Curled on the sofa in a cosy apartment, I am gazing out the window onto the Bosphorus. It’s a cloudy day, but it’s warm in the bright and airy sitting room. I can see Topkapi Palace and the Blue Mosque, Aya Sofya and Galata Tower. Across the waterway I see Asia, though I sit in Europe. Ferries speed between the two continents, and fishing boats dance in their wake. A small island of a cruise ship is parked in my sightline, little ant-people walking swiftly along its upper decks. I can tell it’s cold outside because they're all wrapped up in their black coats or brown jumpers. Every time I look up from my little computer I am awestruck. But it makes me a little sad, a vast contrast to what I left behind in India.
When the wedding came to an end, I decided it was time to make a move – let Wardah adapt to her new home without the incursion of a blonde. Fortunately, I didn’t have to move far. A high school acquaintance is currently living and studying medicine at the Gujarat University in Ahmedabad, so I hoisted my backpack into the back of a rickshaw, crossed the river and found Komal’s apartment where I spent a few days rejoicing in the sound of familiar language (and even more exciting: an American accent), Mexican food, and shopping. In a previous blog I mentioned how lovely it was to be a part of a home again, and how staying at Saleha’s house reminded me of the family I’d left behind. Staying with Komal was a reminder of some of the things I loved about college life, and what I’d left behind in my Boston apartment. I painted my nails while watching a cheesy Bollywood romance. We gossiped about boys. We ordered Domino's, delivery. We went down the street for chocolate frappes at Cafe Coffee Day (think Starbucks, but half of the price and a quarter of the quality), where I plugged in my laptop and pretended I had work to do. I could get used to this, I thought and watched days fading away. Sadly, the end of my visa loomed ever closer, I knew I was simply procrastinating a big decision. What do I do next?
I had several options open – a journey northwards to Nepal for beautiful mountains and trekking in the Himalayas. A hop skip and a jump to South East Asia for more Buddhism and Full Moon Parties. Or a flight Down Under to catch up with family, rent a van and travel the coastline. But with my funds dwindling I saw this as an opportunity to put down my backpack for a while. My clothes on a shelf. My toothbrush in an empty cup by a bathroom sink. My dirty laundry in a hamper. Maybe invest in a French press and give up Nescafe. Lay off the muesli and curd breakfasts and indulge in Honey Nut Cheerios. Maybe find a route for running, a park for lounging, a market for shopping, or a quaint cafe for chatting over coffee. Maybe even find a job?!
Fortunately, you can do most of these things from anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, as a Gemini, decision-making has never been my forte. I agonized over it. Was I ready to give up my nomadic lifestyle in exchange for a bit of stability? Would I regret the return to normality? And perhaps more importantly, where would I go? The easy answer was “go home,” – return to the nest to save some money, use the family French press, follow my old running route, and drag Mum to the Stop and Shop when I was out of Honey Nut Cheerios. I could look for a job in New York and inevitably somewhere along the line something would turn up. But that idea just seemed too easy. I wanted to keep challenging myself. I was just looking for a new challenge.
I toyed with the idea of London or Sydney, where I could utilize friends, networks, and connections I had to help find a job, a nice neighborhood full of like-minded people, and an apartment where I could have a hamper and a toothbrush holder. This held some appeal, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew that this was an opportunity to live somewhere I a) I never saw myself ten years ago, and b) I don’t (necessarily) plan on staying for ten years. I hope one day I’ll live in London. And I will continue visiting Australia, where I have family, for the rest of my life.
I realized that the best way to maintain a bit of my nomadic existence was to park myself in the middle of the accessible world. A place where flights to Europe, Africa, and Asia weren’t inconceivable. I considered Eastern Europe, Greece, or the Arabian Peninsula (Dubai? Muscat?), but concluded I wasn’t really brave enough to show up in a place where I had absolutely no solid ground to land on (metaphorically speaking, that is). In desperation, I began reflecting back on the blogs I wrote in the beginning of my trip, I remembered how much I loved the city of Istanbul when I visited. It’s wonderful amalgamation of east and west, modern and ancient, familiar and exotic. And a best friend with an apartment overlooking the Bosphorus! It was perfectly obvious and quite irresistible.
