Golembeski Dan - Out of Istanbul: a journey of discovery along the Silk Road

English translation 2019 by Dan Golembeski

Originally published in France as Longue marche: pied de la Mditerrane jusquen Chine par la route de la Soie. I.Traverser lAnatolie by ditions Phbus, Paris, 2001.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Brian Peterson

Cover photo credit: iStockphoto

ISBN: 978-1-51074-375-5

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-51074-376-2

Printed in the United States of America

For Mathieu and Thomas

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

THE CITIES WHERE THE ROAD BEGINS

May 6, 1999

My children are out on the platform, waving their last good-byes. The hand of the rail stations large clock suddenly lurches forward: its time to go. The train pulls me away. The city, with all its noise and light, recedes into the distance. We move through shadowy suburbs, and then into the deep night of the countryside, pierced by fugitive streetlamps. Im finally on my way. My long Silk Road journey has begun.

As I stare out into space, my nose pressed against the windowpane, my eyes following the fleeting lights, three retirees come alive in our shared compartment. Two are on a long-overdue honeymoon. Thirty-five years and they never found the time. Business, the womana grocer from Brittanytold me a moment ago, is time-consuming. The other woman, traveling solo, already knows the city. Shes back to see the Carnival. In Venice, the season is just getting underway.

I spend a long time in the aisle. I have no desire to talk. In my mind, Im already out on the road, that incredible road, which has so haunted my dreams. I think about how wise it was to ask my friends not to come out onto the platform with me. Half of them, the ones who are truly upset to see me leave, would have asked me once again: just what is this trip all about? If I were a young man, they would understand: adventure awaits. But when a grown man sets out on a three-thousand-kilometer journeyon foot, with only a pack on his back, in a region reputed to be dangerousinstead of staying home to pamper his peonies in his retirement hideaway in Normandy, its completely preposterous. And as for the others, those who admire me for what Im doing or who are simply envious that Im taking an extended vacation, their presence would have done little to stiffen my resolve. What if I were to disappoint them?

Gazing out into the dark night, never have I had as many doubts about my ability to complete the journey as at this very moment. This is, though, apparently rather common: grand departures are often accompanied by a little bout of the blues.

I explained and reexplained my reasons to them all a hundred times. Im sixty-one, an in-between age. My career as a journalist, first covering politics and then economics, ended a year ago. My wife and I had been partners in travel and exploration for twenty-five years; then, ten years ago, my heart was broken when hers stopped beating. My sons have begun to lead their lives as full-grown men. Theyve already experienced the terrifying feeling that, even among others, we are alone. I love them so very much! Together, my sons and I stand before the ocean of life. For the moment, they see nothing but an endless expanse of sea. I, however, have already glimpsed the land where one day I will have to go ashore.

A happy childhood and a somewhat difficult adolescence, then a busy adult life: Ive lived two productive, full lives. But why must it all end now? What do those who wish me well really want? For me to wait around, lifeless and resigned, reading books by the fireside and watching TV from the couch, so that old age can sneak up and grab me by the throat? No, for me, that time has not yet come. I still stubbornly crave fresh encounters, new faces, and new lives. I still dream of the faraway steppe, of wind and rain on my face, of basking in the heat of different suns.

And then, throughout my previous lives, all too often I was on the run. I never found the time, just like the shopkeepers tirelessly chattering the night away in the compartment behind me. I had to secure a position, work, study, and earn my stripes. Constantly driven by farcical needs in the rush of the mob, endlessly running, dashing about, fast and faster still. Throughout all society, this senseless stampede is still gathering speed. In our noisy, urgent foolishness, who among us yet finds the time to step down off the treadmill to greet a stranger? I yearn, in this third life, for slowness and moments of silence. To stop to admire eyes rimmed with kohl, the flash of a womans leg, or a misty meadowland immersed in dreams. To eat bread and cheese, sitting in the grass, nose to the wind. And what better way to do this than by going for a walk? The worlds oldest form of transportation is also the one that allows us to connect. The only one, in fact. Ive had my fill of viewing civilization in boxes and culture grown under glass. My personal museum is to be found in the pathways themselves and in the people traveling them, in village squares, and in a bowl of soup sipped with strangers.

Last year, for my first year in retirement, I hiked one of the worlds oldest roads: The Way of St. James of Compostela, from Paris to Galicia. Two thousand three hundred kilometers (1,430 miles) on foot, pack on my back like a donkey. A marvelous road, full of stories and Histories. I wore out my solesmorning in, morning outon the selfsame stones of a road that has, for twelve centuries, guided millions of pilgrims, sustained by their faith. For seventy-six days, I was one with the landscape that had seen them all go by, I sweltered on the same slopes, smelled the same smells, and, in its churches, stepped on same slabs that had been buffed by the boot nails of their shoes. Although I did not find faith on the road to Compostela, I returned home elated, feeling closer than ever to those who, from the earliest of times, had left their mark along the way. As I neared the end of my journey, drunk on the fragrance of Galicias eucalyptus forests, I promised myself that, for as long as my strength would allow, I would continue to walk the worlds pathways. And what path could be more inspiring, more impassioned, more infused with history than the Great Silk Road?