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Kötürümüm (I'm crippled)
Yes, this is a picture of the inside of my foot. The picture was stupidly expensive. I should have gotten wedding pictures for that price.
Last Sunday, I was hurrying down the hill from the Galata Tower to Karaköy so that I could catch a boat to Asia and meet my friend for breakfast. The sky was overcast, and my mind was full of thoughts about white cheese, olive oil with thyme and red pepper, Anatolian honey, and fresh vegetables. I had on a trusty old pair of Onıtsuka Tigers, which I had hastily slipped on before bolting down my building's spiral staircase and out into the lazy, hazy morning.
The hill is steep, but I have taken it one hundred times before. Midway down the slope, my worn sneakers snagged on an upturned brick in the road (this is Istanbul, small streets are paved in unruly bricks), and in an instant my ankle turned as I rose slightly in the air. A split second later, my body weight came back down in the side of my foot and I heard a loud sound approximately halfway between a snap and crack, kind of like biting through a hard candy.
I said, "ouch."
Hoping for the best, I tried to continue my trek down to the ferries below. I soon realized I should at least examine the foot to see if it were swelling. I limped to the nearest stairs, which led uphill to a side street and sat down. There, while inhaling the smell of urine from the night before, I carefully removed my shoe and sock. Everything looked normal even if the side of my foot was tender. So, I resolved to continue. No sooner had a replace the shoe and taken a step did I understand that something had, in fact, been really damaged.
A taxi ride and several hundred lira later, I was informed that my outermost metatarsal had been fractured. If you look at the x-ray above, I have highlighted the fracture in red (the left side of the picture).
Now, I have crutches, and a block of plaster that could know someone out. It isn't as much fun navigating the city of winding streets and rooftop cafes while using my arms to hoist myself forward with every other step. Who would have thought? Still, I am able to get around my immediate neighborhood, though with a little difficulty.
It seems that I will have to strengthen my patience (and some underused muscles in my upper body) for another six weeks before I can finally see how pale I would become if I lived in a cave. These six weeks will encompass a trip to Italy. I am going to have to recalibrate my expectations for the journey somewhat. I had planned on camping on mount Etna and hiking to a lava field. There was talk of an all-night bar tour in Milan. I was personally looking forward to visiting four distinct gelaterias in Rome. Now, my plans are looking more like: hanging out in my friend's apartment in Sicily, hanging out in my friend's apartment in Milan, and hanging out in my friend's apartment in Rome. Well, at least I will get to see my friends. I'll take a deck of cards.
Last Sunday, I was hurrying down the hill from the Galata Tower to Karaköy so that I could catch a boat to Asia and meet my friend for breakfast. The sky was overcast, and my mind was full of thoughts about white cheese, olive oil with thyme and red pepper, Anatolian honey, and fresh vegetables. I had on a trusty old pair of Onıtsuka Tigers, which I had hastily slipped on before bolting down my building's spiral staircase and out into the lazy, hazy morning.
The hill is steep, but I have taken it one hundred times before. Midway down the slope, my worn sneakers snagged on an upturned brick in the road (this is Istanbul, small streets are paved in unruly bricks), and in an instant my ankle turned as I rose slightly in the air. A split second later, my body weight came back down in the side of my foot and I heard a loud sound approximately halfway between a snap and crack, kind of like biting through a hard candy.
I said, "ouch."
Hoping for the best, I tried to continue my trek down to the ferries below. I soon realized I should at least examine the foot to see if it were swelling. I limped to the nearest stairs, which led uphill to a side street and sat down. There, while inhaling the smell of urine from the night before, I carefully removed my shoe and sock. Everything looked normal even if the side of my foot was tender. So, I resolved to continue. No sooner had a replace the shoe and taken a step did I understand that something had, in fact, been really damaged.
A taxi ride and several hundred lira later, I was informed that my outermost metatarsal had been fractured. If you look at the x-ray above, I have highlighted the fracture in red (the left side of the picture).
Now, I have crutches, and a block of plaster that could know someone out. It isn't as much fun navigating the city of winding streets and rooftop cafes while using my arms to hoist myself forward with every other step. Who would have thought? Still, I am able to get around my immediate neighborhood, though with a little difficulty.
It seems that I will have to strengthen my patience (and some underused muscles in my upper body) for another six weeks before I can finally see how pale I would become if I lived in a cave. These six weeks will encompass a trip to Italy. I am going to have to recalibrate my expectations for the journey somewhat. I had planned on camping on mount Etna and hiking to a lava field. There was talk of an all-night bar tour in Milan. I was personally looking forward to visiting four distinct gelaterias in Rome. Now, my plans are looking more like: hanging out in my friend's apartment in Sicily, hanging out in my friend's apartment in Milan, and hanging out in my friend's apartment in Rome. Well, at least I will get to see my friends. I'll take a deck of cards.
Comments
xoxo
Emma