Why do people climb mountains?

Just over a year ago, a few friends and myself were having job interviews in Istanbul and one night, gathered in my apartment, we were sharing our best and worst over a few drinks. Between giggles, laughs and gasps of air, someone blurted "I've got a good one." We looked at her with full attention and curiosity. "Why do people climb mountains?" she asked. There was a bit of chuckling and then we started firing answers. Mountains symbolize different things to different people. But generally, they symbolize obstacles and overcoming them, overcoming difficulties and at times mental and/or spiritual enlightenment. Our answers that night were along the same lines.

Recently I climbed a mountain and that night and the conversation we had flashed through my mind and made me think about my reasons. In a sleepy town on the outskirts of the province of Yalova I was finishing off my second cup of tea and third cigarette, enjoying the cool shade after having spent half the day laying on the beach reading Paulo Coelho. Days when I can simply relax and read are few and far between but when I do get those days I relish every minute. After paying, I thought about what to do next. I could go back to the beach and finish my book or I could walk in the opposite direction, towards the mountains encompassing this sleepy town. So, I packed up my things and with slight trepidation I chose the latter and made my way over.

Standing at the foot of the mountain, I braced myself for the hike to come, for the unknown. There was no particular path, no map or guide book. Just a dusty trail that had been formed over the years as a result of weathering and possibly some use. My heart was beating faster and I felt a rush of excitement. I was alone and I had no idea what was going to happen or what I would encounter. But I was buzzing. The unknown was exhilarating. I pictured the hike and reminded myself that with every step forward I was going to leave the past and the emotional disarray behind me. I visualized the end and imagined how much of an accomplishment it would feel like. I wanted to gain control of my feelings and take charge of my life again. I wanted to be that person so bad and this hike was going to help me become that person.

As I made my way up the dirt path I could feel the loose soil crushing under my shoes. Dry leaves crackled as I stepped on them. Tiny stones rolled away with the jerk of every step. Every now and then a slight cool breeze made the humidity tolerable. It felt great as it brushed up against my damp skin. But the path started to incline and my strides got longer in hopes of getting to the end sooner. The muscles in the back of my legs tightened and relaxed with each step. The path became steeper and my breathing heavier. With every breath, I tasted a blend of sharp and sweet smells of the leaves and the soil. My heart beat faster as my lungs filled with air. Beads of sweat continued to roll down my face and my back was completely drenched. I pushed forward. With every last bit of determination, I pushed forward. With the will to prove to myself that I am stronger than I think, I pushed forward. With the hunger to feel something, anything, I pushed forward.

The hike had become more challenging than I initially expected it to be. The soles of my feet felt sore and my thighs were aching. My toes felt warm and raw because of chafing and every time I wiped my face I felt slimy. Even my hands were sweating and it felt like I was just smearing more sweat on my face than wiping it off. There wasn't a single piece of clothing on my body with a dry spot left. The sun was beginning to set and I looked around, slightly worried about how I was going to make my way back. Standing there, trying to catch my breath, I tried to find the nearest patch of clearing I could to take a break. My mind was racing with the thoughts of what I would do next. There was a lump in my throat, my head felt heavy and my bottom lip started quivering. Within seconds I fell to my knees and tears started running down my face. I didn't hold back. I let the fear of not knowing where I was, the pain of my sore muscles and the complete sadness of love lost take over. I could barely keep my eyes open, my eyelids felt swollen and heavy. I was certain my knees were bleeding because of falling so hard on the dirt, but I didn't care. My body was jerking and I was gasping for air, but I didn't stop. It was my release. I climbed half way up the mountain to let go of the pain weighing heavy on me for weeks.

yakamoz

The Bosphorus is a majestic body of water. Not only does it divide two continents, but it is the place for international maritime traffic. It is a representation of history dating back to the 5th century BC. Emperors and Kings have crossed it, fighting for land, and now countries using it for trade, are governed by treaties. On a clear day, the Bosphorus is a harmonious blend of cobalt and cerulean blue mixed with turquoise creating an almost teal blue which depicts perfect serenity in this city that never sleeps.  Sitting on the big brown and grey rocks weathered by the waves crashing against them, by the pier in kadikoy, I'm not admiring the Bosphorus' shades of blue but the sunset filling the sky with gold, amber and honey. The light reflected in the water in front of me looks like a sea of melted copper. Flowing from Europe to Asia.

I find myself thinking about Yakamoz. This is what Turks describe as the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the water. On this warm night as the sky gets darker, the skyline of Topkapi Palace, Aya Sophia and the Blue Mosque are off in the distance, with glittering lights. The moon is patiently waiting for the sun to set. The water between me and there is sparkling. It is simply magical. I sit sipping hot Nescafe I just bought off the guy carrying paper cups and a large thermos. His once black t-shirt is now a dull grey and the hem of his pants are frayed. The shoes on his feet have seen better days. The brown leather is covered in black blotches and the heels are worn thin from use. He has kind eyes and happily pours my drink for 2 Liras. As he walks away calling out to other prospective customers, I think about his life. How must he survive on the money he makes doing this? Does he have a home to go to every night, a bed to rest on, after walking up and down the coast? Does he have a family to support? These thoughts put my life and troubles into perspective. How trivial must my problems be compared to his? I take a sip of my coffee and hope that however he lives, he is happy.

