Yesterday, on my way to Sultanhamet, I crossed the Galata Bridge, over the Golden Horn, looking out on the wine-dark sea of the Bosporus. The sky was mirror to the sea, cloudless and blue as far as one could see; in the water rose the Bosporus Bridge--oh what Darius would have given for a bridge such as it--and ferries, fishing boats and container ships moved like a symphony written on water. It really isn't until you are here, looking out at the harbor and around the straits that you realize just how strategic Istanbul remains.

But strategy and politics were far from my mind yesterday as I sped across the bridge. The sights were intoxicating. I luxuriated in the travelers sense of 'seeing' of being a part of something a little bigger than myself, of doing what so few others every really do. Considering the recent past, I felt liberated from the stultifying expectations of home, at last. Plus, my muse was waiting.

She sits at the highest point in Sultanhamet, the Hagia Sophia (picture here and here), glaring at the Blue mosque--interloper that he is--she defies time. She, this church, built while the emperor Justinian reigned in the 6^th century, remains the most splendid architectural achievement I've ever seen--and I have looked upon more than my fair share.

But seeing her is always bittersweet. No longer a church, her stones, pillars and piers have forgotten the silences of holy places. They've lost the memory of the sacred. And this is a pity.

But then, standing under the huge, semi-flat dome, gazing at the massive pendentives that allow a circle to be supported by a square I am in awe. Chills run up and down my spine as I shudder in gratitude. If but to see, not once, but anytime I wish? I should be so lucky.

After the personal vicissitudes of the last several months I never thought I'd have the chance to live in such a place. For that and for finding my muse once again, I am truly grateful.