I leave Istanbul in a few hours, and even harder to make it here, is to go away. I arrived almost 2 weeks ago, and exhausted as I was I ended up in Nesli’s b-day party in a little cafe nearby Nese’s house. Last night we went back there, so that I could meet my new friends and say goodbye. It felt like a full circle, there I had my first turkish coffeee read to me, and there I had my last. Lonely Planet would probably not agree that I have been to Istanbul as I have not gone to a Turksih Bath, or to the Grand Bazar, or even to the Souleimane Mosque (it was closed), or many of the other Turkish experience “essentials”. I did do some touristic things, I visited the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Sistern, Sulthanmet. But what I enjoyed most however was walking the random streets and learning about the life of the people I encountered here.

Not the life as we sometimes imagine abroad. Not the veiled and conservative life. I met the activistists, the gay community, the artists, the architects, the painters, the yogis, the musicians. I participated in a body awareness and dance workshop and not understanding the language made me so much more aware of it all. All the while listening to the traditional turkish music and observing how diferently bodies from other cultures move than mine.

I was in numerous cafes and bars. The coziest places I have ever been to. Places like those that you only find if you know someone who knows the secrets of the city. As they are always hidden in little streets, behind staircases, taking an elevator. These places are magical, as behind mysterious doors they exist just a few steps from your awareness. So making it to these places, following those who know them is an adventure in itself. It’s like being given the chance to see other worlds that exist without you knowing about them. And there seem to be so many different worlds co-existing here.

I will write more later. Now i would just like to say that Istanbul for me are the people I encountered. And in this crazy interaction of people making the place, and the place making the people, I found out a lot about me. As when far from what is known looking inside is easier. So amidst a lot of smoke, an enornous human warmth, a contradictory tolerance to difference lies Istanbul. Like that, divided between eurpe and the Middle East. Between the liberal and modern, and the conservative and religious. And by crossing from one side to the other, observing, enchanting, keeping to itself so much of those that pass by here this crazy city creates itself. And I feel that in this incoherent, dichotomous place and space I exist.

Last night I went to the farewell party of a dear friend. One of those people who modify the world around. Someone who causes conflicts, intrigues, conversation, controversy, and for that reason will not go unnoticed. I didn’t even meet him that many times while he was in London. Our conversations were most of the time political. The two of us fighting for an ideal of justice.

Yesterday, at his farewell party, I cried. Not a sobbing cry of despair, but just tears that overflowed at seeing time passing by. A light crying, touched by seeing the world change. And the world, of course, changes all the time. Some events, however, make it more evident. Looking at our discussion forum, and not having seen Henrique’s well-written opinions lately, already anticipated what London would be without Henrique, an emptier London. Even if Henrique was not part of my daily life.

And last night, as I looked at the dozens of people that went to say goodbye to him, I couldn’t help but think about the life of all of us travellers, immigrants, and wanderers of the world. I could not help but think about how difficult this process of saying goodbye is. How difficult it is to restart in every single place, of becoming someone in relation to the other, and then having to leave, or see him/her leave. It made me remember when my flatmates, Leila and Joss, left the house and I was left alone in an empty apartment in New York. It was the same feeling, the feeling of the end of an era. Life as we lived did not exist anymore.

I always run away from these feelings, from these rituals. I didn’t go to graduation parties. I did not care about weddings. Moved countries when my friends were graduating. Not that I was not able to understand the functions of a ritual. But maybe I thought that because I thought I understood, I was beyond them. Yesterday, however, looking at Henrique leave, watching him moved saying goodbye to the people who were his life here, I knew how important these rituals were. Important for all of us. And I allowed myself to cry, because to say goodbye is not easy. Not for the ones who stay, nor for the ones that go. And the beauty might even lie in there: that it is not easy. If we were to leave countries where we lived for years untouched, without a drop of suffering, that would be quite strange. On the other hand, the end of an era always marks the beginning of new times. Resisting this is an enormous waste of time. But to pretend that we do not suffer is also silly. The importance of the ritual is exactly that: of marking. Marking this transition that is not easy, not insignificant, to mark it symbolically.

