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I took a van in Istanbul, and now I'm leaning my head on the window and pretending I'm the main character of a movie whose plot I cannot tell. Look at those hurried turkish! Just a variation of mexicans in Mexico city. Mexican women wearing burqa, minarets crowning the churches. That's it. They speak a language I don't understand, but they feel something like sorrow. Those unhappy, hurried faces, just like our sorrowful faces in english. Everything separates me from them. A glass and an entire life. How can someone like me, someone who grew up 10 hours away from the nearest beach, not bring up the question: What kind of childhood can be lived by the mediterranean sea if not one of a sweet vertigo? I get off the van and start walking. They pass me by as if I were not writing about them. They spit phonemes I've never heard. And this certain pleasure of having steped the street and started to walk. Because walking is living. Looking a city through the windows of a vehicle is just an outdated way of TV. For me, who frequently thinks life is hardly something more than a movie, there are just a few things as full of life as walking. I'm going all over Taksim square. Can't see so many animals in an ant's nest. Scent is a kaleidoscope. Seasoning, sweeties, kebap and people who hasn't taken a shower in weeks. I bought some dough balls with syrup. Its name is lokma. Could barely handle with the seller. Locals use to have fun of tourists, I would do it too in their place. Specially those ice-cream sellers. They make you look like a child while playing with your food in front of you. Istanbul is so sweet while walking on it. And I'm not saying it only because this I'm eating is practically pocket diabetes. I think I've just been born a few seconds ago, at the same time as those who are taking a ferry to go home from work. At this precise moment, I am just like them: A simple walker in a small planet trying to decode this thing called life. More than a year is still waiting for me in Turkey. Let's just keep walking.