It did not rain while I was gone. Not for eighty-six days. And yet I still remember the day when the floods, they came. But they were floods not of water, but of happiness; floods that I never knew to exist, floods I never thought possible until the day that I arrived in Istanbul.
It was the end of June. Summer had only just begun. It had been almost three months of traveling and it has been five months since and yet I can still remember my coffee in Istanbul. I remember the ceramic cup in which it was served with blues more blue than the Bosphorus laced with red and white and a handle so delicate that I had to lift it up from its rim in fear of shattering its beauty. I remember the flakes of coconut that fell from the Turkish Delight onto the saucer that matched this cup and the sweetness that they contained.
If I close my eyes I can still taste this coffee on my tongue: strong and bitter and almost as hot as the sun that shone without clouds in the sky. I can still hear the language of the land being spoken all around me and the call to prayer that echoed from Asia to Europe and back again across the sea and across my soul, which until this moment had never before known this peace. I remember how I used to stand still and listen and remind myself to breathe for in these moments my very breath had been taken from me, every other emotion but happiness had been taken from me and I wanted none of them back. Just this. Just happiness.
If I close my eyes I am back in Istanbul and I am happy.
In Istanbul I was happy.