Walking in Istanbul

When we lived in Turkey for a year, my youngest son Max and I would often walk a mile down to his preschool in the morning, then in the afternoon a mile back up to our apartment at the top of a hill in Istanbul. On school mornings, my oldest son Quinn would get onto the mini school bus that pulled up in front of our home, and I’d wave him goodbye as it drove off to the international school in the area. At which point, I’d turn to Max and announce, “Here we go!” and we’d clasp hands, my mom fingers wrapped around his kid ones, to begin whatever carefree adventure our ramble down the hill would bring.

You might think a commute walk like this would be a total hassle, but it was the opposite. It was a rare gem that slipped through my hands once we got back to the States and the school bus replaced it. Now, years later, I realize how lucky I am to have had those special morning odysseys.

Walking is a unique way to spend time together. You move along the same path. You share conversation that is often exploratory. You view the surrounding curiosities with equal access. These factors can bring out some wonderful fellowship.

Many of the urban properties along the route Max and I took to his preschool abutted the sidewalk with their beige stucco walls and black wrought-iron gating. There were tree branches, vines, and roses that trailed down from the walls or poked out of the gates. We’d inspect these regularly for bugs, blossoms, and any potential interesting phenomena. We never failed to discover something that required our investigation—a bird packing a nest, flitting bees, morning glories stretched open and bright.

I should note here that we typically padded our walk schedule with extra time because the walk wasn’t so much about getting Max to school as it was a playdate. Our journeys combined a good bit of investigation, a lot of verbal processing, and for one of us, skipping. It was an oddly recurring stroke of luck that the preschool appeared at the end of our expeditions at 9am each day. We’d wake up from our reverie over ants on the ground or a bird on the branch and then--Huh. How about that. There’s the school. At which point, we’d shake off our deep focus on walk world and get Max into the door of school world.

During that year abroad, Max became buddies at preschool with Kadim, a Turkish boy who always travelled around with Claire, his British nanny. They would ride up alongside Max and I at some point on our morning walk in their sleek, black, chauffeured transport. A darkened window would slide down and Claire’s head would pop out and holler to us an invite to hop in. A few times we hopped in so to graciously accept her offers, but otherwise we kept to our walk so we could finish whatever nonsensical game we’d patched together, which we did sometimes. My decline of her offer at times created an angst in Claire because she couldn’t imagine why we’d prefer walking to riding. To have a plush ride was sort of the pinnacle of the commute hierarchy, and walking was, well, not.

What I tried to explain to Claire was how special it is to walk, especially with someone whose company you enjoy. Walking, as we humans do with hands available and eyes way up high, is a foundational aspect of us that provides endless opportunities: physical and mental health, social connection, creative thinking, adventure. It’s easy, free, joyful, peaceful, provocative, fun.

For Max and me, those walking commutes were a glue that stuck us more tightly together. We’d hold hands. I’d listen to him chat at length about school-related news. I’d ask him questions to pull out his thinking on things. I remember the two of us creating absurd fictions together while giggling down the hill, two silly-minded storytellers. Perhaps that is why we still do it—him initiating some ridiculousness on the phone from college, me on the other end of the line at my kitchen table playing along ridiculously. It’s possible I can thank that stretch of sidewalk in Istanbul for that.

I thank it no matter what.

Most of us get to walk most of our lives. In an earlier blog post I wrote about my old buddy Carl, a quadriplegic, who didn’t fall into that statistic, however he went on long wheelchair commutes around campus instead. He had enough movement in his right hand to enable him to drive his own wheelchair with a joystick. He’d report back to me on his motorized travels, telling funny stories about the various incidents that crossed his path which often involved the constant flow of people who stopped to talk to him. It’s the moving about under the sky in the fresh air that gives a unique perspective on being a part of the earth. I’ve found it’s easy to see and feel my membership in the club of the living world when I spend time out in it. It’s a visceral understanding.

