“For me, the Americans start,” she bowed her hands again before carrying on, “with Charles Bukowski.” That was it. I was lovestruck.

“You're wrong.” Her voice was shrill. Her stoic words slapped me like a blunt object. I froze. “You need to go home”. I looked at her with the dumbfounded face of a kangaroo staring into a set of flood lights. She continued, “I listened while the others asked you things. You have so many experiences, all those years and on the Camino also. You need to go home. Stop moving – process. Let the years soothe and find their space.” I was speechless, but pined for a counterargument. “From there you can find your voice. Only from there. You’re lost until then.”

This Way to Istanbul was finding my voice. A long period of time to rehash past years and find the Way for my future. She was unsympathetic, telling me to return home. My mom would have loved her. I questioned myself: was this pilgrimage what I needed to bring me resolution? Again, she looked me dead in the face, and read my future from the scroll of a page by something she saw beyond my eyes.

Silence. Awkward silence.

“You won't find anything until you go home. I’m sorry,” she advised with genuine empathy and concern. She pulled out a spill of hash to soften the blow. I poured her some more wine. We smiled at each other. Her first registration of my looks. Her body language flirted with me. It was too dark to see her, but my attraction to her was impossible to miss.

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