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I was in Istanbul for a few days and on my way to visit my grandfather. He’d moved in with my father at the beginning of the pandemic because we had been worried about him living alone, in the town by the Black Sea where he’d retired. We’d urged him to come to the city, just for a short time. It had been a wise decision; my grandfather’s health deteriorated rapidly in those months, and his stay became indefinite. He could no longer go out for long walks as he used to, or even remain upright for extended periods.
My grandfather had always spent his days outdoors. Whenever he came to Istanbul, he’d take buses and ferries all over the city, sometimes going as far as the city’s gates. He traveled around the country with a tent. He stayed in mountain villages and invited himself to breakfast at the homes of locals. He loved that sort of thing—meeting strangers, seeing different lives. He often urged us, his grandchildren, to join him. He showed us pictures of the people he’d met on these trips, with whom he kept in touch. One time, when I was having breakfast with him at a seaside café in Istanbul, a boy of ten or eleven video-called to wish him a happy bayram.
“Come again soon, Grandpa,” the boy said.
My cousins and I all lived abroad, and we found it difficult to set aside time for such travels; our visits back home consisted of seeing many people in a short span. But we were proud of our grandfather—his youthful spirit and his sense of adventure. Perhaps we felt that it indicated something about us as well, something like a family identity.
Since my arrival, I had seen relatives and friends, and had also been to the Bosphorus, to Moda, and Cihangir—outings that had always signified a proper visit back, though I could no longer say that I enjoyed them. The neighborhoods changed rapidly between my trips, and they were so crowded. The city was packed beyond belief, filled with tourists—a thick stream of people moving slowly, engulfing everything. I felt resentment toward them, and I longed for the city where I’d grown up.
I had phoned my grandfather the night before to tell him I would visit the following afternoon. Had I called sooner, he would have asked me to come straightaway and planned meals together throughout my stay. My father was going to be out when I went over. He had a few things to do, he told me, and, besides, he preferred to spend time alone with me, rather than see me with my grandfather. This wasn’t very convenient, but I sensed that the living arrangement had begun to take its toll. It now seemed inconceivable that my grandfather would be able to go back to his small town. Of course, my father never mentioned any of this, but I gathered from phone conversations that he was out more and more. Later that afternoon, I would meet him for a coffee, before going to my mother’s for a dinner with my aunts. It was exhausting to be home, to feel torn between obligations because of our fractured family.
I’d just got into the taxi when my grandfather called to ask where I was.
“I’m on my way,” I told him, “but it will take me some time to get there.” I could picture his impatience. He must have got dressed hours ago. He would have been looking out the window, scouting for my arrival. He called again as the taxi was crossing the bridge. He’d forgotten to tell me that the downstairs buzzer didn’t always work, so I should press hard when I got there. Then he called a third time to say I should just phone as I was approaching.
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Illustration by Eleni Kalorkoti
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