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Old September 10th, 2005, 05:15 PM  
Lost_and_fallen's Forum Picture
Join Date: June 21, 2004
Default Footsteps To The Sky

I didn't write this with the intention of posting it, but I guess I wanted to share a little of my paradise with the people here - everyone needs escapism.
Sorry it's so long, well done if you actually manage to get to the end of it!


It’s the most beautiful place on earth.
The sand stretches for miles, scorching the soles of your feet in the most bitter way, it’s almost enjoyable hopping from toe to toe, trying to still look dignified. Trying to walk in the surf and retain your composure, fighting the regular urges to just throw yourself into the liquid ice screaming with pleasure like a child.
The orange juice is sweet and fresh and thick, the pulp lies upon your tongue scenting your breath.
The hot breeze carries with it the fish from the restaurants, the motors of the boats, the tourists haggling pointlessly with the locals.
Every doorstep you walk past you hear cries from (perfect) strangers of “Merheba!” and “Hello, how are you?”, “Bonjour, cava?” and “You are thirsty lady? I will get you a drink, I think a coke, yes?”.
As you sit on the step of your apartment, you feel enfolded in this simple, peaceful community. You are of it, and it is (partly) yours to keep and treasure forever. Do not shy away from this gift. And the English, French, German, Italian people strolling past watch you jeaously as you chat quite comfortably with the staff of the restaurant, watch on in amazement as you call them each by name and they return the favour. Raise their eyebrows as you aid them in serving and washing up and fixing a light in a power cut.
And you walk with Boncuk and he makes you uncomfortable, but you memory of him is fond as he says “Where are all the kisses?” with a laugh, trying to disguise his sadness. And you can’t help but wonder, in an innocent and not unhappy way if he’s sad because you leave tomorrow or because he’s not getting any.
And yet more tourists block your view of Mehmet as he tries to translate feelings with the best words he can, “he wants to hold your hand, and walk with you...” and you feel your cheeks flush but it’s not visible because they’re red already from the heat.
The jetty seems to lead you further into the sky with every foot step and as you sail from the end, you’re certain you’re not going to hit the water, but simply keep on climbing until you settle yourself on a cloud.
And you’re so proud that all those people in the Cafe saw you swim the opening between the two islands, watched you race a yacht and win, and know that you must’ve been one of very few to accomplish that.
Arriving on your first night and seeing the most stylish waiter of all looking intensly at you, his sleek black hair swept back into a perfect ponytail at the nape of his neck, his dark brown eyes watching you intensly, unblinkingly and you wonder what you’ve done to merit this much appreciated attention. And then for him to reveal that he still has your picture on his wall in his home in Istanbul from when he last saw you seven years ago. He gives you back your nickname of “Captain Laura” from when you single handedly sailed a boat at the age of 6 while he was fishing, reminding you of how comfortable you are here. He takes you out in the canoe, occassionally splashing you with water, provoking you to scream “Sirin, stop it!” at the top of your lungs, making the people on the shore stare as you topple each other into the blue abyss in fits of giggles.
The Captain (now aged 67 but looking no older than 50) brings all his 4 children and 9 grandchildren to meet you because he’s so proud that you remembered him and took the time to find him after all these years.
And Naci sit’s with you waist deep in water and compares the colour of your skin to his, amazed at the difference as you lean on his shoulder, silent tears mixing with the sea as you explain that you only have an hour and a half until you leave for the airport. Struggling with the language, he carefully tells me that sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do, but he’ll wait here, at the same cafe, until I return next June. Hugging me tightly and telling me to write soon he suggests we swim back to the apartment as I look cold.
A kiss on both cheeks from your dearest friends and a few more scorching footsteps (and a pocket full of sand) from the place that feels most like home, and you begin the countdown to next year.
A week is never long enough to live at home.

*...All the possibility and promise just weighs on me so heavily...*
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