Afterisms

If I’m self-absorbed enough to believe you’ve been following this thing from the start, you’ll notice that each time I depart, I make a quick list of what I’ll miss the most from each destination. Be it the subtle shift of cultural nuances, the personal curation of history, cross-continent carousing, or just wandering aimlessly with a good soundtrack, there’s a whole lot of things I find myself longing for as I pass through customs each time. But, you’ll also note, at the end of each list follows perhaps the most valuable thing I’ve acquired in each place—the people. (A self-professed social hoarder, I try vigilantly to keep in touch with everyone I’ve met in this year of travel—an index that comes in quite handy when planning last-minute trips to Italy, where I’ll be going next week. Tell me stuff to do there!)

I’ve also come to realize that cities are people, too. Each has their idiosyncrasies that make you wholly enamored and exasperated at the same time. And each is as bold and memorable as those you encounter dwelling within them, even temporarily.

Mexico City? She’s that buttoned-up, all-knowing, effortlessly cool older sister who pulls double duty in confessional on Sunday after crawling back into her window post downtown all-nighter. She nods primly to her parents and elders, volunteers on weekends and wears a subtle perfume to mask lingering traces of Mezcal. Alone, she’s loud and brash and makes you laugh harder than anyone else with her refinery of region-specific vulgarities (a la verga, guey!) and passes you a cool flask under your desk during third period. And though typically barefaced, she always, always has a tube of screaming red lipstick stashed in her conservative leather messenger bag.

Beijing, meanwhile, keeps to herself. (Yes, I’m making all of them female, just for lazy metaphorical purposes. Gender re-assignment is welcome.) First impressions: reserved, futuristic and cold—but talk to her for an hour or so and you’ll glean a lush history lesson while waiting for her to continue the story. She wants you to discover the winding rows of Hutongs, smoky, saturated street markets, hidden views of cultural monuments and arcing temples that lie beneath her metallic exterior. Really, she does. But you need to ask her first, and you must ask politely—most of all, you need to speak her language. A translation book may be necessary. But she’ll make sure you find your way.

Istanbul, well, she’s a bit confused at the moment. Stuck in a moment of self-discovery as she shifts from tradition with trepidation, you’ll find her awkwardly trying on new clothes (Doc Martens, miniskirts) and lingering in nightclubs and galleries as often as you will having family supper and kneeling to daily prayer. Sometimes she’s lofty and introspective by the seaside; sometimes she shares her deepest secrets with you over ancient ruins. Her European elegance is underscored by her reticence to change, but her resilience—through natural disasters and centuries of political upheaval—is her most attractive feature. And she loves, loves, loves to cook.

I met the city/girl of my dreams last weekend, though, after a quick birthday trip to Paris, where I was lucky enough to intersect with good friends. A few visuals are below. This Smartphone photography-tweaking thing is getting to be a bit obsessive.

Entrance to the Louvre. Hey! The Mona Lisa is actually really, really small! And it’s actually across from the biggest painting in the museum, Veronese’s frenetic, huuuuge “The Wedding Feast at Cana.” Talk about misdirection. Can I also mention that the Louvre is the only museum I’ve visited in the world that only lists descriptions for its paintings in French?

France loves fonts. Lots of ‘em. Even their typography on simple street signs and at cafes is glorious, like this one above.

Totally obligatory I’m-in-front-of-the-Eiffel-tower! shot. I was really happy, despite my “whatevs, man” half-smile.

The Monmarte Basilica. See those people at its base? They sang me “Happy Birthday”.

Self-explanatory.

Birthday cake? Crepe with fresh whipped cream, dark chocolate, (French) vanilla ice cream, and almonds.

My favorite shot of the bunch. There’s a window that peeks into the Louvre before its entrance, and this dear young girl was feeling curious.

Big wishes inside of the Metz Catherdral, located just outside of Paris.

