I have suffered moments of nostalgia this week. No matter how good you have it, you can always find something to reminisce fondly about. Especially when you’re sitting in an office, gazing out on a beautiful summer day and wondering why you’re indoors in front of a computer screen.
Memory takes me back to my empty kitchen, where an abandoned coffee cup sits on the counter, and a few neglected Cheerios are swollen and milk-logged, swirling around the bowl on a mysterious current. The New York Times is strewn out across the counter, with the Style section opened to the middle. A pink silk robe lies forgotten on the sofa. A pair of sandals forgotten on the mat by the back door. Light streams from bay windows and dust sparkles in suspended animation.
But beyond the darkness of the room is life. The door to the garden is open and a breeze blows through the Japanese maple and the uncut grass making the morning dew glisten. Chickadees whip past with a determined aim towards the ripening cherries on the cherry tree, or veer off to the birdbath for a dip. A squirrel nips across the lawn, pausing to spring to his haunches and peer cautiously at his surroundings. Cicadas buzz and a distant lawnmower purrs.
On the porch a hammock swings, the figure of a body carved into the cloth, a lone leg peering over the edge and swinging idly. An abandoned Economist lies next to a fresh and steaming cup of coffee on the table. This is me, napping under a wide-brimmed sunhat and a pair of oversized sunglasses. A copy of W Magazine is draped across my stomach, Kate Moss fluttering softly when the wind picks up. There is nothing but this gentle hum of existence for a time, a golden moment hovering like the dust in the kitchen.
Then the screen door squeaks open as my father comes out from his study. The newspaper has been meticulously folded and is tucked under one arm as he finds a chair in the shade. He adjusts his worn Appalachian Mountain Club baseball cap, crosses his legs and unravels the paper to the Metro section. Grace the cat, who scampered out with the opening of the door, has slumped in the sun on a warm stone, sluggishly lifting a paw to bat at a bold fly that dares come too close. Once settled, the world falls quiet again and time waits.
Suddenly the coffee grinder springs everything back to life. The brim of the wide sunhat twitches. Squinting from behind my lunettes I stare through the window as Mum fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. She pulls out the French Press from one cupboard and the Weetabix from another, the skirt of her flowery yellow sundress dancing as she maneuvers the kitchen. The milk, left out on the counter, she lifts from a puddle of condensation. I wait for her to emerge from the kitchen with a tray of coffee and cereal and the New York Times Magazine. We exchange kiss before she sits down to enjoy her breakfast. But before she can, she promptly gets up to fetch a rag to clean the table, covered in a thin line of green pollen. When she sits again, I turn away and hear nothing but the tinkle of a spoon mixing sugar into coffee, the rustle of the paper being turned, and the groaning of a car engine pulling out of the driveway on the far side of the garden wall. I close my eyes and soak it in.
The last to emerge fumbles through the screen door in a worn out tie dye tee-shirt and a bleach blond mop of bed head. Smiling a lopsided, sleepy smile, Alice plops down on a chaise lounge that has seen better days, left exposed in too many New England winters, and waits blinking as her light eyes adjust to dazzling sunlight after the darkness of the kitchen. Eventually she stretches out and opens the latest Percy Jackson, shielding her face with the book and twirling her hair as she reads.
Each moment another snapshot. A little treasure preserved and etched into my memory.
The thing is, none of it ever happened. It is simply a fabrication of my ideals, a little fantasy of what a morning might look like in a perfect world. All the components have occurred at some point or another, I’m sure, but I’ve put the pieces together to my own satisfaction. I press rewind a thousand times. I replay it over and over. I change elements. Am I in the hammock or on the chaise lounge today? Is my father wearing his pink polo or his red one? Did Mum have Weetabix or Grape Nuts for breakfast? Did Alice wear her favorite tie-dye tee-shirt or did she put on her Roxy bikini? Even the back stories change – where was I last night? Out with friends at Sundown? BYOB at Penang Grill with Mum? At the Met with Dad? Working late at in the city? Driving down in UMA from Boston?
A part of me looks forward to the day when I can reminsce about Istanbul in the same way. To recognize the charm of a past life. It is a tremendous motivator, a reminder of the importance of enjoying even the simplest moments. But I also realize I don’t need to reminisce. I can just live.
A lazy weekend morning here can be magical too. A walk downstairs from my apartment to sit out at a coffee shop (three feet to the right of my door are the green folding chairs of Porte and three feet to the left are the wicker armchairs of Olivia’s). Already, I can imagine the characters I see as while I’m sitting in the dappled sunlight at a rickety table on the cobblestone. They’ve all been there before. Groups of glamorous women gossiping with thin cigarettes and a salad (dressing on the side, please). They wear skinny jeans and stilettos, bright red lipstick and 50’s style sunglasses, dressing up for their exposé on “Yuppie Street.” They overturn their Turkish coffee cups and look for meaning, telling fortunes and revealing future lovers.
A local expat family is out together, a small girl perched on the edge of her seat, stretching sticky fingers out towards the table, grabbing at a dirty napkin. Her mother spoons another bite of rice pudding into the open mouth of her young baby while idly discussing the benefits of the local French nursery school with her husband. He drums his finger on the table when she mentions the cost. Lacoste polo, MacLaren buggy, Chanel Handbag. I think he’s wondering if he’ll have to forgo a second BMW if he’s got to pay several thousand a month for preschool education.
One table over, a girl sits with her hand resting on her chin as she looks down at her burger and picks at her salad wearing a pout that reads, I don't think I made a very good decision last night. Though she wears a pretty white sundress, her palid complexion, dark circles under her eyes and beestung lips indicate a long night and a hangover. Across the table, her current squeeze is pontificating, puffed up proudly in a wrinkled-from-being-thrown-on-the-floor button down shirt and scuffed leather shoes. She sighs dramatically and looks away.
Following her gaze, I watch the local vendor set up shop on the corner of the street, unveiling fresh cherries and apricots by dramatically pulling away the sheet atop his cart like a matador. The lottery vendor walks up between the street side tables, poking brightly colored tickets in the faces of uninterested diners, who wave him away, losing their train of thought in the process. The local beggar, who lives in his car and speaks impeccable English, sits on a post on the opposite side of the road, an unopened bottle of Raki beside him, and his dark, wild hair tucked neatly behind his ears. His tee-shirt is a little too small, his bell-bottoms a little too tight. He's a yuppie beggar, and he fits the scene so perfectly. I smile in his direction, thinking, yes, he's my local beggar, living on my street, co-existing in my world. And occasionally asking for a smoke or a few lira.
I shake myself from daydreams and find I am still sitting behind my desk at work. But from reverie comes revelation. As soon as I begin reminiscing or missing home, I simply have to start thinking about how I can make my current world magical. How I can live in suspended animation, capturing the beauty of each moment, letting it linger for a moment. To find the beauty in monotony. Even in the moments of nostalgia, dare to face the beauty of the day.