After a few wavering emails, I finally hankered down and booked a flight. I sent Gill a copy of my confirmation, “I did it!” I wrote, “I’m coming to Istanbul!” As always, she had the most appropriate response, and sent me the following quote:
“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.”
-Goethe
I felt myself breathe sigh of relief. A huge burden was lifted off my shoulders, and made it a goal to reach Mumbai before my flight (ambitious, I know). The last few days in India were some of the most difficult I encountered on my, knowing that I was coming to the end of my travels, at least for a short while. I had to head north and stopped on my way in Barusch, a small, old-fashioned Indian city in Gujarat where Saleha’s uncle lived with his four children. Filled with donkey carts and crumbling buildings, it's on the up and up because of its prime location between Mumbai and Delhi. Half the city was a reminder of old India, the other a construction site, with new roads being built, and high rise buildings scarring the landscape and annihilating cobbled streets and old concrete houses. Though it was a lovely respite, India wasn’t prepared to let me go without one final bout of infirmity (this takes the count to four stomach-related illnesses in three months), and I spent most of my time bedridden, drinking eating dry toast and rice.I was miserable. Suddenly desperate to escape the oppressive heat that was beginning to build as India moves towards monsoon season. Angry that the country seemed to be driving me away and making it very clear it didn't want me anymore. And disappointed that the last few days of my trip would be spent feeling sorry for myself rather than able to appreciate what I’d come to love about the country. It was quaint, but after four days I was well and more than ready to get down to Mumbai and the big city.
My last train ride in India was yet another example of the magic of the country. I sat in my chair watching Shah Rukh Khan dancing across my Netbook in yet another fabulously flamboyant musical scene in what otherwise seemed like a somber Bollywood flick (it was in Hindi, making it impossible for me to fully comprehend the plot). Occasionally I peered out the window, where the landscape morphed from fields and agricultural land to the vast expanse of the Mumbai sprawl. I kept trying to convince myself that these last few days were going to be a happy end to the trip. But I couldn't help dreading them. I'd already been to Mumbai, seen the sights, and now I was here just wait for my flight. I was disappointed in myself for not being more ambitious with my last few days. I should have gone to the Taj Mahal, perhaps the most famous building in the world. I could have gone back north for a camel trek through the Thar Desert that I'd been invited on with a friend. But I even now if the offer still stood, I wouldn't take it. I was exhausted. Emotionally and physically drained.
Towards the end of the journey, a Manchester accent assaulted me from behind. I sighed. I didn’t want to meet anyone else. I didn’t want to have futile conversations with foreigners about what they were doing in India and for how long. I just wanted to get to my hotel and for the remainder of my trip make attempts at sneaking into posh hotels to use their swimming pools (yes, I'd actually spend a good time thinking about this, to the point where I had noted several in from my Lonely Planet, making sure each had a spa, pool and basically a way to escape from anything remotely cultural).
How foolish, I reflect. India wasn’t finished with me yet. She a few more tricks up her sleeve.
When “Bob” as he asked to be referred (terrible choice of a pseudonym, by the way, Bob) and I struck up a conversation we immediately hit it off. Once past the silly details, we were quickly discussing everything from Sufism to Man U, the economic crisis to Israel and Palestine. He offered to take me to my hotel with his driver, and we decided to meet up later for a visit to several of the shrines in Mumbai. So much for ignoring culture, I thought. Once again, India was throwing me for a loop. And I was beginning to get the idea she wouldn’t let go without a fight.
Finding Bob in the last few days of my trip restored my confidence. Having spent a good deal of time alone, I had lost a bit of faith in humanity, I think. I began to remember what I’d told a young girl who was on the beginnings of her travel when I arrived in Delhi three months earlier: travel isn’t about what you see and do, but about interactions and intimacies along the way. Sharing your experience is fundamental – whether it be through a blog, through conversation, or through someone else’s eyes. All these things give you perspective. All of it adds to your appreciation. Somehow I’d forgotten that along the way.
