Nazim: A Journey Through Ayvalik and Unexpected Encounters

The ferry from Lesvos approached Ayvalik, Turkey, stirring vague childhood memories of market stalls, a woman searching for a lost church. This time, I travelled with a friend, both of us without a plan, just the excitement of wandering. On the ferry deck, I saw a woman short hair, a confident presence, and an air of mystery. She noticed me watching, waiting for me to speak, but hesitation won. She left, and I never saw her again.

Stepping into Ayvalik, the scent of grilled fish filled the air. We wandered through the market—nothing fancy, just farmers selling produce. In a shop, an owner mistook me for a local, shouting in Turkish. When I responded in English, his confusion deepened. I smiled and left empty-handed. We found respite in a small, shaded shisha café, its vine-covered alley offering a break from the heat. The owner greeted us in Turkish, and with a mix of gestures and a single shared word "chai" we managed to order. His young son served us, embodying warmth and hospitality.

A few minutes after I started feeling nauseous and dizzy. It was the moment I understood that the shisha might be too strong, and the child brought those big charcoals that looked more like charcoals for a 19th-century train and not for a shisha. I looked at my friend and asked him if he was feeling good. He replied to me that he felt the same as me.

After several rounds of tea and shisha, dizziness set in. The shisha was stronger than expected, but an idea struck, I needed a book by Nazim Hikmet, Turkey’s renowned poet. Walking through a quiet, abandoned street, I spotted a beggar, sitting alone, surrounded by century-old buildings. His stillness left an imprint on my mind. He seemed to be waiting in an empty street without many people passing by. It seemed to me surreal in a sense. The old abandoned houses from the past century, a few cars and some graffiti on the walls. And then the beggar, alone, waiting for something that might never come.

I reached the first bookstore and got in. It seemed more like a vintage store and it truly was. I still remember the random pictures and paintings on the walls. The dusted tables full of books and any small thing that someone could imagine. I approach the owner, who looks at me weirdly. my first words in English seemed to be pointless since he did not understand anything. I grab a random book and say to him Nazi Hikmet? The owner seemed uneasy, even defensive. Realizing the tension, I changed the subject and bought a small ashtray instead. He said the price in Turkish and I did not understand anything. I saw a small notebook and a pen next to the dusty table and decided to write down the price. I wrote the price I believed it was suited and he wrote another price back, I looked at him and wrote another price. Eventually, we agreed on the price and I paid him.

At the next bookstore, I hesitated at the entrance, scanning old photographs on display. Inside, the owner was a woman with short hair, strangely reminiscent of the ferry stranger. Eventually, after the convincing of my friend, I decided to get into the bookstore. And there I saw her closely, she had short hair and tanned skin. Remembering her face now, seems even more difficult to me, but I still remember everything we discussed.

I did not know if she noticed me at first. I was looking at the bookselves, hoping that I might find any book by Nazim Hikmet. I did not find anything. I stood looking at a bookshelf and waiting for everyone to leave, so I could ask her. When eventually everyone left I approached her. She seemed the only person to realise that I was a foreigner, she looked at me smiled and said "hi" in English. That was my first surprise. I smiled back and asked her awkwardly, sorry could you help me find some books of poetry. She then replied to me: "I can, but all the books are in Turkish". "It is alright", I said, "it is a gift for my father, he can read Turkish. I can't".

She showed me a few books. My eyes were gazing at them, trying to find the name, "Nazim". In the end, I decided to ask her, I looked at her and said "Do you have any books of Nazim Hikmet? Because I cannot find anything in the bookshelves". She seemed relaxed something that was pleasant and surprising. She turned to me and said, "Yes, but you cannot find these books on bookshelves".

She retrieved a small key, unlocked a drawer, and revealed a secret stash Hikmet’s books, posters, and leftist magazines, things banned or hard to find in Turkey. “Choose,” she told me. I picked a book of letters Hikmet had written to his wife from prison. She studied me for a moment before asking, “Who are you?” We both laughed. She had once been a journalist in Istanbul, but her newspaper had been shut down under Erdogan’s regime. Our conversation drifted to politics, then to cinema, where we exchanged names of favourite directors. She wrote down Turkish films for me, and I did the same with Greek ones for her.

Realizing my ferry was about to leave, I hurriedly grabbed my book. As I turned to leave, she pulled me into a warm embrace, kissing me twice on the cheek—the last kiss dangerously close to our lips. I hesitated, feeling the urge to stay, but instead, I backed away, knocking over some books. Embarrassed, I picked them up, stole one last glance, and left.

Outside, my friend, who had been waiting patiently, smirked. “You really liked her, didn’t you?” I looked back at the bookstore one last time. She was laughing with friends, unaware of the moment I carried with me. I turned forward and kept walking, leaving behind a fleeting connection that would remain unforgettable.

Sergios Saropoulos