Prosecards from the Edge (of a Continent)

Tales from the Road - Lycia, End of the Road

2010-04-19T21:24:00.013+03:00

Morning finds me still blissful from the evening's surprising turn of events. Wrapping my starchy, snow-white sheet about myself under the heaven of the A/C, I ask myself the usual question: stay or go? This time the answer is easy: stay, of course! Such possibilities for change and directions unexpected I see here...

Over the course of my nightly visits to the Deep Blue Bar, I have made the acquaintance of a colorful cast of bartenders, waitresses and regulars. Richard is one of the temporary regulars (in that he's only here for a spell, but while he's here, he's at the bar every night), a man with a Santa Claus-like white beard, a disarming smile, and a sailboat. Originating from Portland, Oregon, he has been gradually making his way around the world in his boat, with a prolonged stop in Turkey, emphasis on Fethiye. When I meet him he is in the company of a sprightly, tanned blonde girl who has come to Turkey to learn sailing and has been accompanying Richard on his boat for a few days. She is leaving for the U.S. the following day, and Richard is at the Deep Blue for her farewell round of drinks. When we meet, he is actively seeking a new crew member, and I waste no time in volunteering. Fantastic! Two days in almost sole control of a beauty of a boat! I'm definitely in. I choose to not think too much about the fact that Richard seems to have a predilection for younger, female crew members ("I just don't like men very much," I remember him saying).

The plan is to sail from Fethiye to Göcek, with copious detours and stops on the way. Göcek is a yachtsman's haven, thickly forested hills flanking quiet coves with crystal clear turquoise waters. I couldn't wait to be there. The denizens of the Deep Blue seem to feel that Richard is a solid citizen, no pervert or axe-murderer, and I trust them enough that their opinion on this matter is sufficient. I'm thrilled -- sailing again, at long last!

The following evening M. is on one of his rare shore leaves (one night only). We dine together and top it off with a stop at the Deep Blue. I've told him about my plan for the coming two days, assuming he would be delighted for me. But something is wrong...he is quieter than usual, withdrawn, unresponsive to my questions and attempts to make conversation. Eventually it evolves into a a kind of passive-aggressive fight, where I am prodding -- and eventually jabbing -- verbally, just to get some kind of response, and he retreats deeper into his cigarettes, long looks, and the silent reserves of his soul. After this has continued long enough for me to finally produce sharp remarks from him and tears from me, it comes out, slowly, that this spontaneous decision to spend two days and one night on board the boat of a man whom I barely know is not sitting well with him. I try to make him understand that this is a harmless, loveable, elderly American guy who looks like Santa Claus, everybody loves him, and there is nothing whatsoever to be concerned about, but on this one we are at an impasse...and I am wondering if it has more to do with my safety or with the appropriateness of me going off with some man, alone on his boat...I suspect it is a little of each, highlighting once again the cultural divide between us...

But M. is an interesting soul in that he recognizes the ways in which he is bound by his own culture, but also tries hard to open his mind to different ways of seeing or doing things. It is probably one of the reason he values me: he recognizes the limitations of his own cultural boundaries and appreciates a chance to view things differently. It isn't easy for him -- usually it takes a day or two after his initial resistance to an idea to come around and say, 'ok, let's try that on for size,' but most important is that he does it, and I admire him for this. And once again it occurs to me how radically different we are -- far beyond American vs. Turkish, this is American-cosmopolitan-well-travelled-well-read meets Turkish-small-town-haven't-really-been-anywhere. It would be easier for me to be with an urbanite Istanbulian, or him with an Iowa farm girl, I reflect. But on the other hand, opposition can create interesting ways of looking at life. It is almost a danger to have a partner who comes from the same background, sees things the same way. Unless you make a habit of challenging each other, there is a tendency to simply reinforce the things you already believe.

At any rate, M. knows me well enough to know that he can not 'forbid' me to do something, and indeed, that my independence is one of the things he admires about me. I have seen him watch me climb down steep boulders or swim against a vicious current (when I really could have used a little help), responding to my spluttered outbursts, "I knew you could do it." To make peace, I offer to have him meet Richard, but now he is nonchalant; maybe, if time allows...

