Turkish Muse

Randomness

Foreign country

Jeff and I have been battling what I liked to call mystery illness for the past three weeks or so. It's worse than a cold, sorta like strep throat, similar to the flu. Every time I think I had it licked, it kept coming back worse than before. Finally, last week, I took three days off work, stayed home, drank orange juice and slept and I think I have finally beaten it out of my system.

I spent three days watching English-language movies, reading the New York Times and the Economist online and talking only to Jeff. In fact, I think I only left the house once, to get more orange juice, and I didn't even bother changing out of my pajamas.

When I stepped out of my apartment building to make my morning commute to work on Friday, I was thus somewhat surprised to find myself in Turkey. After having spent three days immersing myself in my own culture, I had sort of forgotten where I was. It felt curiously strange to hear people speaking Turkish all around me, and everything that was so familiar, the doo-oop sound from the subway entrance as I pressed my Akbil through, the "Iyi Yolculuklar" tune that greets the train as it approaches the platform, all seemed so foreign. Kinda cool, actually. Now I know exactly what to do when I need a break.

Readin'

I have always had trouble buying novels. Unless I'm buying a book from a writer I KNOW I like, I have a very hard time discerning between crap and genius simply by reading the back cover and flipping through a few pages. This problem is, as many things are, exacerbated in Turkey because English-language books are imported and are thus way more expensive than they ought to be. And if I'm going to spend 20 or 25 lira on a novel, it better be damn good.

I should add, however, that this "problem" is off-set by the lack of so-called "chick lit" in this country. Instead of books like "Jane Gets Married" and "And Baby Makes Three" clogging the shelves, bookstores in Istanbul tend to carry titles by Richard Yates, Iris Murdoch, Doris Lessing and other middle- to high-brow authors.

There seems, however, to be no Jodi Picoult or Wally Lamb, and because of that, I am extremely grateful for Amazon.

New passport

Yesterday morning I took the bus to Istinye to the seemingly impenetrable fortress that is the American consulate. I got my first passport when I was 16, and for 10 years I have been waiting for it to expire so that I could get a new one with a better photograph. I'm not going to show you the photo – that would be disastrous and the image would scar you for life – but I will say that I looked like a freakish nerd with my long, perfectly straight hair and big, round glasses.

Why the guy taking the photo didn't tell me I looked like an idiot I'll never know, but I also put some of the blame on my dad, who took me to have the photo taken at the Boscov's in the Camp Hill Mall. I mean, come on. I was 16. Aren't parents supposed to protect their children from having stupid passport photos of themselves? It's not like a driver's license photo, which you have renewed in four years. A passport is good for 10!

Nine times out of 10, when I would give my passport to a hotel clerk or an airline check-in desk employee, the person receiving it would do a double-take to make sure I was indeed the same person in the passport photo. So it was with special care yesterday morning that I fixed my hair and put on some makeup so that the photo I had taken wouldn't make me look like a freak.

Of course, I still don't like my lopsided smile, but hey, I can live with that for the next decade.

Batman nights

I'm not ashamed to admit it: I enjoy a drink now and again. I appreciate a full-bodied red wine, or a dry martini or a cold beer. I like to enjoy a glass of rakı -- or two -- at a Türkü evi in Taksim while clapping along to live music. And since Ümit was the one who introduced us to Canè, a live music bar in Taksim well over a year ago, we assumed that he also enjoyed similar finer things in life.

So on our first or second day in Batman, when we asked, "Is there any place around here like Canè that we can go to?", we were surprised to hear that the answer was no. And that the nearest bar was a 20-minute drive away. I suppose that Jeff and I were as baffled as Yasemin was when I told her that we were atheists. What do you mean? I asked Ümit. I don't get it. There are no bars here? Like, at all? Really? Oh. Well then.

On Friday night, our first in Batman, we asked Ümit what he normally did on Friday nights. "I sit at home with my family," he said.

Hmmm.

Seeing the look on our faces, Ümit said not to worry, he would take us somewhere fun. So off we went to the Bahar Kültür Merkezi (Spring Cultural Center) where we watched live Kurdish music and theatre.

 

Kurdish children's music group

Yeah, there was a lot I didn't understand. Pretty much all of it, actually. I couldn't understand the children's music group, but they sounded good! I sorta understood the short theatrical sketch that followed it, though. Something about a crazy man with a tumor in his leg that needed to be removed with a lazer, which the doctor explained to him as something out of Star Trek. THAT I understood!

