Thursday, March 20, 2014

I HAVEN’T WRITTEN MY BEST STORY YET


Kathmandu days passed almost like a dream, every dream, every story had an end, and it is not a good ending every time.

Those 4 days in a city we didn’t know, weren’t used to the smell yet we felt like we belonged there.  For someone who felt like a stranger in her own life this was very hard. I was asking where I was, who I was, what I was doing when I was back home, it was harder to feel welcome in a totally strange country, strange city.

I had never called anywhere home.  Because I always found something that didn’t belong to me or the idea to go always hunted me.  I left the house I was born at the age of 7 before even I could understand the idea of home.  All the next houses were temporary, and I am still constantly moving around.  But on a far away sea shore or among the mountains, or under a big tree or on a side off a deep cliff or in a new restaurant I have felt home.  I tend to feel odd things in odd places.  I am not afraid of the heights but I cannot stand somewhere too high because I have the feeling I might not be able to stop myself from jumping. 

I will not tell every single place we went to in Kathmandu, go do it yourself.  I will rather tell you a very complicated, weird dream.

2 sisters and a couple from Spain, a Cuban dance instructor, an Indian computer engineer a Chilean industrial engineer and me.  The couple went to Istanbul once and asked me the recipe of stuffed mussels so I told them.  The Cuban dancer asked us to join his dance class to check out and that there is this one and only place here that is open after midnight.

We went to a salsa class, watched the upper side of Nepal dancing salsa, where people on the streets die uf hunger.  We went to the Reggie bar had mojitos, which were the best we ever had.  After some mojitos I was dancing bare foot to “Sweet home Alabama” and people were calling each other with the names of their countries. So I was the Turkish girl, the French guy was drunk, the Cuban guy was dancing and I felt home somehow.  I wasn’t drunk, I was comfortable, I didn’t have a care in the world. 

I sold my 500 hundred page Turkish books to a bookshop convincing them there will be other Turkish people coming here, got one book instead, which was forbidden to be published in Turkey. Having a croissant in the café on top of Kathmandu, buying wet wipes from the store, talking with strangers everywhere, talking to my husband on the phone and hearing him say the house is waiting for you, I am waiting for you, not understanding what he was saying, sleeping in the hotel room, getting gifts for my loved ones, I kept feeling at home.  A home that wasn’t mine, wasn’t in me and far far away from me...

 

It turns out that home was in me.  I was a turtle.  An old, sad, tired turtle who carried around her house on her back.  I slowly walked to the airport.  Say goobye to friends, for the hundredth time maybe,  left my home for the tenth time maybe, left my for I don’t know how often...

 

A long hard trip, my sinuses were stinging like needle when I tried so hard not to cry, boarding passes, luggage,  enters, exits, security checks, an absolute mango from the freeshop later, the piece of my heart that I had to keep insists on beating...

 

My home is on my back, it will be there, always.

I see a stranger, not knowing what he wants, cannot see me, walking hardly, breathing barely... Who is this man?

 

The rest is a dark night mare, one you know is dark but you cannot remember for sure, one that tears you from the inside.

 

Standing in the middle of an empty , ugly room that used to be my living room for the last 8 years, my head is spinning, a little vodka a little jack, a song is playing;

If my heart is still beating

I will not stop, I will not rest

If my head is spinning, let is spin

If something is leaving

I will not stay...

 

So I won’t stay...

This is life, if you are still in it you have to keep moving, put the pain, betrayal, damage, injustice behind you and move on...

 

A new story starts where the old one ends.

I have not written my best story yet

This is where it all ends and where it all starts.

This is point zero.

 

Goodbye

Hello...

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

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