When I meet Richard the following day, I share M.'s concerns and the quarrel we had, explaining that it would really be better if the two met and established a little mutual trust. Richard doesn't seem particularly pleased with this turn of events, which I guess should have been a clue to my Pollyanna soul that all was not as innocent as it appeared.

At any rate, Santa Claus and I set sail, and I am so transfixed by the fact of (a) finally being on a sailboat again, (b) being on a GORGEOUS sailboat (c) sailing in a place as beautiful as Fethiye, instead of the Izmir bay, (d) being almost totally in charge, that I am not particularly concerned about what devious motives Richard might be harbouring in the dark recesses of his heart. Focus on opportunism! To hell with the subtext. Gliding out of the Fethiye bay, we spot a giant Caretta Caretta -- a sea tortoise gliding near the surface of the water, and I take this as a positive omen that all will be well.

It coincidentally happens that M. is currently on a tour in the same area. I'm excited that we might actually meet, and maybe I will even have a chance to show off my sailing skills! Richard's boat, built in the 1970's, is a combination of fiberglass and wood, a magnificent specimen of a boat and exactly the one I'd buy if I had the money -- unfortunately, these days it would be impsossible for me to get the dream price that Richard paid for the thing ten years ago. It is called a double-ender, meaning that both ends of the boat are pointed; not something one sees every day. I have to content myself with admiring it -- the gorgeous lines, the three perfect masts, the highly polished tiller made out of polished, exotic wood, the interior that is almost entirely wooden and perfectly designed...ah, envy.

We sail all day, pausing for plunges into the sea to refresh. Pure blue..silver fish...sun...what more perfect world is there? If only M. were present, enjoying this instead of slaving away for his company and customers.

He is anchored at a small island called Domuz Adası. I am enthusiastic in my efforts to convince Richard that we should go there to see him -- after all, it is practically spitting distance from the small cove where Richard has decided that we'll spend the night, preferred by him for its quiet, pristine water and abundant yakamoz, the day-glo green phosphorescence that makes an acid-trip silhouette of your body when you dive in at night. Richard, to my partial surprise (partial, because despite my wishful thinking, I'm not actually totally clueless), is grudging. Despite having taught me how to read the charts that list depths and obstructions to seagoing vessels, Richard is suddenly convinced that these are dangerous waters, perilous in that they are unknown...but Richard, I protest, we are competent sailors! We know what we're doing! What's more, we have the charts! My real wish is to drop anchor next to M.'s boat and have a nice evening of socializing and spending time with the guy, but it is rapidly made clear that Richard wishes to be alone (alone with me??) in the cove of his choice. I really have no alternative but to respect his wishes, and the most I can get is a sail-by, flinging around one of the two islands between which M. is anchored, with a big wave as I pass. This much I do manage, and it is excellent. One hand on the tiller, the other raised in greeting, sails puffed out, we glide past his anchored ship at an impressive 7.5 knots, and I see his hand raise to return the gesture. It kills me that I can't stop...but at least he has seen me at the helm, he knows that I, too, know the sea, and that we share this between us.

Throughout the day Richard has been returning to a particular theme, namely the freedom that a lone, around-the-world sailing expedition offers. He has a wife at home, but as far as I can tell is quite content to have her there, at home, and not here in his magnificent kingdom over which he is sole lord and master...Freedom. What is it? For Richard, it may well be many things, but one physical embodiment of the concept for him happens to be 'naked swimming'. From the outset I have heard his glowing references to the subject, and, okay, I'm down for it, too, but everything has its necessary context. From the way he has waxed lyrical over the openness, free spirit, and bond he shared with his previous lithe, blonde shipmate, I am beginning to get just a tad uncomfortable...and night is falling.

We pop a couple of brews, exchange views of the homeland, of Turkey; he reminisces about the route that brought him from Oregon to here. It's astonishing the number of places he's seen. The courage to go there alone, facing possible shipwreck, abduction by pirates, or just grappling with simple agonizing loneliness on the open seas, impresses me.

