Right now, I’m back in Spain. Tonight at dinner, which ended at 11:35 p.m., I chatted with my host dad in Spanish about GMOs and learned his lock screen is a high-resolution photo of Mickey Mouse. Yesterday, we ventured to the mall for the first time, but the bus dropped us off on the other side of the highway with no way to cross, the shopping center taunting us from one metro stop away. Tomorrow, I’ll go for a long walk along the river and get a coffee — here, they always put cinnamon and cocoa powder in the foamed milk. But last week, I visited three continents.
I did not expect there to be a direct flight from Málaga to Istanbul. Neither did I expect to ever find myself on it. But then last Thursday at midnight, I was hurtling down Turkish highways. The driver who picked us up from the airport was blasting music at the inhumane volume favored by the 8 a.m. Ram Van drivers, though his song was an English-Turkish number with the refrain “hips, lips, eyes, thighs” (“Sab Gazab,” for those Turkish-music-curious). We got out of the car at 1 a.m., physically buzzing from the bass. Welcome to Turkey!
My roommate, Alice, is the exact person you want to travel with. In her planning excitement, she had somehow found a boat ride on the Bosphorus strait for Friday morning. The only direction they had given us was a close-up photo of three ATMs, which could’ve been anywhere. We ended up being the last guests on board, the boat which pulled away the second my foot left the dock and landed on the bow. It was immediately clear that Alice had stumbled on a €32 gem. On the upper deck, we were served pears and cheese, nuts, tea and luscious Turkish coffee. The strait divides the European and Asian sides of Turkey, and the guide peppered our journey with historical facts. When they let us off on the other bank with our sea legs, we were eating yogurt in Asia at a shop that opened in 1872.
A (privileged) consequence of a weekend traveling while abroad is the absolute necessity to shove everything possible into two or three days. In Turkey, we walked upwards of 10 miles each day and visited every monument, mosque and market that caught our eyes — the three M’s. I walked into the Grand Bazaar, a covered street market, behind a man in a floor-length puffer emblazoned in all caps with “If you don’t fight for what you want don’t cry for what you lose.” I’m still wondering what shopping goals he had that day. A vendor I bought earrings from said “don’t take [sic] wrong way” and grabbed a fistful of my blonde hair. Every shop had someone standing outside, eager to attract gullible American clientele, with shouts of “yes please,” “sorry we’re open” and “I am here!” We bought scarves from a man who told us he’d met Jimmy Carter, “not lie [sic]!” To our surprise, he did in fact have a photo with Carter.
Inside the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofia, we tied our headscarves and took off our shoes to experience the incredible beauty and history of the mosques. Surprisingly, stray cats were allowed in with no restrictions. It’s not every day you walk a hallway from the sixth century with your roommates. I took pictures of a woman who positioned her phone exactly how she wanted me to hold it and made me retake them three times. She then declined to take our photo. One night, we got drinks at a rooftop terrace situated directly between the two beautifully lit-up mosques. I’ve been buying postcards at every stop and for some reason, every single one in Istanbul was coated in glitter. Over the course of those three days, I had more hummus and pita bread than I will likely ever consume again.
Before a week had even passed, I was fighting for my life on a boat to Morocco. Having never gotten seasick, I arrogantly disregarded their advice to purchase Biodramina, Spain’s Dramamine equivalent. We were supposed to wait in a Moroccan customs line on the boat, but I was more focused on surviving the trip than worrying about having my passport stamped. White knuckling the table and gripping my friend’s hand, I made it through by assuring myself I’d avoid sea travel in the future. When I stepped off the boat in Africa, my third continent of the week, I felt like a 1940s sailor kissing the ground.
In Morocco, we were traveling with Fordham students through our program. We drove hours on winding roads in a tour bus that should never have traversed those switchbacks to make it to the “blue city” of Chefchaouen. In this precious town, every inch was painted in a vibrant blue. Stray cats and gorgeous decorations cut through the hues and stood out beautifully. We got to eat lunch with local families who graciously opened their doors to us and served the most delicious food and Moroccan mint tea. After lunch, my host took us shopping through the winding streets to find authentic stores with her favorite goods like perfumed oil, natural pigments and hand-woven blankets. Later that night, after a traditional Andalusi music concert, we were served dinner in an old mayor’s home, though we were still completely stuffed from our bountiful lunches only hours earlier. On the drive home, our guide used the bus microphone to lead a sing-along, complete with the driver drumming joyfully on the wheel with both hands.
In the span of only nine days, I visited two of the most culturally and historically rich countries I have ever experienced. I spent my days highly caffeinated on Turkish coffee and Moroccan tea, blessing me with wide-open eyes and cursing me to blurry photos taken with shaky hands. On the choppy boat ride back, I couldn’t help but think that this trip would’ve been made easier if Pangea had lasted.
