Fall 2011. Istanbul, Turkey
More tourists at the Blue Mosque. And chestnut sellers and roast corn. The Hagia Sophia, and then a glass of tea from a small boy in a vest and a hat, like I imagine on a monkey. With sugar it smelled like bitter roses.
The air smelled like rain. Dirty puddles reflected dark clouds and tired faces.
In both places, I think I was meant to feel splendor. But I felt cold. When I looked up at the great domed ceiling all I could think about was the people who built it: their hands and their backs, those stones and those lintels.
Christian, then Muslim, then museum. Constantinople, Ottoman Empire, Republic of Turkey. Impermanence; even in a building so old that paths are worn into the marble.
Which is the trouble with monuments, mostly. By the time you are allowed to be there, their day is done.
Your prose is so quietly evocative. I love these images. I too have wondered about the people who built the old and towering buildings here in Europe, the sweating and aching and endless piling of everything by hand.
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[…] I did not want to see any more monuments. “We could look for Turkish Delight,” Z said. “It is supposed to be the best in the city. Maybe the world.” […]