I can feel the breeze get cooler and stronger. A sudden gust of wind crashes against me and breaks my train of thought. I notice the lack of Yakamoz. The water is darker and I can see it getting choppy. The sun has set and I can barely make out where the sky ends and the water begins. The waves are violently slamming into the rocks, the rage is almost palpable, and traces of white froth from the waves are left behind. I can feel the water on my toes and it feels almost icy. How did it get so cold in July? The weather in Istanbul truly is as unpredictable as the people that come in and out of our lives. Most recently for me, a series of arbitrary decisions imposed on my life have left me troubled and aching, quite similar to the Bosphorus this evening. Having been unable to unravel the knot of emotions I am feeling in my heart, I let the rage from the Strait bind me.

playing with magic

As I sit at a restaurant enjoying a cool drink, in one of the many suburbs of Istanbul, I realize certain things about love and loss. On this cool summer evening, as the sun sets and rich amber and gold colors fill the blue sky, I'm sipping minty lemonade and listening to my friend talk about love and fate.

I find it fascinating how everyone is convinced that their perspective about love and fate is absolute. I value advice and I always appreciate it when people share their reasonings about relationships, which is why I am talking about it tonight. Everyone's opinions are invariably shaped by their experiences and I am of the humble opinion that those experiences are always unique. No two experiences are ever the same; therefore, no two relationships are ever the same. Although something is always to be learned from friends, one must err on the side of caution. What holds true for someone does not necessarily hold true for everyone. I know this sounds quiet trivial for me to write, but it's surprising how many people internalize others beliefs and make rash decisions based on them. But, I digress.

On this occasion, as my dear friend shares her thoughts on men and love, I sit back in my chair and reflect on my relationship, watching her brown eyes sparkle with insight as her hands wave out in front of her, expressing the intensity of her words. She leans in and says "Turks have a saying; everything that doesn't happen, is a blessing in disguise". I smile, reach for a cigarette and look out at the street in front of me. A cab is trying to weave through the cars and buses while people, with shopping in their hands, dodge all sorts of moving vehicles to get to the other side of the street. I look back at my friend and she is looking at me with a sense of certainty, confident that her words have resonated within me. She is trying so hard for me to feel better and all I can mutter out is "It will take time".

I realize that people in relationships are similar to those crossing the street in front of me. We are merely dodging heartache, loneliness and the occasional sociopath. My friend starts describing a past relationship, and unavoidably, I start comparing it to mine. But before I slip into an abyss of tears and regret, I remind myself that love is beautifully magical. Great love inspires you and nourishes you. It surprises you and sometimes shakes you to the core. We often learn from it and try to be better. When we lose it we feel like we're upside down, restrained in a water tank. With no way of getting out, we hold our breath hoping our lungs fight through the sharp pain because we can't think past the sheer panic. But love is beautiful. And we willingly dive in every time.

Kadikoy

The first thing you realize as you walk on the streets in Kadikoy is that it hasn't lost its authenticity. The streets are much narrower and lined with cafes, restaurants, butchers and vegetable shops. Stray cats, with discerning tastes, wander the streets looking for the best scraps of meat and fish. They snub their little noses when you throw a piece of bread their way. Shop owners sit outside on small wooden stools, crouched together in a circle, sipping tea and smoking cigarettes, as they read the daily paper or talk about the economy, inflation and football. Every corner has a salon or barber, offering the same services for about the same prices, all of which are flashing in neon lights.

At every turn you can smell the richness of meat being slowly cooked on vertical rotisseries, or the sweetness of freshly baked bread and sumptuous doughy delights. Ever so rarely though will you walk past a woman hunched over a large domed black stove top, rolling out pastry filled with cheese, spinach, potatoes or minced meat. If you come across one of these, take 20 minutes out of your day and enjoy what is known as 'Gozleme', prepared to your liking with a glass of tea. Pure bliss!

The beauty of Kadikoy is that you don't have to walk aimlessly to find what you're looking for. There are streets where you can buy beautifully crafted silver jewelry and tableware with ornate carvings. Alleys where one can spend hours strolling in and out of musty shops selling antiques. Along the main strip is where you find windows glimmering with opulent gold jewelry. The side streets offer a variety of clothes and shoes for sale, meeting every need and trend. Interspersed are markets selling durable cotton sheets and towels, all for the lowest prices.

In the evenings, young gypsy girls and boys walk around playing the 'Darbuka' (a goblet drum) with such fervor that before you know it, your hips and shoulders are moving to the rhythm of the beat. But their sincerity to music goes as far as your willingness to indulge their performance and pay up. Musicians play their instruments in the squares as passersby stop to join in or enjoy the melodious sounds flowing from beautifully crafted Turkish instruments. All the same, what you come across most is people leisurely sitting at cafes at wooden tables with burgundy, yellow and green floral cushioned chairs, enjoying freshly brewed tea or Turkish coffee prepared over coal fire in copper pots.