Five years ago, six-months-deep in a depression I mistook for heartsickness, I found myself on blistered feet in Istanbul. I craned my neck up to the ceiling of the Blue Mosque, an ocean of tiles in every shade of its namesake color. Azure, periwinkle, cobalt. On and on. Overwhelming. 

Back then I pictured sadness as a Carmen San Diego-figure, a cartoon villain I could outsmart if flung far enough from home. When my sister suggested I meet her in Turkey I jumped at the chance. Mirrors frightened me. When I looked in them I didn’t see myself anymore. I saw panic, more feral animal than human. I knew something wasn't right but I had zero coping mechanisms in place. The trip was as romantic as it was ill-advised. I viewed it as an escape route, something to shake me from the gyre of self-criticism and doubt.

The thing about escape routes is they rarely pan out if you haven't got a destination in mind. Complicating things further, I had surrendered my one-bedroom apartment 3 weeks prior. I packed the most precious things into boxes and shipped them from Oregon to Massachusetts. Everything else I sold from the lawn of my pink stucco apartment building. If you ever worry you're becoming too attached to your belongings, watching an old man talk you down from a dollar to a dime for a half-functioning coffee-grinder will bring you back down to earth fast. Two days before I was due to drive my precious things cross country, I was jack-knifed at an intersection and totaled my car. I don’t remember much about the impact, but I came to so stunned I couldn’t speak. My therapist, whose office was, ironically, directly across the street came down when he heard ambulance siren. Incoherently I wailed and wondered why there was a telephone pole wedged into the hood of my van. I hadn’t even noticed the grill of an SUV folded accordion-like against my door. At the ER later a doctor told me “You're lucky to be alive. 2 inches to the left, and you might have lost the ability to use your legs. Or worse.” 

I didn't know how to tell anyone that when the doctor mentioned this, my shadow wish was the car had moved those 2 inches to the left. I was exhausted. I didn’t know what I was doing with my life. I felt lost. I needed help.

Travel reminds us life unfolds in more than one direction.*(See below.) In my case, Turkey was a window into all that is good and all that is painful about this businesses of living. The further I tried to lose myself in it the more of myself I had to confront. Unlike the rest of us, sadness does not need a passport. Every inch of Istanbul is an avalanche of color and aromas. One morning we went out for a walk near our rented flat. Stray dogs napped beside a vendor pressing fresh pomegranate juice. A minaret blared the morning call to worship while a teenager scaled the ruins of a Hellenic temple. Seated on a fallen column he hatcheted slices from an apple and methodically chewed each piece from the blade, in no hurry to get out of the sun. From that same flat we watched Erdogan's police force fire tear gas and water canons into a peaceful crowd of demonstrators. While Taksim roiled, Sultahnamet bustled with the usual flood of German tourists in line for burekas or goezleme. Shopkeepers on one side of town gave out lemons to relieve the sting of tear gas while not two miles away tourists haggled with hawkers over tea sets and bathrobes. By the end of the week the cobblestones on our street vanished. In self defense, protesters ripped them up, café tables and chairs were turned into barricades. I watched one gentlemen gleefully repurpose the Greek Embassy's security booth as a urinal. It was impossible to avoid conflicted feelings about the privilege in our being there. There's lots to be said about the ramifications of the touristic gaze, more eloquently explained here or here. Lisa Wade describes the ethical dilemma of travel in a way that most resonated with me: "For those humans identified as worthy of the tourist gaze, this may sometimes mean constant and overwhelming objectification." On the one hand, the best way to understand a place is to experience it first hand. On the other, without acknowledging the privilege afforded to be there, we can never know it at all.

Often we describe history using language of the past, cordoned off from the present. In Istanbul these forces collide, the conquerors and the conquered, all crammed in together. It is a celebration in layers of abundance and waste, vitality and decay. Young men sold bottles of Efes from their backpacks for 2 Lira, and demonstrators stopped into the cafés to recharge their phones and drink Raki over ice. Everywhere we went there was music. If we walked down the steep hill to the Bosporus we made a stop at Findlikli Park. The shouting in Taksim was as audible as the nearby clink of a woman stirring sugar cubes in a glass of tea. 

We ate well just about everywhere, but we ate best from a cart in that park. An old man grilled balik - ekmek, or fish sandwiches, while his grandson filleted mackerel out of a barrel. It is, and this is no undertatement, by far the best thing I ate that trip. Each sandwich featured the same ballet: flipping fish onto the hot griddle, a healthy sprinkle of Aleppo pepper and salt, and finally, slicing a book fold into the Turkish bread. It was served with a little lettuce, onion, tomato and a wedge of lemon to squeeze on top. Nothing else. All these years later I struggle to remember anything that tastes as satisfying. It had been months since I took true pleasure in eating; of course it took something so simple and fresh to remind me I was awake. Tears welled up and the Bosporus looked blurry. I hoped being an observer might take me out of my own head, instead it reminded me life happens all at once: the beautiful, the ugly, the unbearable wedded with the sublime.

I know this is a blog primarily about food, and it is, but when we write about food what we’re really writing about is ourselves. It is the same with travel. This week we lost someone who was the best at writing on this subject, without whom many of us would not have felt inspired to seek out new experiences in the world and our palates. I turned often to his work when I felt lost. Not to be maudlin, but I don’t think I’d be writing now if not for his work. I don't know how to segue from grief into a recipe about grilling so I'm not going to try. 

Here is a simple dish. It reminds me of Istanbul, even though there was no paprika on the fish.  I make this marinade at times when I’m at a loss for what to make or when I want to feel comforted. It’s very good on fish or chicken, and both things are nice in a sandwich. I like the lemon on the side. My little nod to the old man in Findlikli Park.

*  I feel I should add here that travel is not a substitute for therapy, or as I often say to remind those equating creative pursuits with mental healthcare: "My therapy is therapy." One resource that I have found helpful is PsychologyToday.

Spicy, Sticky Grilled Chicken Thighs with Sumac

Ingredients:

1.5 lbs Boneless, Skinless Chicken Thighs

2 Garlic Cloves

1 Tbs Pimenton or Smoked Paprika

1 tsp Urfa Biber, Aleppo Pepper or Red Pepper Flakes

2 tsp. Sumac

1 Tbs Maple Syrup

2 Tbs. olive oil

Kosher Salt

Black Pepper

Lemon Wedges, to Serve

Directions:

1. On a clean cutting board, mince the garlic cloves. Sprinkle with a generous pinch of kosher salt and continue to mince, dragging the flat side of the blade back every now and then to create a paste. Set aside.

2. In the bottom of a large mixing bowl, whisk the Pimentón, Urfa Biber, Sumac, and 1/2 teaspoon each of kosher salt and black pepper. Stir in the Maple Syrup and Olive Oil. To this, add the garlic paste and stir once more.

3. Place chicken thighs in the bowl and massage it with the marinade. I find hands to be the best tool for the job but you can also use tongs if you like. Allow to marinate for at least 2 hrs or overnight.

4. Fire up the grill. If using charcoal, heat the briquettes up in the chimney until they're white around the edges, then put out to one side of the grill so you can cook the chicken on indirect heat. 

5. On the cooler side of the grill over medium heat, cook the chicken thighs for 4 minutes on each side, until golden at the edges. Serve with lemon wedges and squeeze over the top.

Serves 4.