Serendipity

From the small library of the Ibrahim Pasha Hotel in Istanbul, a glass of red wine and some pistachios on the low table in front of me, a vase of pungent lilies nearby, Paolo Conte on the sound system and light rain and cool air in the streets of Sultanahmet.

Istanbul.

One of my favorite places in the world. Sensuous, exotic, surprising. Welcoming but also unknowable -- my favorite kind of relationship.

Tomorrow I board a Turkish Airlines flight back to New York. My adventure wraps and, just like in the movies, the scene fades and the suspended reality edges back into the picture. Home, dogs, work, groceries, meal prep, bills, therapy, lawn care, health insurance, car maintenance, Spanish lessons, lots of Facebook postings, talks with my sister, Netflix, Amazon.com deliveries. The realities of a nice life. But also, perhaps, a life that fails to maximize serendipity.

That's what is so special about travel: the serendipity. The fact that you wake up in the morning, eat strange cheese and have absolutely no clue what is going to happen next: what you'll do, what you'll find on the way to the Forum, who you'll run into or strike up a conservation with or spot across a half-empty Turkish coffee house. Unpredictable and therefore exciting.

That's the kind of life I love. (Do I live it or do I just crave it? I dunno. Perhaps a bit of both, which is a lot better than exclusively the latter.) A life in which things turn on a dime. You stop in for a donut and end up living in a foreign country. Unpredictable, unconventional, possible. I learn the most from these adventures. Serendipity is an inspiring teacher.

Here are some of the serendipitous moments for me over the last two weeks.

1. Driving with my friends Gulya and Ilgar in Baku. We are pulled over by a policeman. Why? No reason at all. We aren't speeding. Ilgar's Mercedes is in fine nick. Gulya tells me to make sure the policeman hears me speaking English. Ilgar explains that I am an American journalist, part of the press corps in Baku for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton's visit. It's a big lie, of course, but the policeman is sufficiently spooked to stare for a moment, then let us pass. No bribe required. Had I not been there, Ilgar and Gulya tell me, cash would definitely have had to pass hands. Simply because that's the way it is. Note to self: be grateful this is not a regular occurrence in my life. Be grateful. Do not take for granted the freedoms I enjoy. And be aware that this is not the case for everyone. And, above all, improvise!

2. A nighttime walk in old Baku (the old city...leitmotif here...I love old cities) with one of the world's great storytellers, Fuad Akhundov. Ghosts of Russian spies, Azeri oil barons and Armenian merchants follow us from house to house, as Fuad reveals the city's secrets. He shows me the magic that is a port city at the other end of my world and, more importantly, a gateway to trade routes and destinations. We end the night in a half-restored garden, two turn-of-a-century wisteria trees stubbornly pushing their way up onto balconies and beyond in a romantic nod to one man's love for his saddened wife. Stories, I am reminded, bring lives to life. And everyone has one. Some people have many. Just have to remember to ask. And listen.

3. Crossing the lobby of the Ibrahim Pasha Hotel and seeing one of the dozen or so people I know in all of Turkey. Mehmet Yildiz. He is just sitting there, as if anticipating that I will be in Istanbul and it is normal that he should be waiting for me. My friend Asha and I had intended to go to the fish market for dinner. At Mehmet's insistence, we go left instead of right and make our way to his brother Hamza's carpet shop, just off the Hippodrome. We have a private showing of carpets. I buy an Usak and Asha buys two kilims. Then we head to the shop's top floor and eat a Turkish sofra (a picnic of sorts -- eaten on the floor, food scooped up with Turkish bread) with our friends. We drink red wine. Mehmet plays the saz, a long necked Turkish guitar. We say goodnight, laugh at the improbability of the scene, and agree to meet the next day at the Grand Bazaar after our morning at the Istanbul Culinary Institute. We promise to bring Mehmet samples of our cooking. The lesson here? Well, pretty obvious, really. Sometimes you need to take a left when you were certain you were going to hang that right. And see where the road takes you.

If I can integrate the memories, I'll add to my life that key spice: the one that makes it interesting and surprising and hard but worth it. And that ingredient is curiosity. Grateful for freedoms and not afraid to use them, willing to wing it, eager to hear other peoples' stories and to share, and willing to take what feels like a wrong turn and commit to the choice.

I head home. Wiser, perhaps. Poorer, no question. And curiouser and curiouser, oh yes.