Yet another benefit of traveling alone is that you have so many opportunities to get different perspectives, all of which gives you a different sort of appreciation for the world for a tiny sliver of time. Bob was just one more perspective. Both of us had come out of a difficult and lonely week and were waiting to escape the country. But once we found one another, we were able to appreciate not just each other’s company but also the world around us. We’d been swallowed up in our own self pity and needed a bit of a shaking up. Some positive reinforcement. Good conversations. A reminder that India wasn’t out to get us. In fact, she was most definitely on our side.
That evening, when the sun had set and the oppressive heat of Mumbai was beginning to wear off, Bob and Rafiq (our driver) picked me up in one of the clunky old black and yellow cabs that dominate the streets of Mumbai (a welcome change from autorickshaws, I must admit). We crossed the city and made our way to Hajiali, a shrine located on a small island off the coast, accessible only by a strip of precariously narrow pavement lined with shops selling all sorts of religious paraphrenalia, from Sufi music to incense to flowers garlands to necklaces, as well as a broad assortment of beggars – some blind, some missing a leg, some holding hungry-eyed children, all hoping you’d put a rupee or two at their feet. Despite this assault on the senses, devotees come in droves to visit and seek blessings at the beautiful memorial. And despite my lack of religious sensibilities, I found it incredibly moving. A wonderful way to say goodbye to India. Here, among Hindus, Muslims and other visitors, I sat down in a quiet spot in the women’s section (ooh, still can’t help being a little bitter about Muslim sexism) and reflected. In a place so filled with prayer and worship, I couldn’t help but send out a little message for someone to hear.
I thanked India. For making me sick and for letting me recover, for making me unspeakably happy, incredibly overwhelmed, wonderfully relaxed, and horribly lonely. For humbling me. I admit I got a little teary when I realized I’d be leaving in less than two days. I was very much ready to go, but I’d miss it. I'd miss Her.
We went on to several other shrines throughout the city, but none left as much of an impression as Hajiali. What did make an impression was the restaurant Bob brought me to at the end of the night. Shalimar is famed by Muslim locals in India but not yet discovered by tourists. We had an epic feast among Mumbai natives, tandoori chicken, daal, vegetable curry, and rotis, as well as a number of other dishes I can’t pronounce (or remember). I chowed down like a local, proud to show off what I’d learned about eating with my fingers from the Indian families I’d stayed with over the past month. And despite the fact that I was the only white person in the room (and the only woman not wearing a headscarf), I felt I blended in quite well, for a blonde, blue-eyed, non-Hindi speaking tourist. Bob dropped me at my hotel after midnight and I collapsed into contented sleep.
The next day I had the morning to myself and wandered down to the Taj Palace Hotel and made a valiant attempt at sneaking into their five star swimming pool. I was so luxuriously close to situating myself gracefully on a beautiful white towel on a puffy white chaise lounge, ordering a cocktail and embracing the last of the Indian sun, when the pool boy asked for my room number. When I couldn’t come up with a false name quick enough he promptly sent me off(but not after a lovely shower in the spa and the strategic use of their exclusive and complimentary shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, hair drier, deodorant, Q-tips, nail file, body lotion, slippers, scale, etc, etc...) It was a valiant attempt.
So, I didn’t get a swim at the Taj, but as soon I walked out onto the street, I was accosted by a talent agent, who promptly asked to be in a Bollywood film the following day. Thank god for those beauty products, I thought, and answered, “yes, yes, YES!" as quick as I could.
The remainder of the afternoon was lost in the bazaars with Bob, walking and talking, eating falooda and drinking Mango Slice, and saying a sad goodbye as he left for the airport at three AM, while I packed up my backpack one last time (this was fairly surreal in itself). I eagerly awaited my entry into stardom.(My Bollywood experience deserves an entry of its own). Needless to say, I left India triumphant. I had one final backpacker moment when I arrived at the airport hot and sweaty after a day on set, caked in makeup and hair spray, and found myself using the handicapped bathroom to take a “shower” and change before my flight. It was a perfect conclusion to my nomadic lifestyle - disgustingly grungy and erring on desperate. But for me it came as a sign that I was really, truly ready exchange my sandals for stilettos and ali baba trousers for pencil skirts. For a little while, at least. In Istanbul I could unpack my backpack. Find a local supermarket that sells Honey Nut Cheerios and put my toothbrush in a cup (next to Gill’s). Do my laundry with a view of the Bosphorus, overlooking ant-people in huge cruise ships. Generally revel in the extraordinary circumstances of my extraordinary life. Begin it now.