Last night it was marked. In a bowling lane full of Henrique’s friends it became evident how many people he touched while he was here. How many people transformed him with their ideas, their presence, and their behaviour. And I confess, I thought about not going. I dislike farewell parties. It is much easier when a person leaves without us noticing it , at least it seems easier. But I did go. And today, when I woke up, I thought about Leila and Joss. We should have made a party, a farewell party. Because a farewell party does not celebrate leaving, but our encounter with the other.

Published in Portuguese January the 17th 2009.

I know it has been ages since I last wrote, and I do have a million things to tell. However, a million things to tell easily turn into none at all 🙂 I spent a month in Romania, and I am flying tomorrow to India.

In this post however, I want to talk about a simple and beautiful encounter I had, as I was volunteering at Amrita, a shop that belongs to the Yoga school I go to. I was there trying to learn playing the Tibetan singing bowl, when an old lady came in. I helped her settle down, and left her on her own so that she could look at the books in the shop. After about 1 hour, she chose a couple of books, and brought them over to me. She told me in quite a strong accent that they seemed wonderful. I explained her I had not read them yet, and not containing my curiosity asked her where she was from.

She inhaled deeply, looked straight into my eyes and said “I feel like a citizen of the world. I was born in Poland, but because of the war we became refugees. I asked her whether she was Jewish, and she explained me that she was not (which reminded me once again that many other people also suffered). She explained her father was a doctor that opposed what was happening so they had to run away. The lady was very old, she spoke with difficulty and sweetness at the same time, and once again I felt as if I was entering someone else’s memory, visiting another time, another life.

They went to Russia, they had no money, everything was difficult, and the war was everywhere. Then they made it to Palestine and then to Iran. And I who am fascinated by Iranian culture did not miss the chance to ask her about it.
Her eyes inhaled, went far away, looked inward, as if she had decided to travel there, to that time in history, to visit a place that she had left a long, long time ago. And little by little she started to speak.

“I like Iranians very much! I remember that I was young, we had no money, but my mom decided to take me to Teheran to a cafe. There were many cakes in the window, but we could only afford a glass of milk. The cafe was empty. Apart from us, there was only a gentleman sitting on the far side of the room. We sat at the table so that I could drink my glass of milk and I noticed that the gentleman suddenly stood up and left. As he disappeared the waiter came to our table carrying a tray with a piece of cake on it. It had been offered by the gentleman that had just left. The gentleman had seen me, a little girl secretly desiring a piece of cake, and guessing my wish he had bought it for me. In order to avoid any misunderstanding, or make us feel uncomfortable, he left before the cake reached us.”

Quite moved she smiled, and I knew she was carefully visiting that moment, looking at the cafe, her childhood, her mom, the kind gentleman. I felt quite honoured to share that moment to be there looking at the table, seeing the cake, staring at the girl in her little dress, her joy. In anticipation, and before she took me there I imagined the sweetness in her little mouth, I imagined her tasting very slowly and carefully each little piece of the cake, savouring it carefully, sharing it with her mother. I could see the happiness in her childish eyes… but then she continued.

“My mother was very touched by his kindness, but she could not accept it. She said no thank you, I am sorry but I cannot take it. And as I am telling you this, I feel a lump in my throat. It was one of the most beautiful moments in my childhood. To think that that Iranian man saw me, a little girl sitting with her mom, with no money and he just wanted to make me happy touches me. And that is how I remember Iran, and Iranians. They have the face of that gentleman who wanted to bring me happiness.”

And as I heard her speak I was touched beyond words. First, because I could imagine how much this little girl probably wanted that cake. But suddenly I realized something deeper, that what remains in her mind are far more important memories than that piece of cake. She remembers the dignity of her mother, and the kindness of a man who wanted to bring her joy. And it became clear that the cake did not matter so much. The dignity of her mother, and the kindness and compassion of a stranger are much sweeter, more profound and lasting memories.

I want to talk about two stories in this post. The relation between them is not so obvious, but for some reason my brain linked them as soon as i heard the second story. One happened in the US, in relationship to Holland, and the other in Holland, in counterpoint to India. The common point is not really Holland, but lets talk about that later.

