tout seul, je dînerai tard
Et j'ai mis la table pour deux
On dirait un jour comme un autre
Et c'est mon premier jour sans toi
oooo, back to French, huh?
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