What you do on a Holiday™️
So, I took the first adult vacation paid by myself for my 30th. I know, the sheer privilege of parents who pay for vacations abroad is mind-boggling, but I’m the only child of separation so I feel like it’s the least they can do.
Vacations are a great way to get away from it all. And, I did. I got away from it all. I didn’t open my laptop screen for the two weeks (okay, maybe I did twice), I replied to work messages curtly, every time I got sucked into a vortex of I must do this or this is pending, I got pulled into the 90th stimulus of the day by way of a sculpture exhibition, a fluffy hypoallergenic Persian cat I could actually cradle on my lap, an excellent cup of cortado, the pavements which looked like two-lane highways, trendy 20-something hipsters in bucket hats and bootcut jeans with piercings and flaming red hair, older men catching several anchovies with enviable dexterity and indifference towards their skill, the deceptive calmness and blueness of the Bosphorus, the uncanny similarity in the whiffs and scents of the city and the glaring differences evident in its excellent urban planning, the wealth reflected in the public transport system, the heated marble at a Turkish hamam and all the other trappings that come with when you can escape what you know.
In this new shiny place, nobody knows who you are. As you lug your body around, the one that’s still struggling with the inevitable weight gain, successfully avoiding thinking about how you’ve spent 3 decades on this planet but still aren’t quite sure how taxes work, are yet to invest a single penny and often forget to dry yourself after showers. 30. That age where everything begins to catch up, or feels like it will, or society reminds you that it certainly will sooner rather than later. Your boyfriend notices fine lines around your eyes and you laugh it off but inside, you’re smarting. No matter how much you diet or workout, you gain the pounds so you fuck it and eat an ice-cream at midnight because everyday is a tough day when you have a job and bills to pay.
But, when you’re on holiday, all of reality as you know it seems to fade away, a glimmer in the distance, a chore for later.
Nobody in this new city knows about how you were 25 and much hotter, although definitely way more dumb. You can subsume yourself into the variety of crowds milling on the streets, gaze at paintings, well up while reading about Kemal obsessively collecting commonplace objects that belonged to his beloved, Füsun: her white pearls, yellow dress with flowers and a lace neckline, ticket stubs, half-drank Raki, three cups of Turkish coffee drank in anticipation, movie posters, a white silk scarf with yellow daisies, a gallery of women who cheated on their alcoholic husbands and had their photos published in the Turkish newspaper with their eyes blacked out, a steel iron like the one your dadi used, a collection of fine-toothed combs made of wood, ivory, and plastic. You think of the manipulative sentimentality of it all and you cry. You didn’t cry when your you lost your grandparents or right after a cruel break up but here, you want to sob. There’s a young couple taking selfies with the half-drunk Raki so you resist the urge.
Your hotel is located right across from a brothel (and a laundromat, thank god) and although, it’s a 4-star with luxe rooms and friendly hotel staff, most nights as you get to your room, you witness transactions of the purest kind. Women in short dresses and no underwear parade up and down the street lit in halogen blue as you feel a wave of relief before collapsing on your bed. Big cities are hard and they knock you down even when you’re just passing through. You can turn up at a club where nobody knows you and marvel at the German influence in the space-disco/techno music the DJ plays. Later, you chat with him in broken Turkish and learn he wants to come play in your city. The world’s made up of contradictions and stunning similarities.
When you end up at a fine dining restaurant not dressed right and the waiters look down at you, it’s funny, an adventure. It feels less like an attack on your socioeconomic status, more a nod to your rebellion. You go to more art galleries and take artsy photos, locate the artists on IG and tag them. In this new city, you could be someone who knows and gets art. On your birthday eve, you can’t get any bookings for dinner so you end up at a sushi restaurant with a stunning view and eat too much sushi while two Greek girls seated so close, you can see the bumpy texture of their skin beneath their make-up, sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you. You’re like, “fuck, people just want to be loved.” You go to another bar, people stare at you, maybe you stare at them. Either way, everything feels like it’s bursting at the seams with possibility.
You pet so many cats, you notice how the cats here are more affectionate than the ones where you live. Perhaps, it’s you who’s more affectionate though.
You drop your pretensions and go for a live concert of a pop band. You barely drink and sing out loud— two things you always thought could never happen without the other. You climb up fortresses with majestic views but what gets you is a moment on the street that feels like a tableau.
A half-finished çay, coffee stains on a wooden table, a bike helmet, a crushed packet of cigarettes.
You go to the countryside, phallic structures made from volcanic stones with bright red flags with white crescent moons, flying proudly atop them. You go for a hot air balloon ride, 3000 feet up in the air, packed in like sardines with 20 other people but what gets you is the nightguard at your hotel. An Afghani man, Hazara you presume, who helps you open a wine bottle even though he’s never touched a drop of alcohol himself, who practises his English while reading Tolstoy and copying paragraphs from it while crossing out the protagonist’s name and adding his— Bismillah Faizi. Your heart breaks and you don’t know what to do.
The moments that get you are the ones where you sit down, tired, after a trek and a mountain dog snuggles up against your leg. Or, when your early morning flight is delayed by 3 hours and you eat cheese toast with salami and coffee outside an airport smaller than the Shimla airport and equally beautiful as cops packing serious heat gather in groups drinking their coffee and smoking endless cigarettes. A cop who looks like a Turkish James Spader sizes you up and you think of how it would be creepy if it wasn’t so absurd.
By day 10, you’re so spoilt by the good coffee that even an average cup tips you over the edge. Your best friend braids your hair on a ferry on the Bosphorus and you feel like you want to remain in the moment forever.
But, you can’t. The last day inevitably creeps up on you, bringing with it all the hysteria and anticipation of something good, ending. You throw a fit, so do your co-travellers, the roads have too much traffic, the bars are packed, but you make a night of it anyway. You pack your suitcase in a drunken haze at 4 am, convinced you’ve forgotten something behind and grab the last coffee and croissant before you’re thrust into the unforgiving, clinical desperation of an airport.
The security takes your jam and pickled chillies away, a local specialty. In your drunken haze, you forgot to put them into your check-in luggage. On the flight, you think of the muck you’ve been mired in non-stop for two years, how if you liked you could hold onto the glow of the last two weeks for at least six more months (no harm in trying). You come back with the shitty grin of the asshole who’s had way too good a time and you avoid everything that’s normal to you for as long as you can.
📷 Abhay Puri
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