Time Waits for No One: Seeing Istanbul and More Through My Parents Eyes

Themi Alexandra
Jun 26
12 min read

My last post was all about my experience with chronic pain (Humble Quest). What I didn’t mention is how the unpredictability of my pain kept me from my favorite pastime, travel. Travel is a way of life because it gives me life. Every time I go somewhere it restores my spirit. See any Remote Year post for evidence.

I stopped traveling when I lost trust in my body. Or more specifically when my right leg started spontaneously dropping out on me. I often travel solo so it simply wasn’t safe anymore. I could have rolled the dice and hoped that my body would cooperate for the time I was away. But I didn’t roll those di because experience is a great teacher. I have sought medical treatment abroad for intense pain (two broken ribs - double ouch) and it ranks as my scariest experience yet (Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own).

My goal is to avoid that level of fear and pain whenever possible. So for nine months I kept it parked in Chicago and lived vicariously through friends' IG stories, looking at passing photos with a yearning that burned my heart. It’s a good thing that my patience runs deep because as much as I couldn’t wait to be out in the world, I knew my health was paramount. Travel was on indefinite pause until I could trust my body again.

The key to regaining that trust was toxins. Botulinum toxin, or Botox, has been used for decades as a treatment for CP as it helps relieve spasticity, or increased muscle tone or stiffness due to damage or dysfunction in the brain or spinal cord, disrupting the normal signals that control muscle movement. Botox is more commonly known for freezing the emotion in peoples faces but the effect is the same no matter where you inject, to temporarily block nerve signals to muscles, causing muscle relaxation. I was ready to relax whatever was messing with my right glute and eager to try anything after years of trying what felt like everything.

With Botox in my butt and renewed confidence in my body, I said yes when my parents invited me on their annual trip to Istanbul. If I was going to test the travel waters, this was my moment with the safety of knowing I would be traveling with others.

Tomorrow is never promised to anyone but when your parents are in their late 70s that reality feels all the more real. My mom was fresh off her cardiac ablation procedure and I had Botox running through my glute, if not now, when? Tomorrow waits for no one.

I was so excited to experience Istanbul for the first time with the best guides I could ask for! This would be my parents' eighth time in Istanbul and twelfth time in Turkey. Not only are they two of the most well versed people in Ottoman history but they have been learning Turkish the last several years.

I was ready to hit the road with two of my favorite travel companions and my own personal fixers: people who already know the ins and outs of the city, its streets, its people, and its customs. More than anything, I could not wait to see the city through their eyes. I know what it feels like to deeply love a city and want to share it with others. I was thrilled to not only give them the opportunity to share one of their favorite places but to receive it as well.

We flew non-stop on Turkish Airlines. 11 hours in the air and then we landed in Istanbul early the next day, 8 hours ahead of CST. Years ago I read a book called Heads in Beds written by Jacob Tomsky who gives so many insights into the hotel industry from his years behind the front desk. This is where I learned to book your room for the day before your arrival if you want to guarantee room access ahead of check-in. After a full day of travel, it felt like money well spent to arrive in the wee small hours of the morning and be able to immediately shower and nap before embracing the capital of the Ottoman empire.

Feeling refreshed we hit the streets and had lunch at one of my parents favorite places in Sultanahmet, which is the heart of old Istanbul or Constantinople as it was named back then (cue They Might be Giants). Omar eagerly sat us at an outdoor table. Omar was the first of many people I would come to meet during my visit. And this is something that never got old, meeting people and seeing my parents through their eyes. Each person gave me a warm welcome and had something kind to say about my parents.

I quickly realized why they return so frequently to Isatnbul - because each time they are welcomed home. It feels good to be remembered. I can’t speak for every septuagenarian, but my mom often mentions that as you get older you start to feel invisible. People are not quick to help or even move out of the way on the street. It makes sense that someone like my mom who is more soft spoken likes to be somewhere she feels seen. My dad on the other hand has seemingly no issues with visibility. Trust me when I tell you I get plenty from my mama, but my gregarious personality is all dad. My mom often jokes “Everybody Loves George” because it doesn’t take people long to fall for him.

Case in point, our first visit to the Grand Bazaar. Only one of the oldest and largest markets in the world, overflowing in equal measure with wares and people. It holds over 4,000 shops and you will see many merchants standing outside their storefront or stall, occasionally smoking, and always inviting you to come inside and take a look. We’re walking among the fray for all of a few minutes when a merchant steps forward to shake my dad’s hand. No idea how he spotted him amidst the sea of people, but this is when I knew I was officially screwed.

