The red dust swirls up around our ankles as we step on the deserted street. It’s still dark and we’re yawning like you only can when it’s 4 am and you’re not still up, but already.
As we walk towards the rental place, I feel my heart beating uneasily in my chest.
A little girl greets us with a smirk as we approach. My stomach rumbles audibly as she asks “You want two?”, pointing at the motorcycles.
When I left for my semester abroad, I was full of anticipation to spend five full months in the exciting city of Istanbul. A mere three months later – after having struggled with sexist police officers, stone-hearted doctors, indifferent university officials, after battling the language barrier in a million confusing phone calls, after tantrums, crying fits and endless hours of conversation deep inside someone elses’s spiritual abyss, after all this incredible madness – I left the country as a desperate mess, looking forward to nothing more than hiding from the world under a blanky at my parents house. A recapitulation of What the fuck. Continue reading
The Giramondo 