Our last day in Istanbul was a Sunday, and so we made the trek to the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate. From the outside, the Church of St. George is small and unassuming, hardly noticeable outside its gates. Inside the church was packed with people moving around. There was no place to sit, but standing is just something you grow accustomed to after a year of Orthodox worship. As is learning to translate what I like to call “church Greek”; while there wasn’t a smidgen of English throughout the entire Liturgy I was still able to pick up pieces here and there. At the end of the service, Patriarch Bartholomew gave an address, and at that moment I really wished for a translator. Of course, I was exceedingly nervous when we filed forward to have a flower and cross pendant handed to us by the Patriarch, wondering if there was any possible way for me to mess up kissing his hand. I didn’t.

from my journal:

We’re on a bus. On a ferry. It’s strange to look out the window of a vehicle and see waves.

I debate whether or not I should run up to the deck and do my best to capture the flight of the gulls. The wind is cold and wet, hence my hesitation. I also doubt that it would be possible to truly capture the beauty of these soaring birds. The arch of their wings, their streamlined bodies, perfectly adapted to riding the air. They are fantastic. And they seem to enjoy the breeze far more than I would.