I love to walk and visit with folks. I visit with my sister sometimes this way and we catch up on internal inventory that needs relaying and support. I’ve been able to walk with my neighbor and chat about coaching and being human, which is a blessing many times over. I’ve walked with my husband to catch each other up on the day, which can be done at the kitchen counter but is even nicer on a walk. I love the Pajama Walks with my neighbors at night when we don our most special PJs and walk under the streetlights across the way. (It’s so fun. If you’re ever in Northern Virginia with PJs, you’re invited. Not kidding.) There are endless ways, reasons, people, and pets to which a lovely walk can apply.

I used to run distance trail races, and sometimes during a race it can happen that you ‘bonk’ or run out of stored glycogen in your muscles. It feels like you’ve run out of gas. During those times you slow your pace down to a walk. After I ran out of gas a couple of times, I was lucky to come across my old pal Ed Cappuccino on the trail. Ed wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere fast, so he decided to travel along with me and converse.

Ed was a fellow who had an ear-catching voice which was the broadcast apparatus of his spirit—one full of life. He was hard of hearing, so he was a bit loud sometimes. He had a constant grin and a set of eager teeth which themselves seemed to insist on being jubilant. More than anything though, Ed was fair in his assessment of the world and people. It almost seemed as if he didn’t know any other way to relate to folks, but I’m sure he made the effort to be this way, which makes him even more inspiring. I’ve never met another person like him.

During those walks with Ed, I got to listen to and learn from someone who is like this. Walking together for a little while gives an extra special access. With Ed, my spirit lifted. My voice cackled. I felt heard, and I listened. There was back and forth of ideas, but also pauses to think and ruminate. Walking along with a friend, as simple as it is, transforms into a quiet miracle of humanity: openness, connectedness, pondering, acceptance.

Ed passed away a couple of years ago from cancer--far too soon—and the world’s heart sank. He left his dear wife Helen to continue to disperse kind energy into the world, which she does even better than he did. It’s funny how a walk initially starts out as a task of exercise, or a commute, but transforms into a moment of history that changes who you are. Your arms, legs, torso aren’t the only things moving forward. It is also you.

During Covid I had the luxury of having my oldest son, Quinn, at home while he did his graduate studies virtually. Both of my sons have moved on from anything I know, to complicated worlds of knowledge I’ll never be in, and this makes it harder to find things Quinn likes to talk about with me. But when we go on a walk together that all changes. We enter a portal from a land of few words to a land of conversation. This is one of walking’s best hats.

Walking is not a situation of opening the door and--bam--suddenly folks are chatty who normally aren’t. It’s a prettier transition than that. First, it’s a word or two while each of you syncs eyes to feet on the ground, and you feel the motional groove. Then it’s a question posed, and a few sentences answered as the scene is taken in around you: the clouds perhaps, the lawns, buildings, trees. Gradually, a conversation nudges itself out of the mouths, and ideas begin their births. Stories are told and listened to, and held lightly. The walk draws the relationship out.

This is how it is with my son, and those walking moments are kept in the pocket of my heart wherever I go.

Finally, one of the best types of walks is not with friends at all, but with just me. I’m not walking by myself, but with myself. There’s a difference. It’s my special time of the day when I get to straighten myself out. I allow my focus to be broad and non-specific, and I try to keep it there, but my mind never lets me. It has its own way, which is to create thoughts that are a dress rehearsal for hard issues that lie ahead or a review of what has already passed. This is normal, but so is the desire to be free of it, so I pull myself back down to the present moment.

This is when I bump into myself on the path.

“Hark. Who goes there?” I ask.

I think about my answer to that before I speak. Who am I today? Who do I want to be? How will I be her? What are the strengths I can leverage? This leads into some thought, and as I start to recognize myself, the answer appears.

“I’m me!” I say, “But I’m taking steps forward. Just like I did yesterday. Just like I will tomorrow.” And with that, I yank my arm forward. “Come on, you.”

I take in the scene around me as I move deliberately along; notice the blue sky and the planes, notice the birds. Heck, even the telephone lines are interesting today. I’m part of all of this. I sweep my arms out wide. “Would you just look at this day?” I sneak a peek at myself. “Isn’t it spectacular?”

“It is. Every single day.”