Five years ago and a month. A few streets off of the open air terminal, sitting under a red bunk in a hostel, in Moda. For the first time, in a long time, I'd not had a brick phone. Access to apps was a novelty; shazam served me well.
Only days left, before being thrust fully back into American culture. And what was to follow.
I bought a panço. And then went back for the hat. The currency exchange line was far, far too long for a couple hundred euro, anyway.
A few humans were about, strumming over the bar's music—and evening prayers. One had a guitar, but the other, they did not have a bağlama. One had been biking through Turkey when he and his human encountered some trouble. An accident?. She'd headed home alone. I was skeptical; also of the minute amount of hashish in their possession.
My flight left two hours after the amateur cyclist, and I took pity of the public transport schlep, of a boxed bike to the airport; I too was headed in that direction. Oh, it was lovely to breeze through security without a burden such as his. I imagined she'd felt the same way.
With shazam came ista-too, which became ista-two, then ista-tho.
A playlist fitting of the state of being several americanos deep, eying handfuls of active grant submission deadlines in two months time.. The fourth year with this same crunch.. I must be mad.