nine

Nine years... where have they all gone? Little did I know when I started this blog that I would find the love of my life, leave the other love of my life— Istanbul— and end up in Morocco with a baby. In the wee hours of the morning while feeding the little one, I was reflecting on how much I have loved sharing my journeys with all of you, and how little of it I have been doing since moving here. It feels like time is just slipping away— and there's never enough of it. Sketching and any kind of artwork seems out of the question, and this has plunged me into a sort of loneliness. Drawing and painting is such an integral part of my identity, that without it I am left with an emptiness.

So I managed to do three small sketches in the past month. It's hardly anything, but it's a start. I've been playing around with some pigment powders that I bought in the medina of Tangier:



Just above is Hamide, a Gnaoua musician who zipped across our path on a bike, down one of Asilah's narrow alleyways, sintir on his back. It was so quick that at first I wasn't sure what I saw— a hunched figure in a striped djellabah with what looked like a guitar— but after turning a few corners, we ran right into him. Hamide was laying out a few items on striped and tie-dyed cloths when he greeted us, which involved placing hats on our heads.



Sensing that I was eager to sketch Hamide, Pedro asked if he would pose for a portrait. With a wide grin he pulled out the sintir, a low, banjo-like instrument of stretched camel skin with three goat gut strings.

Je joue pour le bébé.



A deep, trance-like melody filled the alley, lulling Baby to sleep. Seizing the moment, I drew. At some point during the song, a young man popped out of a door with a plate of couscous for Hamide, which he shared with us.

Nous sommes une grande famille. He explained.

So here we are, nine years later. I've really got to start drawing again. Make the time, get over my new nervousness when approaching people. It goes by too quickly.

seven

Today, Harika turns seven— that's seven years of my life that I've been sharing with you! Twenty-three countries, a stack of sketchbooks that's approaching my hip, and so many delicious meals and glasses of tea. We've swapped çay for thé à la menthe, the Bosphorus for the Atlantic. We've seen the Himalaya, and drawn giant heads on Nemrut Dağı.

You read my stories, and commented on my photos and sketches— something that you reminded me I need to do more of. I'd like to thank you for seven years of kind words and encouragement— teşekkürler, obrigada, merci!

six

Last week Harika quietly turned six. Whether you just stumbled upon my blog or have been a habitual reader, thank you so much for coming along with me on my adventures. I have deeply appreciated your kind words and all the ideas you have shared with me over the past six years. Here's to more drawing, more travelling, and more tea— here's to seven!

five

Today, Harika turns five. It's hard for me to believe that it has been five years already since I stepped off the plane in Istanbul without a plan in mind for the future, a suitcase in each hand. I had no idea on that wet December day, that I would travel to such exciting places and meet so many wonderful people. I never imagined that I would become a teacher and find a family in Nepal, or that I would meet the love of my life over a sketch on the Galata Bridge.

So much has happened and continues to happen, and taking that uncertain leap into the unknown has been the best decision I have ever made in my life. I feel as though I have found so much— things I never knew I were missing. The world is much rounder, fuller now, and I feel so damn lucky. Most of all, I feel thankful.



Thank you for your kind words and support these five years.
Thank you for being here.

four

Today Harika turns four, and my goodness, how much has happened in four years!
Thank you, my friends, for your kind words and continued support.
Here's to year five— may it be sketchier than the last!

three

Three years ago yesterday, I wrote my first post on Harika. I was sitting on the floor of my empty apartment in San Francisco, hours away from a flight to Istanbul, two bags packed and waiting. Today marks my third year here, and it's hard to believe all the experiences I've had, and all the wonderful people I've met.

So here's to bold decisions.
Here's to accepting the possibility of failure and disaster, and pushing through the fear.
Here's to taking a risk and going after everything you've dreamed of.

Thank you, my friends, for your continued support and kindness over these three years!

two years

Two years ago, on the bare wooden floor of my beloved San Franciscan apartment, with the drumming of my fingers on the keyboard echoing in the empty room, I sat, typing the few lines that were my very first blog post.  I had made the radical decision to sell most of my possessions, pack my life into two suitcases and move to Istanbul, a city I remembered fondly from my childhood. There were no plans, only action; I wanted something different for my life.

I was brought up a nomad, and the thirteen years I had spent in the United Stated left me itching for a return to the life I had known; a life of adjustment, displacement and above all, movement. I longed for the challenge of twisting my tongue to a different language, I missed the wonder of learning something new. After spending the last four years of my twenties in the manic grind of the ad world, watching airfares rise and fall online for trips I'd never have the time or energy to take, I realised the life I was living was not what I wanted to live.

I wanted to travel. I wanted to see, smell, taste and feel something new. I wanted to know the world; to meet people and places I would never meet from behind my desk. There were so many questions I wanted answers to— what colour is the Danube in the fall? How does the Barcelona sun feel on a shoulder? What does morning sound like in Kathmandu? Does the Bosphorus still turn that green before it snows?

Two years later, I know that the Danube is a silvery grey, the sun licks your shoulders with a stinging warmth in Barcelona, morning is birdsong, laughter and chanting in Kathmandu, and the Bosphorus is, as I look through the window at this very moment, that pale green. I've had the good fortune of meeting so many wonderful people, and I've been lucky to have set foot on many different soils, but with each step and every new smile, another question arises.

I aim to discover the answer to every question that rears its head, and I aim to eat it, photograph it and draw it. I aim to share my findings with you. Thank you all for your kindnesses, your comments and words of encouragement. It has been a splendid two years full of adventure, and the third promises to be just as harika.

harika turns one

I was sitting on the bare wooden floor of my empty apartment in San Francisco, hitting "publish post" for the first time on my new blog, bags packed, waiting for the airport shuttle to carry me away to my new life in Istanbul.

One year. I can't believe how quickly it flew by— I still don't quite believe I've done it. Tomorrow marks my first day here.

Looking back over my posts, I can't help but marvel at all the things I've been lucky to see and do. While I miss my beloved San Francisco— my friends, trapeze class, and my beautiful apartment, I am thankful to have met a wonderful new set of friends, to have travelled so much this year, and to be closer to my sisters.

To celebrate this massive life shift, I played mad scientist in the kitchen and baked a batch of mini Turkish coffee cakes. I mixed up a mess of sugar, butter, flour and eggs, with Turkish coffee, cloves, vanilla and cinnamon, hoping something delicious would come of it. Baking is not my forté, but I guess this was my day— it's really not bad!

Happy anniversary, my dear friends. Thank you for your support and kind words over the past year. What began as a simple little project to keep me connected with my SF crew, turned into something so much more.

szaza the hermit

I've been a bit of a hermit lately. I'm in this stay-at-home-with-tea-and-thick-socks-on kind of mood. It's perfectly grey out, the best time to read— and I have fallen way short of my 12 books goal this year— but I've been drawing. I'm working on the largest ink drawing I have ever done, and while I've spent well over 20 hours on it, it's so detailed and large that I can't seem to see much progress. Plus, I'm drawing on the floor since I don't have a board or an easel, which is surprisingly exhausting.

Harika's one year anniversary is coming up in less than two weeks— I can't believe how quickly 2009 flew by! I'll have to mark the occasion with a cake or something. I've never been capable of keeping a diary or journal; I always start out with excitement and philosophical wanderings, then forget all about it. This has been the first time I've managed with relative frequency and dedication to document my life. It's been really fun.

Alright. Back to the drawing.