While I was looking after the two children in a small square, Zita walked into the gothic World Heritage cathedral. She only emerged after an unusually long time. As she had no change on her, she asked me to buy a candle and light it. My little boy came along and was quick to drop the counted change into the collection box, but then suddenly turned and ran out to his mother… and as I rushed to catch up with him, I saw from the doorway that Zita was sobbing, shoulders heaving. Back in the coolness of the cathedral, I lit a church candle for the first time in my life; it was just flickering there, with perhaps a hundred others.
I already started to walk out when I noticed St. Christopher standing right opposite the candles in the form of a bright and colourful 15th century statue, carrying the baby Jesus across a river. Zita’s home village also boasts a St. Christopher statue in its main square. It was here, in this seafront cathedral that it suddenly struck me: fire versus water, two of the four elements, the two great polar opposites, birth and death, creation and destruction; and standing between them, in the centre of the nave, was I: the atheist, the pagan, the giaour, the goy, the gadjo, the denial of everything and denier of all.
As I was watching the people in the cathedral, I sensed why I can never walk into a church the way they do. I have visited hundreds, perhaps thousands of churches, places of worship of every major faith and denomination, but only ever as a tourist, as a traveller, as an inquisitive outsider, as a superficial observer. Looking for architectural features in every church I enter, I am probably like the heartless lover who only searches for special and unique features in his hundreds of women, but never comprehends the actual essence, because he is afraid of comprehending it, selfish guardian of his independence.
Out under the open sky again, I was met by the water of the sea on the left and the fire of the sun above, while salty drops of water rolled down my wife’s fiery-hot cheeks as she was pushing the baby stroller around. Water and fire, wherever I look. Fire and water, whatever I feel.

While I looked after the two children in a small square, Zita went into the Gothic cathedral, a Word Heritage Site, from where she emerged only after an unusually long time. Because she did not have any change on her, she asked me to buy a candle and light it. My little boy came along too, but as soon as he let the coins drop into the money-box, he ran out to his mother… and, when I rushed after him, from the entrance, I saw Zita weep, her shoulders trembling. And then, inside, where it was cool, I lit my first candle in a church; it flickered alongside perhaps a hundred others.

On my way out I noticed that across from the candles stood the beautifully colored, 15th century figure of St. Christopher, carrying baby Jesus across a river. The village where Zita grew up also had a statue of St. Christopher in the main square. And suddenly, here, inside the cathedral by the sea, something hit me: fire and water, the great opposing forces of the four elements, against each other, like birth and death, creation and destruction. And there I stand, among them, in the middle of the main nave: the atheist, the pagan, the infidel, the gentile, and the godless. Incredulous, the renouncement of all.

I was watching the people inside and understood why I can never enter a church the way they can. I have visited hundreds, maybe even thousands of churches, those of nearly all significant religions and denominations, but only as a tourist, as a traveler, as a curious outsider, as a superficial observer.

Merely interested in architectural characteristics of churches, I am perhaps like a heartless lover, who in his countless conquests seeks nothing but the special and unique features, yet who will never understand the point, because he is too scared to understand it, because selfishly he fears for his independence.

Outside again, under the skies, I am met by the sea on my left, and the blazing sun above. Salty pearls running down her flushed cheeks, Zita is pushing the baby in the stroller. Fire and water, wherever I turn, fire and water, whatever I feel.

While I was looking after the two children at a small square, Zita went into the gothic cathedral that was on the World Heritage List and took an unusually long time to come out. Because she did not have any change on her, she asked me to buy a devotional light and light it. My son also came in with me, and had already dropped the counted out change into the collection box, but then all of a sudden he ran back out to his mother...and as I hurried after him, from the gate I saw that Zita was crying with shaking shoulders. Back inside, in the cool I lit the first devotional light of my life; it was twinkling there with at least a hundred others.
As I was leaving, I realized that exactly opposite the devotional lights there stood St. Christopher, in the form of a beautiful colorfully painted 15th century statue, carrying the baby Jesus across a river. In the village where Zita grew up, there is also a St. Christopher statue at the main square. Here, in the cathedral on the beach, a thought flashed into my mind: fire against water, the two major opposing forces of the four elements, birth and death, creation and destruction; and between them there I stand in the middle of the nave, the atheist, the pagan, the giaour, the gentile, the man, as a denial to everything and a denier of everything.
I was watching the people in the church and suddenly understood why I can never enter a church like they do. I have been in hundreds, maybe even thousands of churches, churches of every major religion and denomination, but only as a tourist, a traveler, an interested outsider, as a superficial observer. I might be like a soulless lover, who is always looking for the special and unique features in his hundreds of women, as I always look for the architectural solutions in the churches, but never understanding the essence itself, as being afraid of understanding, as selfishly afraid of loosing his own independence.
As I arrived outside under the open sky, from the left the water of the sea, from above the fire of the sun welcomed me, and salty water drops were rolling down my better half’s fiery face as she pushed the stroller. Water and fire, wherever I look. Fire and water, whatever I feel.