When the wedding came to an end, I decided it was time to make a move – let Wardah adapt to her new home without the incursion of a blonde. Fortunately, I didn’t have to move far. A high school acquaintance is currently living and studying medicine at the Gujarat University in Ahmedabad, so I hoisted my backpack into the back of a rickshaw, crossed the river and found Komal’s apartment where I spent a few days rejoicing in the sound of familiar language (and even more exciting: an American accent), Mexican food, and shopping. In a previous blog I mentioned how lovely it was to be a part of a home again, and how staying at Saleha’s house reminded me of the family I’d left behind. Staying with Komal was a reminder of some of the things I loved about college life, and what I’d left behind in my Boston apartment. I painted my nails while watching a cheesy Bollywood romance. We gossiped about boys. We ordered Domino's, delivery. We went down the street for chocolate frappes at Cafe Coffee Day (think Starbucks, but half of the price and a quarter of the quality), where I plugged in my laptop and pretended I had work to do. I could get used to this, I thought and watched days fading away. Sadly, the end of my visa loomed ever closer, I knew I was simply procrastinating a big decision. What do I do next?
I had several options open – a journey northwards to Nepal for beautiful mountains and trekking in the Himalayas. A hop skip and a jump to South East Asia for more Buddhism and Full Moon Parties. Or a flight Down Under to catch up with family, rent a van and travel the coastline. But with my funds dwindling I saw this as an opportunity to put down my backpack for a while. My clothes on a shelf. My toothbrush in an empty cup by a bathroom sink. My dirty laundry in a hamper. Maybe invest in a French press and give up Nescafe. Lay off the muesli and curd breakfasts and indulge in Honey Nut Cheerios. Maybe find a route for running, a park for lounging, a market for shopping, or a quaint cafe for chatting over coffee. Maybe even find a job?!
Fortunately, you can do most of these things from anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, as a Gemini, decision-making has never been my forte. I agonized over it. Was I ready to give up my nomadic lifestyle in exchange for a bit of stability? Would I regret the return to normality? And perhaps more importantly, where would I go? The easy answer was “go home,” – return to the nest to save some money, use the family French press, follow my old running route, and drag Mum to the Stop and Shop when I was out of Honey Nut Cheerios. I could look for a job in New York and inevitably somewhere along the line something would turn up. But that idea just seemed too easy. I wanted to keep challenging myself. I was just looking for a new challenge.
I toyed with the idea of London or Sydney, where I could utilize friends, networks, and connections I had to help find a job, a nice neighborhood full of like-minded people, and an apartment where I could have a hamper and a toothbrush holder. This held some appeal, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew that this was an opportunity to live somewhere I a) I never saw myself ten years ago, and b) I don’t (necessarily) plan on staying for ten years. I hope one day I’ll live in London. And I will continue visiting Australia, where I have family, for the rest of my life.
I realized that the best way to maintain a bit of my nomadic existence was to park myself in the middle of the accessible world. A place where flights to Europe, Africa, and Asia weren’t inconceivable. I considered Eastern Europe, Greece, or the Arabian Peninsula (Dubai? Muscat?), but concluded I wasn’t really brave enough to show up in a place where I had absolutely no solid ground to land on (metaphorically speaking, that is). In desperation, I began reflecting back on the blogs I wrote in the beginning of my trip, I remembered how much I loved the city of Istanbul when I visited. It’s wonderful amalgamation of east and west, modern and ancient, familiar and exotic. And a best friend with an apartment overlooking the Bosphorus! It was perfectly obvious and quite irresistible.
After a few wavering emails, I finally hankered down and booked a flight. I sent Gill a copy of my confirmation, “I did it!” I wrote, “I’m coming to Istanbul!” As always, she had the most appropriate response, and sent me the following quote:
“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.”