In the darkness, a mile or so away, the lights of M.'s ship glimmer, and seeing them makes me miss him. I speak to him on the phone, invite him to visit (my bad -- I realize later that I never asked Richard if it was okay); he says he'll try to make it later. Hanging up, I let Richard know about his impending guest, and he seems put out, jabbering nervously about how he doesn't want to be beaten up or killed by some jealous Turkish boyfriend. But why on earth would he beat you up, Richard? You are, after all, old enough to be my father, and we are only traveling companions. What is there to object to? My arguments fall on deaf ears, and Richard is clearly agitated, rushing about the boat and making sure everything is absolutely ship-shape. There follows an uncomfortable hour or so, during which the naked swimming topic resurfaces, this time in the 'your friend is coming so now I can't do it,' pouty context.

The meeting with M. excites me in its clandestine character. Traveling by tiny motorboat, using only a flashlight to see in the dark, he makes his way across the channel and an expanse of open water. There is almost no moon, and our boat is lit only by one tiny light at the top of the mast. I can hear the sound of the outboard motor for a long time before I can make out any shape in the darkness. Standing at the aft of the boat, waving a flashlight rhythmically to reveal our location, I get the sudden feeling of participating in the underground of some country's revolution.

At last I make out his silhouette in the dark. We throw down the bumpers so the boats do not scratch each other, and M. climbs aboard, laden with copious quantities of beer and snacks. What a good guest, I smile to myself. Richard has to appreciate this. I can see that M. is exhausted, how haggard his face looks in the dark. The work he does is only seasonal, but when it is on, it is full-on , and there's never much of a break and even less privacy. The cabins are full of passengers; the crew is left to sleep outside, wherever they can find space. It's a hard job, and poorly paid. I am glad that we are able to offer this period of respite, some peace and quiet amidst the non-stop hustle.

Conversation is a bit awkward, since M.'s English is slow and painful, and Richard has no Turkish. I wind up playing the role of translator half of the time. Eventually we find our rhythm, and talk on topics known to both...sailing and the sea. M. inspects the boat and is duly impressed, daydreaming aloud about how someday he hopes to have a similar boat and sail the world. Then we sink into silence, sipping our beers, each lost in our private thoughts. M., I suddenly realize, has dozed off while sitting upright. The poor man is exhausted. Let him sleep, I think...but when Richard sees that he is sleeping, something odd happens. "You have to wake him up!" he tells me. "Let's just let him rest a bit, can't we?" "No, you have to wake him up; he has to go!" "But why does he have to go....?" I query, really trying to understand this. "He has a job, he has responsibilities...he can't stay here!" Thinking to myself that M.'s responsibilities are nobody's business but his own, and suddenly feeling really pissed off I am being made to evict a visitor who is clearly exhausted and in need of some rest, tears spring to my eyes. "I can't do it," I say, leaning on my time spent in Turkey, explaining how it's just not the culture to send your guests away, especially guests who are sleeping, guests who came in the dark. "Well, it's not my culture, but it is my boat," he responds, and I'm horrified by the coldness of the response. "Come on, wake him up. It's time for him to go."

There is no point in arguing. Richard has clearly made up his mind on the point, and I am only a guest, so what can I say? With tear-streaked face, I shake M. awake and tell him he has to go, emphasizing with an icy stare in Santa Claus' direction that it is not my decision. M. is groggy but understanding, and leaving the uncomsumed beer with us, slips over the side of the boat and is gone before I realize he's going. Richard, who was below deck at the time, does a bad job of feigning disappointment that he didn't get to say goodbye. I'm disgusted, wishing I weren't here, wanting only to get off the damn boat and be with people I like and respect. Moments later, with a cheeriness that belies the fact that anything distressing just happened, Richard suggests a swim, sans clothes, of course, and disgust is added to my anger. Making M. leave had nothing to do with his work or his responsibilities, but only about Richard's selfish desire to go naked swimming without any third parties present.

Eventually I strip down and dive in, but on the opposite side of the boat. At first I refuse to swim at all; I'm too royally pissed off. But then, contemplating the situation a little, my wiser self tells me that there are two different issues here that need to be separated: one, my feelings towards Richard. Two, the fact that I am in a spectacularly beautiful place with glowing phosophorescence that lights up when you touch it. To not swim is to penalize myself. I can still swim and not like Richard...which is exactly what I do, gliding in the darkness, keeping as far from him as possible. Slowly, the beauty of the night and the magnificent color makes me relax, even putting a hint of a smile on my face. There is much that is beautiful in the universe, I remind myself for the umpteenth time...and it is on this that we must focus.

