Riding the Chinook Wind

From the snowbound mountains of Afghanistan to the perpetually sunlit and positively balmy backstreets of Istanbul's Beyoglu district. No more ratatatat of automatic weapons - this city marches to a different drumbeat: the darbuka and tambour, rhythms expressing a different sort of freedom, a creative freedom inspired by the possibility of a new future. The Taliban retreat back into history for their revolution, Turks rush forward to meet theirs. Both chase destiny, and destiny laughs at both of them.

And me? I ride the Chinook wind into the east. It's a pleasant ride, warm and friendly on the back of the snow-eater. He's left is usual climes, expanding his territory in search of dwindling food supplies. The Great North doesn't provide enough these days so he's crossed the ocean looking for more to feed his voracious appetite and like most souls, he's decided to linger in Istanbul, the soul-catcher city where anyone who enters risks losing himself forever. Istanbul, the whore with whom I've fallen in love; the Siren whose embrace is a welcome end for my brief existence.