Istanbul
To capture an entire life through memories would be impossible.
In this brief lifetime of mine, I have lived many lives—woven into one another, overlapping, quietly shaping who I am.
Here, I wish to recount a few fleeting memories of the places that marked me, of experiences I chose to keep tangible,
What did I know of a civilization as majestic as Turkey? Very little—almost nothing. But to destiny, such details are irrelevant.
I remember a passing breath once whispered that I would create a jewelry line in Asia. I dismissed it cynically, as one does at a promise that feels unreal.
As many stories do, this one carries the presence of a beautiful man: a protector, a loyal friend. Without truly knowing me, he opened his home to me. Long before, our paths had crossed on that red trolley moving between departures and returns to the city of San Diego. Between those comings and goings, something delicate was formed—something that eventually traveled back to his land.
The first gift he shared with me was his country. He spoke, and I devoured every story—like a child listening to One Thousand and One Nights.
He told me of a grand civilization, of a city overflowing with splendor. Of columns that still rise from Roman times, standing quietly among the living. Of emperors who dared to build domes—among the greatest the world has known—masterpieces of architectural ingenuity. Of a Medusa turned upside down, hidden in the silence of underground cisterns.
He spoke of mosques that are, and once were cathedrals—structures that reinvent themselves, reshaped by time and belief. Of sultans and palaces. Of writers, painters, poets—wanderers and madmen—who walked those same streets then and now. All of them carrying the same knowing: that from ruins, we bloom again. He spoke of religion woven deeply into its roots—And then, the art.
Oh, the art.
He showed it to me through a glowing screen—images resting on stone walls in underground temples, monasteries heavy with devotion, all coexisting within a single place.
Art my eyes had never encountered in books. Foreign to everything I knew, yet calling to me with unwavering force. Saints and angels claiming their presence on the walls. Gold and stone.
Mosques and cathedrals. One that was, then became, then returned, then transformed again. As if I were witnessing the history of a city unfolding in parallel with my own life.
Why had I not found it sooner? Perhaps I needed to live many lives before I could recognize it.
Walking through its streets, I felt nourished—filled with knowledge. I knew it would take years to digest everything my eyes were seeing, everything my body was feeling. And still, I walked on, quietly aware that something within me had shifted forever.
