Savor faire

Imagine walking to class. Crossing over the Bosporus Strait to the forests and castles on the European side. Hearing the morning call to prayer. Spending an hour talking about politics - in detail - before dropping by a cafe with friends. Ordering tea, breaking out a backgammon board, mulling your next moves. By the time you all leave, it's gotten dark.

It's the carefree life, right?

My friend says this is what he misses most about Turkey. The slow pace at which people live. The freedom to "savor."

I spent two months living with my grandmother in India. I woke up every morning when she was praying. I ate breakfast, took a shower, read for an hour. Went for a walk in the uneven lane outside her apartment building, weighed down by heat. Sometimes I stopped and sat in the garden, surrounded by bees and flowers and homeless dogs. I heard boys zipping by on their motorcycles outside. After ten minutes - or twenty, or an hour - I got up and walked back. I swung open the squeaking black gate, crossed the marble foyer, and peeled back both metal elevator doors. I heard a splatchy version of "Fur Elise" as I took the lift to the fifth floor. Went back inside and fell asleep on the cool marble floor under the buzzing fan. When I woke up my grandmother was painting at the kitchen table. "Want to learn?" she asked. And having nothing else to do, I picked up a paintbrush and let her guide me.

Another morning I went with my grandfather to the market. We milled around the stalls, smelling marigolds and rot. I tripped into runnels of dirty rainwater. All of a sudden a cloud came over the sun, and the air turned warm. Rain poured down on our heads. We ran to an awning and waited ten minutes - or twenty, or an hour - before striking back out, dripping with evaporating water. We filled our hands with tomatoes and custard apples before going home.

One morning a bird flew through our open balcony window and became trapped in the main bedroom. My uncle shut all the windows and we took up positions on either side of the room. We chased the bird back and forth. It flew frantically from wall to wall, perching on bureaus and beds and the washing line hung overhead. When it was exhausted, my uncle picked it up and handed it to me. The bird was small enough to fit in just one of my hands. As I wrapped my fingers around either side of its head, I felt the burst of its every heartbeat against the tips of my fingers. We finally let it go.

There's something to be said for living slowly. In the moments when there's nowhere to go, there's nowhere to be but the present. That summer, I realized what spice tastes like, that individual salt grains can make my tastebuds water if I hold them on my tongue for long enough. That cotton has a rough grain that can agitate the skin. That rain has a smell both before and after it falls. And the smell is not the same. That the sun's heat can feel like melted wax if I sit for too long without moving. That bees won't sting me if I'm still, but dogs will still bite.

The point is, it's important to move. To work. And at the same time, to sit still. To expand the senses. These moments don't have to last two months. Since that summer, I have a space in my mind dedicated entirely to feeling. When I feel, I stop thinking. My every nerve develops its own memory and history. I don't want to be a whole, I want to be broken into my component parts.