I like to make travel difficult as possible. While I wouldn’t typically openly admit to this, the behavioral patterns I engage in leading up to and while on trips says otherwise. I like really involved, complicated travel plans that often leave me tired, hungry, whiny, or some combination of the three. I wasn’t thinking about my propensity for tantrums when I made my plans to travel from Istanbul to Tbilisi during Christmas Eve night, followed by another trip leg to Kazbegi on the following Christmas day.
Istanbul is one of the great cities of the world, no doubt about it. I was awestruck by the city’s beauty from the moment the plane made its initial approach to Ataturk Airport. It was dusk, and the last remnants of the sun were flickering across the Bosphorus, as well as casting shadows of the great mosques all over the city. Aside from its breathtaking beauty, it had easily navigable public transportation, and the people were all incredibly friendly. But since returning from that trip and starting this blog, I have not felt extremely compelled to write about my time there. I have sat down time and time again to try and write a story about my experiences in Istanbul, but have been left bereft of words.