One of the best side effects of being in a new place is a hypersensitivity to all the little things that go unnoticed once you’ve been there for a long time.

Having spent three years in Syracuse, I’m head over heels for the school and the city, but when I was still there, my day-to-day observations about the world had become dulled by routine. In Turkey, however, it’s like being a child again — each of the five senses more alert than they have been in ages. It’s easier to notice more vividly the nuances of daily life.

On my morning walks to school or my internship, I resist shoving in my ear buds so that I can better hear the “Buyruns” — how the Turkish say “Welcome” — of local shop owners, crackling laugher wafting from the outdoor tables of tea cafes or the distant, wet growl of boats gliding through the Bosphorus Strait.

I’ve never been more aware of the smell of freshly baked bread — whole loaves can be bought for the equivalent of 25 cents — or the faint, musty aroma sourced in the repetition of one ancient, wooden apartment after another.

There’s also how carefully I taste the jarring saltiness of Turkey’s famous yogurt drink, ayran, or the flavor of an unfamiliar spice. Even how acutely I feel the cool breeze off the strait, the unevenness of the road under my feet and the burn in my legs from dragging my body up one of Istanbul’s million spiral staircases.

Less physically, there’s the warm surge I feel upon receiving a smile from a stranger when my garbled attempts at Turkish apparently form something that’s coherent enough to be understood.

But perhaps most striking are the minute visual wonders that grab my attention on a daily basis. Istanbul is a city of color, with swatches of brightness where you least expect them.

There’s the startling streak of orange as a stray cat lurches by, the shock of color from the curtains of clothes hanging out to dry from balconies and window sills, or the metallic gleam off the roof of a nearly-hidden hovel spotted high on some wooded ridge.

I find myself admiring not only the glitz and twinkle of the lights illuminating one of the bridges from Europe to Asia, but also the pinpricks of blue and green that dance on the Bosphorus below. I notice the fiery red produced when the sunset’s light turns the Turkish flag translucent.

On any given night down by the Bosphorus, a middle-aged man makes extra money by plopping a chain of balloons into the water and charging a few lire to let passers-by test their aim with his pellet gun: the pastel pops, the bobbing survivors, the dark water an unexpected host to a multi-hued carnival game. The one time I tried it, the only thing I managed was puncturing a spent beer can.

I get caught up in the bruisey green-grays of the dome of an old mosque; the faded, chipped red of a salt-licked fishing boat; and the rich contrast of reddish amber tea and a silver spoon.

One collection of color I’ve been missing, though, is that of the Syracuse fall. Every so often, tromping down the crowded sidewalks, I’ll see some burnt orange and hear the telltale crunch of autumn, but the consistent 75-degree weather keeps the treetops green. Thinking of the fall — the apples I’m not picking, the pumpkin lattes missing from every Starbucks menu — reminds me that in only a few months I’ll be back in Syracuse for the spring.

It makes me hope that even when I’m back to my old ways, I’ll still remember to keep my senses as alive as they are here, and that I’ll continue to be amazed by all the little parts of the day that make it its own.

Jillian D’Onfro is a senior magazine journalism and information management and technology dual major. Her column appears every Tuesday. She can be reached at [email protected].

Published on October 16, 2012 at 2:49 am