Istanbul

                Istanbul

Ikindi. It’s the afternoon call to prayer.  The time is 17:07 and the afternoon shadow races along the cobblestone street in battle with the diminishing sunlight. The slow overhead circling of seagulls seems to synchronize into a silent dance as the Imam starts to sing.  "Allahhhhhhhhhh." There is a pause. "Allahhhhhhh." The Imam draws out the name of God in one long deep breath that penetrates the air. Another Imam calls from his tower. "Allahhhhhhhhhh."  "Allahhhhhhhh." Each chant calls forth an internal silence from the people. The words sit heavy in the air.  The once busy street slows to a stop, frozen like an ancient mosquito trying to escape some prehistoric amber. I can hear my heartbeat in the silence between prayer. The streets are empty; people have disappeared moments before, involved in a dance of their own. Inside the mosques and in street corners on unfolded prayer rugs they move back and forth in a seeming trance from their knees to their foreheads, barefoot, engulfed in an unwavering devotion to God. As an alien I am stunned by the beauty of the moment. Time stands still. I feel myself upright, I know I am there, but I’m also caught in history, transported through time. Past and present have merged into one. I stand in the plaza of Aya Sophia, the Blue Mosque, its rounded tips and dark blue circular corners casting tall shadows, towering over the cracked stone streets under my feet, the air full of the smell of fried black sea anchovies and fresh clams, lemon, and the squalls of the salty Bosporus. I hold reverence in my own small way, not touching the cold hard stone of the visitor’s benches and not moving advantageously through the empty street of stalls and vendors to beat the crowd to my next destination.The pale blue of the sky holds vault over the ancient city and as the people and birds move together I absorb what magic it is to be in Istanbul.