Morning is limpid, windless. We motor slowly to the Göcek harbor, where I am scheduled to disembark and he plans to pick up his daughter, visiting Turkey for the first time. I have gathered from our various conversations that their relationship is not good, and that he takes a rather judgmental stance towards her chosen life path. Maybe the guy's just an asshole, I think, causing me to wonder again, is it always those people who win? Who wind up with the money and the toys? Do nice guys, in fact, finish last? From where I stand, it sure looks that way.

Göcek is hot. The town is full of the beautıful, over-confident, white-wearing yachting set. As gorgeous as their lives look, I am glad that I am not among their numbers. Maybe it's that you have to have some kind of character deficiency to wind up in this ultra-material life. Certainly I can't help but think that if you didn't have that deficiency in the first place, it would be difficult not to acquire it when surrounded with constant luxury and ease...am I trying to justify, to make myself okay with the lifestyle I've got? Maybe. But I feel interestingly okay as I shoulder my backpack and head towards the main road. Enough leisure, already. Time to do something important, even if all that amounts to is cleaning my house or writing to a dear friend. As I wait by the side of the road for busses that will ultimately take me back to Izmir, my phone beeps with a text message. It is M. "My dear, don't worry about me, everything is okay. It was good to see you." And then, quoting a lyric from a Turkish art music song: "One day we'll meet again for sure...this cannot remain half finished." I have to concede that I haven't resolved the issue that I set out to two weeks ago. But I've had some interesting, thought-provoking experiences. I have a relationship with this lovely person, whatever may come of it. And, finally cutting myself some slack for a moment, I remember what somebody or other said recently: "Relax. If a decision is that hard to make, it means you're not ready to make it." Enough. It's time to go home.

Tales from the Road - Lycia, Day 10 (Wednesday)

2010-03-30T16:34:00.003+03:00

Ah, how time slips away...it's been four months since my last post -- can that be true?! I've felt too empty, tired and worn down to write anything for so long. It's a pity, though, that I stopped the tale of my trip before I got to the happier part of it. Although it has been quite a while, since I still have the draft I started all those moons ago, I thought I might as well finish the account of what happened. Read on...

***

Today will not be a waste. I'm going to get out, explore, talk to people (no psychos, please), enjoy. The day starts with a visit to Özsüt, Turkey's dessert chain that's about as ubiquitous as Bank of America but not quite as much so as Starbucks, and justifiably famous for their fabulous milk desserts. At this time of the morning, it's not the desserts I'm after, but the coffee. Not Nescafe ... real coffee, oddly difficult to find in the country that introduced the stuff to Europe. Served in a French press with a pitcher of cream on the side, it's a little taste of heaven. Further confirmation of my theory that the secret to happiness lies in having less of everything: when we do get whatever it is we want, we really appreciate it.

Sipping my coffee on the wharf, I ponder the day ahead. What will it be...shopping? Exploring the Lycian tombs carved into the cliffs above the town? Back to Ölüdeniz for another day of self-pampering? I decide on shopping and beach, and start off with a trip through the pedestrian shopping area, as much to hunt for worldly delights as to say hello to the many shop-keepers and restaurateurs who have gradually become my friends.

A chat and a glass of tea at the rug shop with Mustafa, who is despondent at the lack of sales recently, and who isn't cheered by my 'look at the bright side' reflection that at least, in his line of work, no matter how bad business is, he will always have these glorious rugs to sit, sleep on and look at.

Then it's a walk past the open courtyard, where I once beat leather-shop-owner Mehmet at a game of backgammon (thereby earning his simultaneous ire and admiration), and past the hanging garden restaurant that serves mediocre food for high prices, but seems to be quite popular amongst the hefty, overtanned, over forty British ladies' set. I have to admit, it's a charming setting, and I've even frequented the place more than once for the atmosphere, despite knowing I'd be disappointed by the food.