 

Bahar Kultur Merkezi, Batman

We were such a sight at the center that a journalist took our photograph and we made it into Monday morning's paper!

 

Guess not too much exciting happens in Batman, huh?

The second night Ümit's friend Yaşar convinced us to go bowling in the "entertainment center" of Batman's only mall. I declined to play, thinking I might have a chance to chat with Ümit but he insisted on text messaging his girlfriend for an hour and a half. So as I sat in silence watching my husband bowl, the lights were lowered and disco balls splayed splashes of colored light all over the lanes while loud, pulsating dance music made my ears ring. All around, people sat drinking ... tea. Yes, tea. It was one of the weirdest things I've ever seen. It was sort of like what I imagine a Christian disco to be like.

 

Jeff and Yasar

On Sunday, when we were in Diyarbakir, Ümit was feeling a bit low, so I said we'd take him to a meyhane, a traditional Turkish fish house with live music, free-flowing raki and loads of good food. But Ümit shook his head. There are no places like that here, he said. There used to be some bars in Diyarbakir but they closed because they were not popular.

I glanced wide-eyed at Jeff. No bars? Not even in Diyarbakir? If there's one thing I've learned about Turks, it's that even the Muslim ones enjoy downing a raki or four at a meyhane or a few beers at a barbeque. But I guess things are different down in south-eastern Anatolia where people really, truly don't drink.

So we headed out to a cafe on Sanat Sokak, a pedestrian-only street filled with cafes and small shops. In summer, I'm sure it is a wonderful, gorgeous place to hang out. As it was, though, it was pretty cool. We sat in a heated "tent" of sorts, a covered free-standing structure and drank tea after tea after tea while Jeff and Ümit played backgammon and I took pictures.

 

Jeff and Umit, Diyarbakir

Jeff and I had managed to hit up one of the few wine stores in Diyarbakir and we bought a bottle of home-made Assyrian wine. At Ümit's uncle's house, where we spent the night, we watched TV and drank it (Ümit declined as he no longer drinks). It tasted a lot like grape juice, although it had as much alcohol as regular wine so I imagine it packs quite a punch if you're not paying attention.

Back in Batman on Tuesday night, our last night, we decided to imbibe in some beer and wine, so Jeff and I headed out to a shop we saw with an Efes sign out front. Immediately upon entering, we walked smack into the shop's counter and a smiling salesperson. I was a bit bewildered at first. The shop sold ONLY beer and wine and some random varieties of liquor, but no chips, chocolate, eggs or milk, as most bakkals, or convenience stores, in Istanbul do. This shop literally sold only alcohol.

And it was all behind the counter. You couldn't pick anything up and put it in your cart or read the backs of wine bottles without the salesperson having handed it to you first. So we told the guy behind the counter that we wanted a few beers and a bottle of wine. Happily, he obliged. He wrapped the beers and wine in newspaper, then put it in a black bag. Then he put that bag in ANOTHER black bag. Then he tied the bag up.

"Uhhhh....is this so no one knows we're buying alcohol," I asked Jeff. "Most likely." "Should I hide it in my bag" I asked. I was only half joking.

Like a bunch of guilty teenagers, we snuck back to the hotel and hung around listening to Michael Jackson -- It's Ümit! He's a bad influence! -- and Kurdish folk music while drinking Efes and red wine in Coca-Cola glasses provided by the hotel. Little did they know we were using it for alcohol! Ha!

One of Ümit's uncles, whom we met at the restaurant one day, told us that he enjoyed drinking rakı.

"Hmmm," I said, "Rakı, white cheese and melon, there's nothing better."

He nodded in approval. Wait a minute, I thought. "But where do you drink it around here" I asked.

"At home," he said.

Noted. We spent much more time during our trip drinking tea and coffee with Ümit's family at their home or at his father's restaurant, rituals that I found extremely relaxing and comforting. After all, if you can't go out to have a good time, why not just stay in?

The Siren

Must ... fight ... urge ... to ... nap ...

Must ... stay .. clear ... of ... cute ... sleeping ... kitty ....

 

Family matters

Somewhere over Anatolia it occurred to me that our trip from Istanbul to Batman, Turkey might not be unlike our trip a few years ago from Philadelphia, PA to Wichita, KS. As I craned my neck to get a better view of the snow-covered mountains below, which were disappointingly obscured by the plane's massive wing, I realized that I would soon be seeing another side of Turkey that I had heard and read about but had never experienced first-hand, much like when we moved to Kansas a few years ago and I discovered that the US was not all Democrats and Whole Foods shoppers.