People remember my parents because they frequent Istanbul and they are warm and kind, yes. But people also remember my parents because they are repeat customers. I mean we were on a shopping trip for chrissakes. This is when I realized my affinity for shopping is a two-headed beast. I always attributed it to my mom but this trip made me realize my curse is equally weighted. Dad enjoys it as much as mom and I do. As if genetics didn’t already curse me with terrible eyesight and bad teeth, add shopping proclivity to the list.

I came to another shopping realization while strolling the Grand Bazaar. We shop for the same reason. We are seeking stories. Hear me out…Yes, I love shopping. Yet shopping is about more than materialism or consumerism, it’s about merchants and craft. I appreciate the craft that goes into what people are making and I love supporting their work. My parents do too.

I see shopping as an extension of my love of beauty and art. It’s why I enjoy fashion so much. Fashion is more than the clothes I wear but when I get to express my visual identity through other people’s art. I love nothing more than telling a story through the clothing and jewelry I wear. A friend likened my feelings to the J. Peterman catalog of Seinfeld fame. He set the scene...“Imagine walking through ancient ruins, weaving through the maze of the bazaar, your eyes landing on a luxurious piece of flowing silk…” And he's right, it’s not just a kaftan, it’s the experience of getting lost in the bazaar to find the kaftan. It’s more than the fabric, it’s the story behind the luxurious piece of flowing silk.

What I truly love is the story. These stories are more valuable than the thing I am buying. Each time I wear one of my storied pieces it is a reminder of trips past and the experience behind them. For this trip to Istanbul I packed one of my favorite kaftans I bought when I lived in Morocco.

The proper name for this particular piece is a djellaba. It is one piece of long fabric with a hood: simple and elegant in construction. What drew me to this one was the black and white braiding along the seams and the single black tassel that adorns the apex of the hood.

One night I stepped out of the hotel in my djellaba and instantly knew that this flowing and airy garment was the perfect choice for the intense spring heat we were experiencing. After dinner my parents and I were perusing some jewelry at the Arasta Bazaar. The female merchant approached me and told me she liked my dress. I said thank you and excitedly told her I got it in Marrakech. She said, I knew you got it from Morocco, I’m from Morocco. Apparently each country has their own take on the djellaba. We had a short chat about the wonders of Morocco and I walked away so happy that I got to connect with her about her homeland.

When I lived in Marrakech I thought of mom every day. I wished I could share the city with her because everywhere I went I saw pieces of her or pieces she would enjoy. I wrote a post about the bittersweet feeling of being somewhere I knew she would love without her (It’s Alright Ma, (I’m Only Bleeding)). Seven years after writing that post as I walked the halls of the Grand Bazaar with her I realized we don’t need to visit Marrakech together. We are getting a similar experience here in Istanbul and my travel wish has been granted even if it came in a different package than I expected. So much of Istanbul reminded me of Marrakech, which made it easy to feel at home immediately and to fall in love with it just as quickly.

I spent my younger years thinking I was so similar to mom and we have our fair share of similarities, but now I recognize I saw so much of mom in me because I simply spent so much more time with her. My dad wasn’t around much during childhood because he worked a ton: nights, weekends, and overnights at the hospital. I don’t know if overnight shifts are a thing anymore, but they were a regular occurrence then. He was pretty much always working. Now I see I simply didn’t have a chance to get to know him as well as my mom who stayed home and raised the five of us like the warrior goddess she is.

I could write another post about how I am in awe of everything she did for all of us and how I simply don’t know how she did it all. Because of everything she did for us at home my dad was able to be present when he was home from work.

Because I spent less time with him growing up, as an adult I cherish any time I spend with him, especially travel, and Istanbul was no exception. Each day after lunch and before our daily siesta (the jet lag coupled with the +8 hour time change was very real), he would take me on my own guided tour of Sultanahmet. He was taking me places not as touristed and each place felt like a secret he was sharing. To walk these ancient streets with dad as my guide and get to hear him so excited about sharing the history of the city, whether we were walking along the back of the Hippodrome, or visiting Little Hagia Sophia which was the prototype for the infamous Hagia Sophia and later The Blue Mosque, this time together was sacred.

On our way to Little Hagia Sophia we passed by a cafe and the proprietor started playing a common travel game, guess my ethnicity. When I travel I am reminded that my dark features and olive skin read ethnically ambiguous. I am satisfied to find Spanish and not American is usually the first guess. Sure enough his first guess was “Eres Española?” to which I didn’t respond, then he tried another ethnicity in another language I didn’t know, on his third try he asked if I was Greek (Eísai Éllinas?), to which my dad responded in Greek, yes. Their conversation ended with my dad promising to stop back for coffee after our visit.