-Goethe
I felt myself breathe sigh of relief. A huge burden was lifted off my shoulders, and made it a goal to reach Mumbai before my flight (ambitious, I know). The last few days in India were some of the most difficult I encountered on my, knowing that I was coming to the end of my travels, at least for a short while. I had to head north and stopped on my way in Barusch, a small, old-fashioned Indian city in Gujarat where Saleha’s uncle lived with his four children. Filled with donkey carts and crumbling buildings, it's on the up and up because of its prime location between Mumbai and Delhi. Half the city was a reminder of old India, the other a construction site, with new roads being built, and high rise buildings scarring the landscape and annihilating cobbled streets and old concrete houses. Though it was a lovely respite, India wasn’t prepared to let me go without one final bout of infirmity (this takes the count to four stomach-related illnesses in three months), and I spent most of my time bedridden, drinking eating dry toast and rice.I was miserable. Suddenly desperate to escape the oppressive heat that was beginning to build as India moves towards monsoon season. Angry that the country seemed to be driving me away and making it very clear it didn't want me anymore. And disappointed that the last few days of my trip would be spent feeling sorry for myself rather than able to appreciate what I’d come to love about the country. It was quaint, but after four days I was well and more than ready to get down to Mumbai and the big city.
My last train ride in India was yet another example of the magic of the country. I sat in my chair watching Shah Rukh Khan dancing across my Netbook in yet another fabulously flamboyant musical scene in what otherwise seemed like a somber Bollywood flick (it was in Hindi, making it impossible for me to fully comprehend the plot). Occasionally I peered out the window, where the landscape morphed from fields and agricultural land to the vast expanse of the Mumbai sprawl. I kept trying to convince myself that these last few days were going to be a happy end to the trip. But I couldn't help dreading them. I'd already been to Mumbai, seen the sights, and now I was here just wait for my flight. I was disappointed in myself for not being more ambitious with my last few days. I should have gone to the Taj Mahal, perhaps the most famous building in the world. I could have gone back north for a camel trek through the Thar Desert that I'd been invited on with a friend. But I even now if the offer still stood, I wouldn't take it. I was exhausted. Emotionally and physically drained.
Towards the end of the journey, a Manchester accent assaulted me from behind. I sighed. I didn’t want to meet anyone else. I didn’t want to have futile conversations with foreigners about what they were doing in India and for how long. I just wanted to get to my hotel and for the remainder of my trip make attempts at sneaking into posh hotels to use their swimming pools (yes, I'd actually spend a good time thinking about this, to the point where I had noted several in from my Lonely Planet, making sure each had a spa, pool and basically a way to escape from anything remotely cultural).
How foolish, I reflect. India wasn’t finished with me yet. She a few more tricks up her sleeve.
When “Bob” as he asked to be referred (terrible choice of a pseudonym, by the way, Bob) and I struck up a conversation we immediately hit it off. Once past the silly details, we were quickly discussing everything from Sufism to Man U, the economic crisis to Israel and Palestine. He offered to take me to my hotel with his driver, and we decided to meet up later for a visit to several of the shrines in Mumbai. So much for ignoring culture, I thought. Once again, India was throwing me for a loop. And I was beginning to get the idea she wouldn’t let go without a fight.
Finding Bob in the last few days of my trip restored my confidence. Having spent a good deal of time alone, I had lost a bit of faith in humanity, I think. I began to remember what I’d told a young girl who was on the beginnings of her travel when I arrived in Delhi three months earlier: travel isn’t about what you see and do, but about interactions and intimacies along the way. Sharing your experience is fundamental – whether it be through a blog, through conversation, or through someone else’s eyes. All these things give you perspective. All of it adds to your appreciation. Somehow I’d forgotten that along the way.
Yet another benefit of traveling alone is that you have so many opportunities to get different perspectives, all of which gives you a different sort of appreciation for the world for a tiny sliver of time. Bob was just one more perspective. Both of us had come out of a difficult and lonely week and were waiting to escape the country. But once we found one another, we were able to appreciate not just each other’s company but also the world around us. We’d been swallowed up in our own self pity and needed a bit of a shaking up. Some positive reinforcement. Good conversations. A reminder that India wasn’t out to get us. In fact, she was most definitely on our side.