Ten years ago when I lived in Istanbul as a high-school exchange student, Rotary organized trips for all the exchanges to the Black Sea region, Ankara and Cappadocia, and the Mediterranean Sea coast. The one area of the country we didn't go to, for obvious security reasons, was the south-east. Since then, I vowed to myself that I would go and see for myself what all the fuss, both good and bad, was about. And since meeting Umit last year, we actually had someone within the region encouraging us to come visit.

Our friend Umit is probably the most generous person that I know apart from my mother-in-law. He's the kind of guy who, when you're not looking, runs off and buys you a pushi or a cool plate because you're too busy looking around at stuff that's new to you. He's the kind of guy who will pay for every little tea, every meal for the first three days of your trip and then pout when you eventually find ways to pay for lunch without him knowing. He's the kind of guy who will walk with you the 15 minutes to your hotel, past his home, so you can have a nap, only to turn right back in an hour to hang out.

Of course, we are the type of friends who smile and nod approvingly when Umit shows us his Michael Jackson moonwalking impression, even though it really is pretty bad. We listen to him moan about his girl troubles, despite the fact that we think the girl he is in love with is a child who's not worth his time.

I know it probably sounds strange to say, but I think Jeff and I may have just fallen in love with Batman during our six days there. I know that 99% of our experiences were because of and through Umit, and we would have had a vastly different impression of the city had we gone alone. As it was, we got to see the city through the eyes of someone who loves it and who is more than happy to show it to us.

And for whatever reason that I still can't figure out, Umit loves us. Thinks we're awesome and that we rock and wants to hang out with us and has sent me at least five text messages every single day since we've been home. Okay, true, some of them I don't understand, but that's part of the fun. Me and my dictionary, we're becoming much better friends.

 

 

Jeff and Umit

Umit's family welcomed us heartily into their fold. We drank tea with them and ate dinner with them, all while Umit's grandmother, who speaks only Kurdish, lamented that if we all spoke the same language, we might have had a very nice chat.

 

dinner at Umit's house

It was perfect timing, being folded into Umit's family when we were. Before going to Batman, I was having a rough couple of weeks in Istanbul. All I wanted to do was go see my family, to go home, just for a week and be surrounded by lots of fun and loving people. As it was, Umit's family from the get-go welcomed us in their home and made us feel comfortable despite our different languages and culture.

I came home feeling like my need to be part of a family was somewhat sated. Living in Turkey, being so far away from my own family, has made me realize that perhaps I need to develop surrogate families in Turkey. Like some people adopt children, maybe I need to adopt a couple of families.

 

Mustapha, Ali Firhat, Numan, Umit's grandmother

Of course, hanging out with them was not without its surprises. On our way back from Diyarbakir to Batman, Umit's sister Yasemin met us at the bus station to head home for a 10-day semester break from university. On the bus ride home, Yasemin and I made small talk and she asked, "You're a Christian, right?" (To a lot of Turks, and Kurds, apparently, religion, weight and sex are not taboo topics of conversation as they are in the US).

Now I had already been through this line of questioning with Umit's brother Numan (third from the left in the above picture) who I don't think had ever met an atheist before. When I told Numan that no, we were not Christian, he didn't even widen his eyes. He sort of started blankly at us and said, "But you believe in god, right? A god, I mean." I gently shook my head. No, I said, we don't believe in any god. I think Numan was stupefied for a good 10 minutes after that, looking at us curiously out of the corner of his eye.

Yasemin had a similar reaction. She stared blankly at me for a moment, then grinned. "You're joking," she said. I laughed and said no, I'm quite serious. Why? she asked. Didn't you grow up with religion? I explained that I went to church a few times when I was a kid but didn't find it meaninful in any way, and that I had had more non-religious influences in my life growing up than religious ones. She seemed to accept that but a few minutes later, she looked at me earnestly and said, "Religion can make life so much nicer," she said. I patted her on the arm and smiled.

 

Umit's mother, Yasemin and me

I guess living in a three-bedroom apartment with eight people (Umit's parents have six children, five boys and one girl) makes one grow up with a different notion of privacy and personal space. After all, when you're sharing a bedroom with three other boys, it's not like you can blare the stereo whenever and however loud you want. Of course, on the flip side, there's always someone to hang out with, to talk to, to drink tea with. I suppose, in a way, that is something I envy.