ecrive-moi une lettre

I miss the letter. I miss crinkled paper with handwritten words scrawled in ink. I miss curves and points that twist with the emotions of the hand that holds the pen. I miss stamps; each a little work of art. I have decided to write letters again, which will hopefully bring surprise and a bit of joy to their recipients.



Brussels has some lovely letter slots.

la grand-place

Often hailed as the most beautiful square in Europe, La Grande-Place is 68 by 110 metres of utter gorgeousness. I have yet to visit all the squares in Europe, but I must say, this is a very special place. Figures frozen in stone stand on almost every building's façade, golden accents shine brightly in contrast with the grey of the stone and the sky— which is so frequently grey in Belgium. The magnificent Town Hall and its surrounding guild houses mostly date from the early 17th century and offer a glimpse into the city's cultural life at the time.

I remember walking the square with my grandad.
I wore a red shirt, he was in plaid.

remembering

I spent the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth and part of the fourteenth years of my life living in Belgium, and Thursday was the first time I had set foot on its cobblestoned streets in eighteen years. A teachers' training workshop was responsible for bringing me back to this old home. Once the train from the airport started rolling through town, colours and shapes and sky pulled some feeling from deep inside me, that I cannot quite describe. I was an awkward, knobby-kneed girl again, I was timid and curious— I was being carried back into adolescence, back into an old self. 

Memories of my first dip pen, of hopeless crushes on boys, of Claire and Nina, of learning to shave my legs— all blended with the landscape rushing past the window of my train. That odd pain of being between a child and a teenager, ached a little somewhere within me. I had loved living in Belgium.

in stone

bonjour, bruxelles!

beer, popcorn, beyoğlu

Cold beer, hot summer night.
The song of swallows diving into the fading light.
Conversations rise into the air and hang between buildings, losing colour as night arrives.

party girl

we are here

Upon discovering that my internet was out for some inexplicable reason, I began to feel a frustration and a sense of helplessness rising up inside me— I could not call the internet provider myself, as the situation called for more Turkish than I am capable of communicating in. Instead, I chose to stare at the spastic blinking lights on my modem, hoping foolishly that if I concentrated hard enough, the lights would shine a constant green, and I could go back to my normal, webby life. The stare-off was interrupted by the pitiful groaning sound of my doorbell. Muttering under my breath, I peeled myself off the floor and reluctantly tiptoed to the door.

Three distorted shadows curved through the peep-hole with an air of expectation in their postures. I wondered what on earth they wanted from me. I opened the door and was greeted by smiles— one of which belonged to the young man downstairs, and the other two were not yet familiar. Through mime, a flurry of Turkish and about seven English words, I learned that they were my downstairs neighbours in need of adjusting their satellite dish, which of course, happened to be located right off my balcony. I opened the door wider and in they marched, with a curiosity and wonder in their eyes. They peered into my living room, my workroom and my bedroom on their way to the balcony, mumbling things to each other as their heads turned this way and that. Going against my I-can-do-it-myself independent nature, I decided to ask for help, asking them in broken Turkish if they had a wireless connection I might use.

"Hehh... maalesef, yok. Ama komşu—" and with a finger pointed upward, "internet var." I learned from the sweet-faced young woman on my balcony that while she did not have internet, my upstairs neighbours did. I made the radical decision to leave my busy downstairs neighbours in my apartment as I climbed the stairs to ask my upstairs neighbours for access to their network. This was for me, a tremendous exercise in trust. The doorbell rang a bird call, and a friendly, familiar face opened the door. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by smiles, ushered into the entryway and asked to join the family for a little television. I respectfully declined their kind offer, and tried out my weak Turkish:

"Benim internet çalışmıyor— siz internet var mı?" Before I could ask for their password, I was handed a piece of paper with a series of letters on it and accompanied back to my apartment by the son, where he typed the letters into my computer. I clicked open the browser, et voilà! Access. I thanked him with my hand on my heart, and he explained that I could use his network whenever I needed. As he ran back upstairs, I decided to check on the status of the satellite fiddling on my balcony. Father and son continued to pull and twist the dish, while the daughter asked me about whether or not I get bored living alone, and where my family is. I decided to take this opportunity to show them some of my artwork, to give them an idea of who I am; that I am not some sketchy foreigner but rather, a nice foreigner who sketches.

"Ohhh! Çok güzel! Maşallah!" Hand gestures formed that demonstrated how much they liked what they saw. I was then invited to their home to watch television with the family. When asked if I had a television of my own, I replied, "televizyon istemiyorum"— I do not want a television, to baffled looks. Laughter ensued, and a brief conversation was struck between them and my upstairs neighbour who was now on her balcony watching our interaction.  

"O television istemiyor!" This elicited more "ohhhs." I tried to explain that if I watch TV, I wont draw— they nodded seriously, and seemed to understand. After a good while, I found myself alone again, in the doorway of my apartment. As I was about to close the door, a woman in a floral headscarf appeared in my entrance. I did not know her. She smiled, and started rapidly explaining something I could not understand under her heavy accent. I told her I did not understand, and with a look of great seriousness and sincerity, she said:

"Korkma. Biz burdayız!

Don't be afraid.
We are here!

lovely day

A çay on the ferry to Asia.

A feast of cherry kebap, aubergine stew, lamb intestines stuffed with barley and a mysterious kebap with pomegranate sauce at Çiya.

Fishermen on the Galata bridge catch something unexpected.

friday night

Who knew Istanbul had a happening Flamenco scene?
In a bar that took the term "dive bar" literally, with under-the-sea décor and vintage photos of divers hung with reverence upon the walls, a man named Manuel drummed a hypnotic beat with lightning feet. When he danced, we watched breathless, when he paused, we moved.

two weeks

Kathmandu, there are only two weeks between us.
Two weeks until I am home again.

