In 2018, my dad moved to Istanbul after living in the US for over thirty years. Friends and family thought he was crazy to leave the ‘American dream’ for more shaky territory, but his instincts beckoned him back to the smells, sounds, and sensibilities of his childhood home.
I’ve been lucky enough to travel to Istanbul for family vacations since I was little, but visiting my dad in his Sishane apartment really cemented the city as my second home. Together, we take our time exploring local shops in adjacent cobblestoned neighborhoods like Galata and Cihangir, walking and talking for hours along the Bosphorus, and frequenting Aheste, his favorite spot just a stone’s throw from his apartment. The first time we stepped foot into the warmly lit restaurant, he asked me if I knew what “aheste” meant, knowing well that I’d love its translation — “slowly” in Farsi.
Although my dad’s effervescent life still moves to a quick beat, I think part of what brought him back to Turkey was the option to slow down — longer dinners, frequent coffee, tea, and cigarette breaks during the workday, extended conversations with local cafe owners and taxi drivers. It’s a quality of life in other parts of the world, and other parts of the US, that I’ve always been drawn to — not just the possibility, but the celebration of slowness. It’s why, although difficult, I hope the pandemic opens some of our hearts to a new pace of life. And, it’s why my boyfriend and I recently named our sound system at home “keyif,” which can be explained as follows —
“In its simplest expression, ‘keyif’ means to do nothing happily but with meaning; it is about the pursuit of a moment of idle pleasure; it’s about suspending a moment in time, separating it from the confusion of daily life, and savouring it.”
My mom jokes that the timing of my birth was an early indicator of my personality. While my brother was born two weeks early, I made my debut two weeks late. From childhood to today, I enjoy getting to the airport extra early to avoid the mad dash, people watching for hours at curbside cafes, soaking in a full day on a quiet beach, and leaving padding time for any type of deadline.
As I went through high school, college, and the first several years of my career, all of which promoted efficiency and speed, my love for slowness became harder to honor and justify. And yet, today, in the middle of a pandemic that forbids me to commute to an office, grab dinner with friends after work, or squeeze in the gym, I’m reconnecting with my inner aheste. This doesn’t mean that I don’t miss the occasional high of a packed, energizing day — but I do feel alive in this newer pace.
I read these words recently and they really resonated, so I’ll leave you here —
“The only way to gain power in a world that is moving too fast is to learn to slow down. And the only way to spread one’s influence wide is to learn how to go deep. The world we want for ourselves and our children will not emerge from electronic speed but rather from a spiritual stillness that takes root in our souls. Then, and only then, will we create a world that reflects the heart instead of shattering it.”