Lately, I’ve found myself wrestling with why I want to go to certain places. There are mixed feelings around seeing some of the sights. In the era of tours for Instagram photos (I’d like to say no judgment but I wouldn’t mean it - if you’ve never heard of them, they’re actually a thing and marketed as such), it raises questions about my own intentions. Am I just going to look at something to take a picture that might make it onto my stories for 24 hours or as a rarely looked at shot in an already huge camera roll? Honestly, sometimes yes.
At the same time, I suppose it’s a way of sharing what we’re experiencing with people on the other side of the globe, so they can revel in my joy of finding goat milk ice cream or at least laugh along with my idiosyncrasies.
While I have gleaned valuable travel tips from TikTok, it also makes me wonder if in doing so, I’m contributing to the erosion of hidden gems. Showing up to a highlighted place so full of tourists that it’s impossible to actually see the place is a stark reminder of the blessing and curse that is technology. I’ve done my best to stay away from all the ‘viral’ places. We walked by a famous (on social media) cafe yesterday where a guy was standing out front with a giant sign that said if you wanted to take photos you had to actually buy something. Fair enough.
Tourist, traveler or pilgrim?
I didn’t know what to expect coming to Istanbul and it has been surprising, delightful, and confronting. We are staying in a lovely apartment overlooking the Bosporus Straight and as I stare out, it’s hard to wrap my head around the history and significance of this city, country, and waterway. Truly the center of so much world history.
“You call it chaos, we call it home” - a postcard aptly describes the initial sensory experience. I love the colourful buildings, graffiti, and flowers and it’s been a joy to walk the narrow cobblestone streets of our neighbourhood. In the evening, the streets are lined with little tables full of people eating, talking, smoking, and drinking tea. Fruit shop, bakery, and restaurant smells mingle with street heat and exhaust to produce an enchanting aroma that’s almost palpable.
The warmth and affection in the way that men greet one another here is beautiful. The looks I’ve gotten for exposing my knees and shoulders or the dismissiveness I receive while my husband does not, not so much. On another note, I’ve never seen so many cats in my life.
The traffic feels tame compared to Hanoi, Bangkok, and Bali. They even stay in the lanes here (most of the time) and use indicators (some of the time). Crossing the street here is a piece of cake compared to what we’ve become accustomed to.
I’m grateful to be back in a walkable city with good public transportation. It was one of the things I missed most while in Thailand, the sidewalks/footpaths were scant and I understand why everyone is on scooters or in the back of a truck; it’s not very walking-friendly. Here we’ve easily cleared over 15,000 steps most days just wandering around.
Compared to the slow pace of life we adopted in Thailand where it felt we settled into a routine and rhythm, we’ve had some really full days. I’ve felt more like a tourist here in Türkiye rather than a traveler or pilgrim, packing a few days to the brim. With only two weeks here, there is far more to see than we have time for. It’s the shortest amount of time we’ve allotted to a country and I’ve decided we’ll just have to come back, it is massive and fascinating and there is so much yet to explore. It’s also cemented in my mind the value of slower travel.
Seeing not looking
Perhaps the wrestling is simply an opportunity to remember that how we do things often matters more than what we do. I’ve started to notice when I’ve been quick to take photos and slow to really soak things in and see them.
In Lost in Wonder: Rediscovering the Spiritual Art of Attentiveness, Esther de Waal recounts a story of Thomas Merton while out in the woods with a young friend. Both had their cameras. Merton reprimanded his friend for “the speed with which he approached things”. He told him to stop looking and to begin seeing.
“Because looking means that you already have something in mind for your eye to find; you’ve set out in search of your desired object and have closed off everything else presenting itself along the way. But seeing is being open and receptive to what comes to the eye…”
Whoa.
The speed and pace with which we do things often impact the quality of how we do them. If I am more concerned with getting a photo or making it to the next site than I am about allowing this one to speak to me, I’ve missed it. Guilty. Not all the time but enough of the time to feel convicted about my tendency toward consumption over connection with places and experiences.
She describes how Merton took photos of things that crossed his path. “He approached each thing with attention, he never imposed, he allowed each thing to communicate itself to him in its own terms, and he gave it its own voice.”
This felt easier to do when our days were more spacious and we had less on the agenda. It may not always be possible to slow down with this kind of attentiveness but I’d love it to be a more common practice, rather than the exception. There are tiny splashes of beauty everywhere and it can be hard to take them all in. But I don’t have to take in everything, in fact, I can’t. I can start by looking around and starting to see the people and places around me in a more open and receptive way.
Taste the sacred
I can do and see less but better. I can adopt a slower pace even when the city is racing around me and the pull to do more is fierce. I can remember that how I approach things is more important than how many I approach and that there is a sacredness in all things if I have eyes to see it.
We tasted this sacredness again yesterday when we refused to look at Google Maps anymore and just wandered around. Unsurprisingly we came across things we might not have noticed otherwise, like an art exhibition hidden inside the original ancient wall of this city, an uncrowded and delightful little cafe, and a stunning sunset by the water.
There seems to be a theme running through these pilgrimage reflections, primarily about how unconsciously I can move through the world at times. And how much more magical life can be with openness and careful attention.
May I embrace practicing the art of attentiveness and intention in how I approach each new place. May I have the humility and wherewithal to allow things to reveal themselves to me, rather than just looking for what I think I want to find. May I remember to slow down enough to perceive the ordinary in all of its wonder. May I truly see things as they are, rather than as I imagine they should be.