That evening, when the sun had set and the oppressive heat of Mumbai was beginning to wear off, Bob and Rafiq (our driver) picked me up in one of the clunky old black and yellow cabs that dominate the streets of Mumbai (a welcome change from autorickshaws, I must admit). We crossed the city and made our way to Hajiali, a shrine located on a small island off the coast, accessible only by a strip of precariously narrow pavement lined with shops selling all sorts of religious paraphrenalia, from Sufi music to incense to flowers garlands to necklaces, as well as a broad assortment of beggars – some blind, some missing a leg, some holding hungry-eyed children, all hoping you’d put a rupee or two at their feet. Despite this assault on the senses, devotees come in droves to visit and seek blessings at the beautiful memorial. And despite my lack of religious sensibilities, I found it incredibly moving. A wonderful way to say goodbye to India. Here, among Hindus, Muslims and other visitors, I sat down in a quiet spot in the women’s section (ooh, still can’t help being a little bitter about Muslim sexism) and reflected. In a place so filled with prayer and worship, I couldn’t help but send out a little message for someone to hear.
I thanked India. For making me sick and for letting me recover, for making me unspeakably happy, incredibly overwhelmed, wonderfully relaxed, and horribly lonely. For humbling me. I admit I got a little teary when I realized I’d be leaving in less than two days. I was very much ready to go, but I’d miss it. I'd miss Her.
We went on to several other shrines throughout the city, but none left as much of an impression as Hajiali. What did make an impression was the restaurant Bob brought me to at the end of the night. Shalimar is famed by Muslim locals in India but not yet discovered by tourists. We had an epic feast among Mumbai natives, tandoori chicken, daal, vegetable curry, and rotis, as well as a number of other dishes I can’t pronounce (or remember). I chowed down like a local, proud to show off what I’d learned about eating with my fingers from the Indian families I’d stayed with over the past month. And despite the fact that I was the only white person in the room (and the only woman not wearing a headscarf), I felt I blended in quite well, for a blonde, blue-eyed, non-Hindi speaking tourist. Bob dropped me at my hotel after midnight and I collapsed into contented sleep.
The next day I had the morning to myself and wandered down to the Taj Palace Hotel and made a valiant attempt at sneaking into their five star swimming pool. I was so luxuriously close to situating myself gracefully on a beautiful white towel on a puffy white chaise lounge, ordering a cocktail and embracing the last of the Indian sun, when the pool boy asked for my room number. When I couldn’t come up with a false name quick enough he promptly sent me off(but not after a lovely shower in the spa and the strategic use of their exclusive and complimentary shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, hair drier, deodorant, Q-tips, nail file, body lotion, slippers, scale, etc, etc...) It was a valiant attempt.
So, I didn’t get a swim at the Taj, but as soon I walked out onto the street, I was accosted by a talent agent, who promptly asked to be in a Bollywood film the following day. Thank god for those beauty products, I thought, and answered, “yes, yes, YES!" as quick as I could.
The remainder of the afternoon was lost in the bazaars with Bob, walking and talking, eating falooda and drinking Mango Slice, and saying a sad goodbye as he left for the airport at three AM, while I packed up my backpack one last time (this was fairly surreal in itself). I eagerly awaited my entry into stardom.(My Bollywood experience deserves an entry of its own). Needless to say, I left India triumphant. I had one final backpacker moment when I arrived at the airport hot and sweaty after a day on set, caked in makeup and hair spray, and found myself using the handicapped bathroom to take a “shower” and change before my flight. It was a perfect conclusion to my nomadic lifestyle - disgustingly grungy and erring on desperate. But for me it came as a sign that I was really, truly ready exchange my sandals for stilettos and ali baba trousers for pencil skirts. For a little while, at least. In Istanbul I could unpack my backpack. Find a local supermarket that sells Honey Nut Cheerios and put my toothbrush in a cup (next to Gill’s). Do my laundry with a view of the Bosphorus, overlooking ant-people in huge cruise ships. Generally revel in the extraordinary circumstances of my extraordinary life. Begin it now.