I’ll never forget stepping inside Little Hagia Sophia. We were two of three people and it was dramatically cooler inside than the intense heat just outside the front door. The coolness is the first thing that struck me but once my body temperature regulated, I was taken aback by the serenity.

As promised we headed back to the cafe for a coffee break. We sat outside under the shade of an umbrella and chatted a bit with the proprietor. I live for these small moments with locals. I travel to connect and these moments are what keep my wanderlust alive. Depeche Mode is right when they sing “people are people.” These moments remind me it doesn’t take much to find connection, it’s truly everywhere.

Beyond that, I loved the time with my dad. I asked him when he got into history. It’s something I’ve always known about him but never questioned why. His love affair with ancient history didn’t start until his 50s when he realized how much more there was to learn and he hasn’t stopped since. Rationally I know it’s never too late to learn something new, but it’s different to see it in action. Whether it’s ancient history or a new language in your 70s. My parents started learning Turkish several years ago via Duolingo (with mom hitting the esteemed diamond league) and tv. Turkish television is their jam and they watch the likes of Black Money Love, Midnight Sun, and Ertuğrul nightly. I mean Ertuğrul is a historical drams set in the 13th century and based on the life of Ertuğrul, the father of Osman I, the founder of the Ottoman Empire. I’m telling you their Turkophilia runs deep. And this love blossomed before they found their Turkish dna. I tell them they have their niche and should have a podcast about Turkish tv and cinema. They laugh but I am serious.

Seeing their excitement at speaking Turkish was one of my favorite things about our time in Istanbul. Each time they got to use it they were thrilled with a big grin on their face. Sometimes they would preface a response with “I’m going to try saying it in Turkish” and every time it was graciously received. I love that they are excited about learning and that they’re trying something new. So much of life and language is just that, trying.

I am so grateful that I get my love of language from them. Thanks mom and dad! Watching their animation at speaking Turkish reminded me of my love of speaking Spanish. Am I fluent, no. But do I enjoy it, hell yeah. I love trying. Heck I even attempted bits of Greek (which I am spectacularly bad at and know very little of) one summer in Greece and got laughed out of a gift shop. I’d rather try and get laughed at then not try at all. I clearly inherited my parents' wanderlust and love of language, and I am forever grateful for these gifts.

To be clear, English is widely spoken in Istanbul since English is more often than not the language of tourism. I find speaking or attempting to speak the local language is a gateway to more opportunities, more connection. Which is why I try to learn a few common words and phrases before I go to a new country. I did my best with the few Turkish words and phrases I learned ahead of departure, but it was so cool to have my parents as a linguistic gateway to more.

The other luxury traveling with them provided me (besides the ultimate gift of free meals - majorly awesome!!!) is never having to navigate. I was rolling with the pros! A few days in it struck me how relaxed Istanbul felt and I realized it had a lot to do with not having to worry about directions or decisions. I never needed to find a restaurant, a coffee, or a bathroom. Mom and dad had it covered. As a natural born planner (i.e. a Vigro) it was a treat to be lead.

There was another added benefit to living a navigation free life. It allowed me to fully focus on my walking. This was an incredible gift. As an ancient city, Istanbul is not going to get any points for accessibility. I knew I would be working with mostly cobblestone and uneven streets. What I didn’t think about was the lack of ramped sidewalks. Some sidewalks had higher steps than others since ancient cities are not built evenly or equally. Thankfully I had a hand nearby whenever I needed one, mom and dad for another win! In hindsight, I should have brought my cane for extra stability on the cobblestones and for taking the sidewalk ends. There’s experience being a great teacher, again.

If this experience showed me anything it was just how much I love and appreciate my parents as people, Lynn and George. Two people I am lucky to know and even luckier to love. The older I get, the more I get to really see my dad and see just how alike we are. I love the way his mind works. I love his excitement for life. It was beautiful to see so many of the things I love about myself in him. It made me love him more than I already do.

Istanbul showed me a lot about my dad and reinforced why my mom is my person. She gets me, gets what I love, and why I love it so much. Getting to experience Istanbul with her was the gift I had waited for since I set foot in Marrakech. We speak the same aesthetic language, that sometimes doesn’t even need to be spoken, but can be communicated with a look. My excitement, overwhelming to some, is something she embraces and encourages. Whether that excitement is about wanting to wear red lipstick at 16 or wanting to wear my djaballa in Istanbul and worrying it might come off like cultural appropriation, she always supports my expression.

I am grateful I get to express my love for them with this piece. Our trip together was a gift. A gift to see them in their element, happy, and excited. A gift to experience one of their favorite places through their eyes. A gift to see parts of myself in them. Sometimes the travel experience overshadows the location. Istanbul you were memorable to be sure, but this experience was unforgettable.