In and Out of the Charles

Istanbul, where I spent the first eighteen years of my life, was centered around a natural water channel. Maybe the most famous one in the world: the Bosphorus Strait, separating continental Europe and Asia.

Most of the places to be, to live, and to go were on the coast of the Bosphorus. This makes sense because the scenery is beautiful. It also makes no sense at all, because the same beautiful water separates two continents, stretches about a kilometer wide in many places, and, with traffic, can easily turn crossing it into an hour long traffic.

Part 1: Dorm Room

Maybe it was because of my hometown, Istanbul. Or maybe it was because my first dorm room in Boston, Claflin 1113 on West Campus, had a panoramic view of the Charles River. Either way, very early on, I built a version of Boston in my mind where the city revolved around the Charles.

The truth is, I do not know if this is true historically or geographically. But it does not matter much. In my mind, it is true.

I was also the last one to move into the room. It was a triple with bunk beds, which naturally meant that I got to pick my bed last. My bed was the one farthest from the windows and closest to the door. My back was to the wall, the door was on my right, my desk was underneath the bunk bed, and when I lay down, my feet pointed toward the Charles.

Up until mid-November, before the harsh Boston weather settled in, I kept waking up to the sun rising directly above the river.

This was probably my first relationship with the Charles. For the next year, I spent most of my time around campus and away from the river. Being in college for the first time was intense enough. Even the empty hallways of Claflin Hall felt socially charged. The dining hall, the elevators, the laundry room, the walk to class, the conversations in the hallway all felt new. I did not need to go very far into Boston.

So the Charles stayed where it was, outside my window.

Part 2: In a Quarter Mile, Slight Left on Dr. Paul Dudley White Bike Path

Things changed fairly quickly the next spring. I suddenly became more interested in exploring Boston, including the Charles River. There were a few reasons for this. One of them was that I got myself a bike, and I really liked riding it around. The second was that I was missing home. Not only missing home as a place, but missing the feeling of knowing places: bakeries, restaurants, nice views, bookstores, small shortcuts, streets that mean something.

So one morning, very early, I decided to bike to Bricco Bakery in the North End, a place my friend had recommended a while ago. I checked Google Maps. It gave me three options: through Comm Ave, across and back over the Charles, or along Dr. Paul Dudley White Bike Path.

I chose the bike path, even though it was the longest route. I thought I could enjoy some scenery.

I was right.

For the next few months, biking by the Charles became one of my new hobbies. I liked it so much that I started inventing excuses to do it every weekend. I went to Haymarket. I went to the North End. Sometimes I went somewhere specific, and sometimes the destination was just an excuse to ride beside the river for a little longer.

At that time, the Charles was no longer just a view from my dorm room. It had become a passage. One of my favorites.

Still, I was only passing through. I was moving beside it, not inside it. I liked the river. I looked forward to it. But I did not really feel like I belonged there.

Part 3: The Charles through the River Street Bridge

Then, I started running.

I stayed loyal to the River Street Bridge route, the same route I had first learned by biking. From my home at the time, it was about a mile to the river. That first mile was not beautiful. It was Allston in its most Allston form: ugly bridges, traffic, exhaust, narrow sidewalks, cars moving too fast, and me trying to convince my lungs that this was a good idea.

But then Cambridge Street connected to the bike path.

That was always the best moment of the run. Suddenly, the city opened. The noise did not disappear, but it moved farther away. The air felt cleaner. The road stopped being something I had to survive, and the river became something I could follow.

By the time I reached the Charles, the run changed completely. I was no longer running through Allston traffic. I was running beside water, trees, cyclists, rowers, dogs, and people.

I felt the sun, the wind, and the smell of the air much more deeply than I did while biking. On a bike, the river passed by me. While running, I had to stay with it.

I started noticing people more. Their faces, their posture, their pace. Were they enjoying their run, or were they suffering through it like me? Were those two people on a first date? Was that guy trying to hit a 5K PR? How was that woman running so fast without looking like she was about to die?

Suddenly, the Charles became more than a passage. It was still not exactly a destination, but it had become something to experience. A place where I was not only moving through the city, but paying attention to it.

Part 4: In the Charles

I have only kayaked on the Charles twice so far, but both times were funny experiences. Not funny because anything particularly funny happened, but because, once I was actually on the river, I did not feel like I was in the same Charles I had been seeing all this time.

By that point, I had created an entire idea of the Charles in my mind. It was a legend, a concept, a view, a passage, a pathway, a running track, an experience. I had turned it into so many things that I almost forgot the most obvious one.

The Charles is a river.

You can swim in it, kayak on it, fall into it, get wet from it, smell it, touch it, float on it. It is not only something to look at from a dorm room, bike beside on a spring morning, or run along while trying to beat a 5K time. It is water. Real, physical, unstable water.

And this Saturday, the Charles reminded me of that again.

Seeing West Campus from the kayak, passing the runners and cyclists on the bike path, and coming across the River Street Bridge from underneath were all strangely perspective-changing experiences. These were places I already knew. But from the water, they looked slightly wrong. Or maybe they looked more honest. The bridge was no longer a route. It was above me. The bike path was no longer my path. It belonged to other people. West Campus was no longer my old home. It was a shape on the riverbank.

It almost felt like, for the first time, I was not the one staring at the Charles. The Charles was staring back at me.

From the dorm room, I had turned it into a view. On the bike, I had turned it into a passage. While running, I had turned it into a path. But from the kayak, floating awkwardly on top of it, I was no longer outside the scene, observing it. I was inside it.

The river was looking at me with a big, ironic smile on its face.

And maybe that smile was not only about the Charles.

I had looked at the Bosphorus, walked beside it, biked around it, photographed it, thought about it, crossed its bridges, taken ferries over it, and even sat in small boats on it. But somehow, after all these years in Istanbul, I had never really let its water touch me.

Maybe it is time to do that this summer.