by Nick Inman
My brother-in-law runs a shop close to the centre of a large city. Every day tourists come in and ask for directions to the cathedral and he patiently explains the way to get there. Most of these enquirers listen, nod, leave the shop and head off in the opposite direction to the one indicated. Why this should be, neither of us knows but that doesn’t stop us speculating. I like to think these tourists are errant sages. Their request is sincere but they are disappointed to hear that they are so close to their goal. To be given precise directions is like being handed a plan of a maze with the route to the exit marked. If they obey the instructions they will be tempted to hurry on and deny themselves any sense of adventure. Instead, they want to spin out the search a little longer, to continue in the excitement of exploration. They know that there are two aspects to any journey: the destination and the experience of getting there – which holds an enchantment of its own. It is all the stuff that happens around the core activity of sightseeing that makes a holiday come alive. Experience is often treated as a side-effect of travel: that which we can’t help having in the process of going where we are going. The point was brought home to me one day while researching a guide to Istanbul. As I was making my way around the old city, I crossed a junction and happened to glance down a side street. It was deserted and there was nothing of interest for any tourist; but there was one object that caught my eye. Beside an open workshop door a plain
wooden coffin leant against the wall at an angle of 45°. Where I live, you don’t see coffins displayed like everyday items of hardware. You only see them occupied at funerals and they are always made of varnished hardwood and polished brass to soften the reality of death. This one was crudely made as if it were a carpentry project. It stood on an alien street and had nothing to do with me and I only glimpsed it for a second but it invaded my thoughts without my wanting it to. Who was that coffin for? I wondered. In this disorienting city I had one thing in common with every stranger. I found myself suddenly transported elsewhere, plunged into a spontaneous stream of consciousness about the nature of death, of life and how each of us responds to both these mysteries I realised that I was trying to see Istanbul on a superficial level, as if I had left myself at home. I couldn’t hope to understand the Haghia Sophia or the Blue Mosque in terms of their architecture and history alone without understanding the people who built them. A religious building is meaningless if I approach it only with my intellect.
When we travel, we are always exploring two simultaneous realities: the one before us that that we commonly agree on and the mysterious, immaterial one we carry inside us. This word, “mystical”, comes loaded with connotations and is frequently misunderstood. Although it is associated with religion and unreality, it doesn’t require of you any faith or suspension of disbelief.
41 THEEDENMAGAZINE.COM e February 2016