This is the beauty of being a nomad; the concept of home is not tied to a specific geographic location or a handful of people. It moves with and within you, like a pulse. You build a collection of homes as you move.

You find family wherever you meet them.
You find home wherever your heart grows.
You find love.

the sound of sunday

The sun has fallen behind the hills of salmon and sand-coloured 70s-style block apartment buildings, between which every now and then rots a wooden Ottoman beauty. Summer heat, chased away by the growing shade, waits patiently for another day. Sandalwood, paint and ginger blend into my apartment's very own perfume, and I wonder if I carry the scent on my skin when I leave. Swallows sing as children squeal and shout incomprehensible things; it must be about the football match they are playing with great seriousness in the street below. If I close my eyes, beyond the percussion of little feet, I can hear glass rolling on pavement, the low growl of a motor, the cooing of brown doves. A woman is laughing. A door is slamming, another is creaking open. Earlier this morning, I heard church bells among the gulls, and I thought I was somewhere else.

I want more hours of today. I want the sun to hold its position.
I do not want the children to go in for supper.

the small victories

On this fine, unexpectedly sunny Sunday, I decided to tackle the assembly of the dreaded Ikea wardrobe. When I laid out all the pieces of white particle board on the floor of my empty living room, I thought there was no way in hell that I'd be able to put this monstrosity together without a second pair of arms and hands. After three cups of coffee and some peanut butter, I set my drawing aside, turned up my music and got out my screwdriver.

I built it, swore only once and thought, surely I cannot lift this thing; I'm much too small.
I ate some more peanut butter.



My friends, I now have a wardrobe. I only swore three times, I sang a lot, and I feel mighty proud.
Here's to the small victories!

scenes from a stroll

shou helwa

I've been taking advantage of the hot water and home cooking at my mum's house this week, and luckily managed to see my Tante Leyla, who was in town from Lebanon for a few hours before catching a cruise ship to Dubrovnik with her friend. We had enough time for a lightning speed catch-up over a few cups of Turkish coffee and lunch. My aunt is a fantastic reader of coffee grounds. Each time she visits, we go through the ritual of cooking the coffee in its long-handled pot, watching it rise, pouring it into little cups, and sipping it carefully until the grounds are in a glistening, muddy mound at the bottom.

I gulped down the piping hot kahve and thrust the cup into her hands. She flipped it over onto its saucer, set it to dry, and calmly lit a cigarette. When it was ready, she slowly turned the little cup over, raised an eyebrow, and took a long, thoughtful drag from her cigarette.

"Ahhh... shou helwa!" she smiled, and consulted her friend.
"Helwa iktir!" her friend agreed.

In a cloud of smoke and Arabic, I learned that many wonderful things were in store for me. I'll be keeping them my delicious little secrets, as I don't want to jinx the good fortune drawn in my cup. You never know. I am reminded of a quote I read recently by Roald Dahl, one of my all-time favourite writers:

"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it."

soothing frustration

Last week I was in a bit of a foul mood. It generally takes a lot to put in me in a foul mood, but after dealing with the bizarrity of the gas company's regulations and the sloppy workmanship of their hole-makers, I was on the verge of losing my temper. Supposedly, if I allowed the gas company to put holes in a couple of windows and one door, I could then get gas and hot water. It's been about a week and I'm still bathing with a red plastic tub of water heated by my electric kettle. I actually don't really mind the whole plastic tub of kettle water; it's kind of weirdly nostalgic. My years in Cairo were often marked by blackouts and water shortages. I remember filling up buckets and basins with water to bathe with when it wasn't coming out of the shower. Bathing became more of a ritual, every drop of water appreciated.

I decided I needed a good old-fashioned burger to soothe my frustration, so I headed down Istiklal toward the only two "American-style" burger joints that I know of: Dükkan Burger and Mano Burger. After dropping my jaw on the street when I saw the prices at Dükkan, I decided on Mano, two doors down. I sat down, ordered a side of spicy fries and the Ottoman Burger— smoky aubergine sauce, hellim cheese and caramelised onions. I like Mano. They make a nice Turkish take on an American burger. My anger being chewed away into satisfaction and a calmness I hadn't felt in days, I was coming back to my regular self. I noticed a crowd of people gathering outside on the street, staring at something that was just past my line of sight. Suddenly, a mad tune from violin rose above the noise of the city, followed by guitar and drum. I scarfed down my burger, practically threw money at the cashier, and jumped outside to find three men in a spontaneous jam session outside one of Tünel's many music stores.

I was surrounded by people clapping, smiling and even dancing.
I remembered why I love living in Istanbul so much.

a few sketches

1. Taksim Square
2. Istanbul Gar— the last stop of the famed Orient Express
3. Inside the Grand Bazaar
4. An alley way in the Grand Bazaar
5. The gate of Dolmabahçe Palace

starting over

Sometimes you spend hours, days, weeks or months on a piece of art, and it just doesn't come out right. It's tempting to go with it, rather than starting over to get it the way you really want it to look. I've wanted to create a comic of short stories for the past two years, but life keeps getting in my way. I wanted to get back to it, and finish this story I had started over a year and a half ago, but the face was irking me in this panel. As much as I tried to accept the face and move on, I just couldn't let it go. This has to be right; it has to look the way I see it in my mind. Sometimes there's a disconnect between my brain and my fingers, and sometimes all my nerves are firing in perfect rhythm.

I have a long way to go with all the shading in pointillism, but I am so much happier with the drawing.
I've got my fingers crossed, hoping I can get the rest of the panels to reflect what I see in my head.

near and far