I spent a year studying in Amsterdam, and on the day I was supposed to fly back to NY, to finally graduate, my flight was cancelled. With an extra day Haiko and I decided to do something different. We decided to go to a swimming park. We took the whole day to get there, and when we finally did, the place was full of kids. Small children were running on the wet floor, climbing small concrete ‘mushrooms’, jumping from one to the other. Some kids fell down, cried, but soon enough stood up and started playing again. There were a few lifeguards, but I did not see any of them interfering. I told Haiko that this would have been impossible in the US. There would have been numerous signs forbidding this kind of behaviour.

The following day I flew to NY, and as soon as I got there I went for a swim in the university pool. I noticed a new sign, spread all over the wall. In gigantic letters it said: “IT IS FORBIDDEN TO PLAY BREATHING GAMES”. A bit shocked and very curious, I decided to ask what this sign was sypposed to mean. The young lifeguard told me, with a serious face, that it was very dangerous to cross the pool underwater without breathing. And that it was forbidden to do it in that pool. Wow, i really was back in the US! At first i found it quite funny, but thinking about it later, i realised it was in fact quite sad.

My second story is about a Dutch couple in their fifties, who spent six months traveling in India. They visited many regions, participated in rituals, and took uncountable pictures. Once back in Holland, they showed those pictures in a night of slides and stories. The man said that since his return he had been quite depressed. Naturally, the differences in reality between the two countries were enough for a cultural shock, but his shock was strengthened by a particular event. The man, a university professor, told that once he went back to work, he found an absurd sign on one of the university toilet doors. The sign read: “Because of possible bad smell and annoying sounds, it is forbidden to poo on this toilet”.

When i heard this story, the sign in the pool immediately entered my mind. These signs are not the problem per se. Isolated they are even quite funny. The real problem lies in this trend! How is it that we allow a whole generation of kids to grow up without the right to fall?? How do we allow a whole new generation to grow without being able to learn to stand up, without being able to take any decision without calling their parents’ mobile, without scratching themselves, without calculating risks, without planning? What happens in a society when we displace our responsibilities to others, to the government? Suing everything and all? How is it that we got to the point that a toilet is no longer a place to poo? As if we had to “perfect” ourselves so much, that we would have to set ourselves apart from our vital functions. As if we have to set ourselves apart from our humanity…

The year is about to end and I am here writing my blog. I am with Haiko in Amsterdam after having spent x-mas with his family in Maastricht. I talked to my parents who are in Ubatuba, Brazil, with blue skies and 36 degrees at 5 pm. It is really amazing, I have never spent a new years eve there without at least some rain. Here it is 5 degrees, but it is not raining.

I tried to call my grandma the whole day. I was finally able to reach her now. She was very happy, traveling with 5 friends. As she put it herself, a group of girls ranging form 70 to 80.

My grandma, 83 years old, goes to the gym everyday, takes modern art classes, uses the net, and travels with her friends. She told me they had reserved a table in a hotel restaurant for 10pm. They will take two cabs, so that they can enjoy the night and have champagne.

Then I hung up, quite moved by her youth. And sitting here in the apartment of my brother in law, with not much desire to go out, i got moved thinking of the joviality of my grandmother. I had watched a program about Benazir (the other side of the story), read about the crisis in Kenya, and at the nicest moment of the day I did some yoga, and watched le cirque de soleil on tv.

The year before last year I spent New Year in a buddhist temple in NY. It was different. I had never been there. I did not want to be at a party. Haiko was in Holland, my family in Brazil,and my friends spread around the world. And I went to a buddhist temple. It was nice, I heard legends from Bhutan, and we meditated for peace.

We will go out soon… walk around the Jordaan quarter. We will watch the fireworks. And I wish I could meditate for peace. But with so many explosions this is a bit hard. Apparently they are to scare the evil spirits; to me, a bit ironic.

I find our new years, that do not follow the moon or seasons, a bit arbitrary… but I like the atmosphere of peoples’ new resolutions, and hopes.

I finish this year thinking of my grandma’s joviality. I finish this year thinking of the monk in that buddhist temple two years ago.

To each sound of the gong he said: positive thoughts for those we love…bong… positive thougths for those we dont know..bong… positive thougths for those we dislike….bong… and positive thoughts for all there is….

Happy New Year!