Note: I wrote this two weeks ago.
Leaving always puts me in a philosophical mood. By now I’ve lived in, and left, three cities in the past three years. In the days before I leave, I try to do and see everything and everyone. But it’s not enough to see everything once–I must see everything and everyone in all their possible aspects. My friends for kahvaltı. My friends for drinks on the Bosphorus. My friends for meze at a meyhane. The Bosphorus in the morning when it sparkles like a precious gem. The Bosphorus at dusk when it swallows the light and becomes iridescent. The Bosphorus at night when it’s a mass of rippling blackness. Galata Tower from its base in Karaköy, and from a distance across the water on the Fatih waterfront, and from a rooftop patio. The next door kitten when it’s awake and playful, and later when it’s curled up asleep with its mother.
Then the problem becomes prolonging that moment, that moment you know is finite but which has to satiate you for who knows how long. I’m on the ferry, transversing the water that divides East and West, while the sun sets. I’m arrayed with friends around a cafe table, friends who are about to scatter to different points on the globe, who knows when we will be reunited. I’m in the Hagia Sophia, communing with the light that filters through its profoundly sacred and beautiful space. How do I “make the most” of those moments, other than being there? Am I appreciating the moment enough? Will I miss an important aspect? Will I regret something?
It all becomes impossible and untenable, both in that moment and existentially. There isn’t time in life, much less in the one week before leaving, to see everything you love, in all its aspects, for a truly satisfying amount of time. That’s the human condition, and leaving reminds me of that.
Photo: my final visit to Hagia Sophia.