I want to love you madly.

Istanbul breathes.

Every city has a different energy, a different personality. Whenever people visit a new place, they tend to try to dive headfirst into that energy. The try to bathe themselves in it, soak it up, let it fill their nostrils and eyes and ears and even slip under their fingernails. Then when they leave after a week or two, they leave confident that they have fully experienced that place in all its glory.

But the truth is that you can't learn a city in so short a time. It's only after the novelty has worn off that you begin to see the real parts of it, the rough edges and half-finished corners that all of the glamor covers up for the first several weeks or months. You stop looking eagerly into the shops and start looking up at the old, dilapidated buildings that regard you like old men reading a book that is constantly being written and re-written before their eyes. You slowly sense the billions of people who have been there before you. And your relationship with your surroundings shifts. You notice subtle changes in your behavior and clothing. People stop recognizing you as a tourist. The city permeates your very pores. It worms its way into your mind and heart and soul. The city is no longer yours; you are the city's.

Sometimes at the bus stop near school, when I'm tired of waiting for the bus that takes me straight home, I take one of the buses that will take me to the Levent metro so that I can take that the rest of the way back. When it isn't too cold or rainy, I prefer this way because I have to walk down the street and through the metro, and I see more people just living life. Almost every day, just inside the Levent metro entrance (after you've gone down the escalator), there is a blind man selling newspapers. He has a badge around his neck that proves his right to sell his papers, and he stands there holding his cane and a bundle of his wares. He is always speaking softly in Turkish, encouraging passersby to take pity on his plight and reward his efforts. I can't help but admire his dedication; I wish I could give him money every day.

Sometimes, few feet from him, there is a little girl sitting on the ground playing a recorder for money. She always has some kind of case in front of her, wordlessly begging for the spare change of strangers. I feel a surge of pity for her every time I see her. She is so young...perhaps 12 years old at the very oldest. Why is she playing a recorder in the metro for money? She should be at school learning about literature or math or playing at recess. I never give her money. I want to, but I can't bring myself to; I know her parents are pimping out her pitiable sweetness, and I can't contribute to their abuse.

Istanbul breathes in a way so very different from any city in America. It breathes like a sage, a wise being who has seen too much, who has been torn and ripped and loved and hated and destroyed and recreated. Yet it breathes steadily. Istanbul is very much alive. Nashville dozes and smiles like a contented hippie. Indianapolis gazes like a slightly aloof parent. The entire state of California can't sit still. They all breathe, but Istanbul breathes consciously. It has seen so much more. Every breath that it takes is full of the understanding of the gift of life and the temporal nature of every passion, every effort. Istanbul sees sorrow and joy seated alongside each other and only watches. It has seen every terror and every ecstasy, and though it still feels the awe of each, it is no longer a child. A scratched knee is no longer enough to make it weep.

I feel Istanbul pulling me into it, absorbing me. The longer I am here, the more I fall into its arms. It has all of the charms of a lover, and the warmth of its embrace is intoxicating. I feel myself falling in Love. The infatuation has come and gone, and the fervency of a real Love is blossoming. I find myself desiring never to leave it. Yet I feel the pressure of time.

My friend left for home yesterday. The first to depart. Another American, he was crushed. I could see the pain in him as he felt himself being torn away from his new love, his new city. His regret was palpable; he pondered the friends and places and people he was leaving, and I could feel a little part of his heart breaking. I remained cheery in our goodbyes, but inside, my heart thunked against my ribcage, and I felt a chill as I realized that my goodbye is coming soon. The thought fills me with sorrow, yet it also fills me with the determination to return. When in love, I am loyal. I am in love with Istanbul. And it is in love with me, I think...

Istanbul, seni seviyorum!

I will explore other cities, enjoy other places in the next couple of months before returning to Nashville. But I have a feeling that my heart will drag me right back here. I think this is where I belong. :)