Also, speaking of cities, I come home to the sandy limbs of San Diego in three weeks. And then, as mentioned before, I plan to move to New York this spring. And I am terrified.

Wait ’till you meet that city. She’s absolutely nuts. You’re gonna love her.

In so many ways, Istanbul reminds me of Mexico City. Both are relatively conservative, venerable cities of contradiction, as relatively conservative, venerable cities with a large population of youth are expected to be (Istanbul boasts half of its population under 28—lucky me!)

In the busy streets of the Taksim district, patterned Hijabs commingle with salon-perfect blonde and youth-in-revolt asymmetrical bobs; in the seaside neighborhood of Ortakoy, the reserved curves of Mosques clash with their more commercial neighbors of Carrefour, cafes and lingerie shops; and, just about anywhere, unnerving gazes of the opposite sex appraise for just a moment too long before studying the ground out of habit. Sex is a contraband commodity here (and I mean that in the metaphorical sense, of course)—the irony lying in the fact that on a very surface level, in modeling-related terms, one can expect a full week of transparent lingerie castings administered by a quiet young Muslim assistant.

(“Istanbul is a sexy market,” I heard repeated countless times before my arrival. Which, to this I say, if “sexy market” directly translates to “gain 3 kg of winter weight and get approving once-overs from famously fickle Turkish clients,” which, in turn, has made me pretty busy over the past few weeks, then bring on the baklava.)

As with most of Latin America and Europe (note the exclusion of my motherland), life is deliciously, if not sometimes annoyingly, languid. Five minutes means one hour, one hour means two, “later” means “tomorrow”, and “maybe” almost always means “you better remind me again in five minutes” (repeat cycle). Unlike China, or even home, people linger here. And they enjoy every “five minutes” of it.

Also like Distrito Federal, Istanbul is a city that quite literally rests upon its history. Whereas the Spaniards, and, later, after the quake of 1985, its more modern-day denizens, rebuilt and restructured the grid of D.F. on the Aztec’s original city-on-a-lake of legend, fragments and landmarks from both Constantinople (see: Galata Tower, Basilica Cistern) and the Ottoman Empire (Topkapi Palace, The Grand Bazaar) rest below and amidst metropolitan life. The skeleton of the great Walls of Constantinople infiltrates the seaside, now impassively guarding suburban houses and power lines with a half-hearted shrug. (It should also be noted that D.F. and Istanbul have an affinity for tectonic hot zones in common, as well, with Istanbul resting directly between the Eurasian and African plates—what is it with former empires and earthquake zones?) And, just as these great cities sleep and shift and transform on their collective myths and fault lines, so do I.

And, so, my transforming act (this time perhaps the third and final one) has begun again. The structural steel, Blade Runner-like futurism of Beijing’s daily run has been replaced (when the weather’s nice) with waterside glimpses of the Bosphorus; the slangy American/Chinese “O.K.la” has shifted to the Turkish “tamam”; amazing connections have been forged yet again with all of the anecdotes that they comprise, like dancing to Shakira until 3am on Christmas Eve at a Mexican bar with your Brazilian roommate–followed by 13 hours worth of shooting leopard-and-sequin-spangled evening gowns in a post Tequila-induced daze. Again. Istanbul reminds me of Mexico City in so many ways.

Oh, and I’m going to Paris for my 25th birthday. Just because I’ve never been. And, well, officially entering your mid-20’s seems marginally less daunting when done in style.

Here are a few Instragrammed visuals from my time here so far.

Famed view of the Blue Mosque. It’s called this because of the blue tiles that score its interior.

Galata Tower, one of the oldest in the world. There is also, apparently, a nightclub inside. Not kidding.

Just before sunrise over the Bosphorus. Was told by a friend in China I must find a spot for this. I did.

Eerie interior of the Cistern Basilica, which once was the water supply for all of Topkapi Palace.

Turkish Mezas, or appetizers, during Christmas Dinner.

Aforementioned Mexican bar.

Aforementioned Brazilian roommate.