On my second day in Istanbul, my uncle died of a heart attack. Three weeks later, my aunt was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver while crossing a street in Florida.
When you’re on a new overseas adventure, nothing quite prepares you for when tragedy strikes. Even seasoned travelers can be left reeling. One minute, you’re having a great time, marveling at the richness of your new surroundings; the next, you’re left bereft, wondering if you will ever be happy again.
When my cousin called to say my uncle had died, I’d been having the best day of my life. Anyone who has spent significant time on the road knows this is the inevitable yin and yang of travel.
My mother and I had been invited to visit Heybeliada, a beautiful island just one hour away from mainland Istanbul. That morning, we boarded a ferry from Anatolia, the Asian side of the city formerly known as Constantinople. On the first day of June, we crossed the Sea of Marmara on a lovely yet crowded morning steamer.
The cloudless sky was cornflower blue, and although technically Summer, the temperature felt more like the perfect New England Spring day.
Surrounded by families and beachgoers, we sat, blissed out by the sounds of happy chatter and circling servers offering morning çay (in Turkish, you pronounce tea as “chai”).
Each day, hundreds, if not thousands, of lucky locals use these ferries for one of the most beautiful crossings in the world. Later, we would learn not to board any ferry without pre-purchasing fresh Simit, circular rings of addictive bread covered in sesame seeds. We would buy our fresh Simit daily for breakfast. Now, if I don’t see my morning bread come straight from an oven, still warm, from the flour-dusted fingers of an elderly, scarf-covered baker, I’d rather not start the day.
By happenstance, our island hosts invited us to a “death day” ceremony held by their neighbors and friends. This tradition recognizes the anniversary of family members who have died. We climbed the hill, passing historic Victorian villas to a beautiful home overlooking the island and the sea. We arrived in the middle of a delicious celebratory feast and just in time for prayers.
As I bowed my head in respect, I felt chills run down my arms and shoulders. Later that evening, after arriving back in our garden flat in Kadiköy, I would look back and wonder if my uncle was passing into his next chapter at that exact moment. We didn’t know that our own loved one was dying, but my travels have taught me to be open to the mysteries of the Universe.
If you asked me whether I had planned to spend my second day in Turkey at a death ceremony on a random island that I’d never heard of, I would have looked at you like your head was covered in snakes. My inescapable conclusion is that we were meant to be at that gathering with those warm, kind-hearted, and welcoming people on that particular day.
“Anyone who has spent significant time on the road knows this is the inevitable yin and yang of travel.”
Only those circumstances could prepare us for the hammer blows that would strike that night and later that summer.
I’ve been blessed to travel, and you can’t convince me that we live in a world that is not more than the sum of mere coincidences. Despite daily tragedies, large and small, there is mystery and wonder. I call this mystery “God,” and though you may have a different name, I hope that wherever your life’s travels may take you, you know that you are not alone.
Rest in peace, Uncle Hugh and Aunt Vene.
Heybeliada, Türkiye
References:
Ken Jackson, Family still looking for information into fatal Fortune Road June Crash, Osceola News-Gazette, July 27, 2022.