While I was looking after the two kids in a little square, Zita went to see the gothic cathedral, which even appears on the World Heritage List. She took her time coming out. She did not have any change on her so she asked me to buy a tea light and light it. My little son also came in with me. He put the change we counted out in the collection box, but then he suddenly ran outside to see his mum. Hurrying after him I saw from the gate that Zita’s shoulders were shaking with sobbing. Then in the coolness of the church I lit the first church candle of my life, and there it was, blinking together with about a hundred other lights.
On my way out I noticed that opposite all the lights stood the figure of St Christopher, a nice, colourfully painted 15th century statue, with the saint carrying the baby Jesus across a river. There is a St Christopher statue in the main square of the village where Zita grew up, too. Suddenly, here, at this seaside cathedral an image flashed across my mind: fire opposite water, the two big opposites of the four Elements. Birth and death, creation and destruction, and between them, in the middle of the nave, here I stand: the atheist, the pagan, the infidel, the goy, the gajo, the denial of everything and the denier of everything.
I watched the people in the church, and I understood why I had never been able to step into a church like they did. I have been to hundreds, maybe even thousands of churches of every major religion and denomination, but only as a tourist, a traveller, as a curious outsider, a superficial observer. Maybe I am like the soulless lover who is only ever looking for the extraordinary and the unique in his hundreds of lovers - just like I look for architectural features in churches, - but who never gets the point because he is scared to understand, because he is selfishly worried for his own independence.
When I got outside, I was greeted by the water of the sea on my left, and the heat of the sun above, and I saw my other half pushing the pram up and down, salty drops of water rolling down her red-hot cheeks. Water and fire, wherever I look. Fire and water, whatever I feel.

I was looking after the two children on a little square, when Zita entered the gothic cathedral that is also listed in World Heritage Sites. She came out only after an unusually long time. Having no change, she asked me to buy a candle and to light it. My little son came with me. He had dropped the counted coins into the money box, then, suddenly, he ran out to his mother… As I bolted out after him, in the door I saw Zita crying. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed. Then, in the cool interior, I lit a church candle for the first time in my life; the candle was flickering with some hundred other ones.
On my way out, I noticed a beautifully painted fifteenth-century statue right in front of the candles, St. Christopher’s figure carrying little Jesus across the river. There is a St. Christopher statue also on the main square of the village where Zita grew up. And here, in that seaside cathedral, it came to me in a flash: fire in front of water, the great pair of opposites of the four original elements, birth, death, creation and destruction, and standing amidst it all, in the middle of the main nave, me, the atheist, the pagan, the Goy, the Giaour as Turkish people call all who are non Muslims, the Gadjo as Gypsies call non-Gypsies, me, the negation of everything, negating everything.
I was looking at the people in the church, and I perceived why I could never enter a church like them. I have visited many hundreds, maybe thousands of churches, churches of each main religion and sect, but only as a tourist, as a traveler, as a curious outsider, as a shallow observer. Maybe I am like a half-hearted lover in quest only of singular features in his hundreds of women and he would never understand the very essence because he is afraid of it, because he selfishly fears for his independence, just like I do in churches when I search for architectural solutions.

Outside, under the sky, the seawater awaited me on my left and the fire of the sun over me, while salty teardrops rolled down the burning hot cheeks of my partner pushing the stroller. Water and fire, that is all I can see. Fire and water, that is all I can feel.