mattlawyue

It’s been roughly ten months since I’ve returned from Istanbul, the metropolis that will forever have a place in my attitude, my direction and my heart.

Istanbul is a city that means more to me than any place I’ve witnessed before. More than the savaged plot of land we drove by in Trinidad that once housed my adolescent father; the river-side apartment building we strolled past in Quebec where my mother grew up; Englewood Hospital, where I gazed upon my niece and nephew for the first time; more than New York City, my jungle-turned-classroom for so many summers, where I learned more about the world than any lecture hall in Ewing, NJ could have taught me.

In the last ten months I’ve experienced nothing remotely close to the emotional grandeur of Istanbul. “Temporary fun” I’ve had, but it’s too fleeting and leaves no impression. Needless to say, I’ve become bored. And wishful. Mopey. Anxious. All of the above. My senses have been numbed, praying(preying) for any spark of inspiration. Nothing helps. Dating; relationships; work; being with friends; nights out; trips to Atlantic City; concerts; interviews; etc.

There have only been a handful of seminal moments since I’ve eaten a proper doner kebab, and I can sadly count them on one hand:

1. Trip to Portland, Oregon where Casey, currently saving the world one Kazakh child at a time, eloquently put it as only he could:

It’s not as if this idea is novel*, especially. A couple months ago, I gathered on my lawn with two of my closest friends, two who share paralleling professional pursuits. Matt, Jordan, and I had met during that summer at SI, bonding over fact-checks and foot-high margaritas. Despite living worlds apart – Matt in New York, Jordan in the Bay Area – they’d decided to explore the magic and hyperbole of my city. Portland sufficed, and we paused for a mid-day break to discuss, as we’re wont to do, writing.

*Ha.

Typically, we discuss the latest goings-on in the SI offices, and swap the best offerings we’d recently come across. But that afternoon, as we chewed our cigars, sipped our rum, and wrapped ourselves in a freezing Portland afternoon, we discussed the merits and desires of writing a book. There was no explicit, dye-in-the-wool moment where we decided to push our writing into the world of Penguin and Simon & Schuster. Instead, as the drizzle pocked our smoke, we discussed the possibility of such a path.*

*Jordan’s written more than (and well) enough to warrant at least a compilation, and while Matt and I are currently breaking from that path, I’ve little doubt we will – just as Prodigal Sons; just as Griffey to the M’s; just as Bartolo Colon to ace-hood – return.

We were journalists, after all. We’d be fools to try to shake that two-ton boulder pinning such a goal. It’s in our blood.

2. Lasik surgery.

3. My recent 23rd birthday dinner at Le Bernardin with nine of my closest confidants, or as one friend put it, my “brain trust.” A group of naive, ballsy kids dining on 3-Star Michelin caviar, foie gras and all the exotic edibles the oceans can offer.

And that’s it. Everything else has been lacking of seasoning, and Istanbul is gratefully to blame. She opened up the world to me, the endless adventure I desperately want to IV into my veins. Too frequently I have moments during the day I feel helpless, stymied by the monotony of my life. Public Relations tries to fill the void, but we both know it won’t. It can’t. The love isn’t there. Journalism might, but for how long before the fire rekindles within me?

Friends tell me it’s just my impatience, which I agree to an extent. I’m quick to pull the trigger, always. But this is different because I don’t know what I’m searching for.

And there it is. What’s ahead of me is a gray cluster-fuck of career opportunities and memories waiting to be opened, digested, and plastered to my insides.

A part of me just wants to leave everything behind - throw a dart on a map and go wherever it lands.

I’ll make sure to aim for Istanbul.