At this particular restaurant the headwaiter, whom I've come to know, wishes me a good day and asks where I'm headed. When I mention my thoughts of revisiting Ölüdeniz, he concurs that while it's probably the most paradisical setting imaginable, at this time of day and year, Allah! Too crowded. Not nice. Why don't you go to Şövalye Island? he suggests. It's tiny and quiet, and there's good swimming to be had. I'm intrigued. I'd seen the signs for ferries to the island, but had never given much thought to where it was or what it might be like. Having seen pretty much all of Fethiye and its surrounds, isn't it time to hit somewhere new? And thus my plan is changed, and my life, in a minor way at least, is changed.

***

I'm waylaid on my search for the boat taxi by all the loitering boat trip touts who are bored silly at this time of day and eager to strike up a chat. One eccentric-seeming elderly fellow is particularly intriguing, and I wind up accepting an invitation onto his boat to partake of blood-red cherry juice pulled straight from the freezer. Marvelous in the heat.

Sufi is a self-employed yacht captain. Living on a wooden gulet that he owns himself, he makes his living by chatting up the spontaneous tourist and taking them wherever they are inclined to go. His boat is powered with solar panels, and he tells me that between this and the fish he catches daily, his living costs are next to nothing. And the money his passengers pay goes straight to him, not to a blood-sucking agency that does none of the work and gets most of the money. I tell him about my captain, about the way the agencies make him work like a dog all season long, and at the end make sorry excuses about why they cannot pay, tell him how it infuriates me that he is the one working so hard, having no privacy, getting little sleep, and getting nothing to show for it. Sufi concurs that the life of a commercial gulet captain is onerous, to put it mildly. During the season, he says, forget it. Someone in that line of work is a zombie; they have nothing to give to anyone. I find this admission amazingly comforting, having struggled so long with my own insecurities combined with M.'s reticence, wondering what I am doing wrong, why he isn't giving more of himself, his emotions, his time. Hearing from an independent source about the rigors of his job, I suddenly feel hugely relieved...it isn't me, after all, it's the grind, he means well, and in fact, to hear Sufi tell it, he's been doing pretty well by me.
Nope, says Sufi, the only way to do this work is to own your own boat. Eliminate the middle man. I may not be rich, he says, but my working hours are humane, and I actually get to keep the money I work for. Visions begin to dance in my head of the boat I wish I could buy for M., the life I wish I could offer him. Whether we are together or not -- I just so want to help the man.

I bid a reluctant goodbye to Sufi, having thoroughly enjoyed his company and our conversation, but needing to get on with the business of discovering the island. The boat taxi is leaving just as I arrive at the dock, and only the shouts of the ticket-seller on land bring the boatsman back to the wharf to pick me up. It's a long, flat wooden fishing boat that takes the motley collection of eight or so of us to the island. The distance can't be much -- the island sits smack in the center of Fethiye bay, which is not enormous; but the putt-putt two-stroke motor of the boat moves us at a glacial pace across the bay, making the distance seem vast.

Finally we are deposited at a shabby-looking concrete pier jutting out from an unkempt-looking beach and some not-terribly-pristine looking water. A hill rises up from just behind the beach, with a narrow concrete stairway breaking a path through the tall grass. I set off up the hill, thinking the water on the other side might be clearer and more suitable for swimming.

It's a funny place, this island. There is no real street to speak of -- not that one is necessary, given that the place is the size of a postage stamp and there ae no cars. There is only a well-trodden path through the grass down the backbone of the island, and one transecting the island's narrow breadth. This is the one I follow, hoping to get to the side that faces the open sea and the sunsets, wishing for clear waters and a view of the passing pleasure boats in the distance.

The beach I find is an interesting place. Half pebbles, half shells. The water clear and calm. There isn't a soul on the beach; the only signs of life I see are a group of travelers on a gulet who have stopped at this cove for a swim. I stand on the beach and strip off my clothes, wading into the clear water with the rocky, seashelly bottom in my water shoes. Putting on my goggles and swimming a slow circle of the cove, I am astounded by the quantity of shells I see. They are not such a common thing in Turkey, at least not in the areas I have swum, and here they are by the thousand...I start scooping up handfuls, collecting them until they start to float through my fingers. As always, I am fascinated looking at these various and intricate homes, marveling yet again at the marvelous diversity and beauty of the universe. Another plunge in, and this time my focus is on the fish. Amazing creatures! Not the tiny silver small fry one sees everywhere, but large, meal-sized fish, a few as long as my forearm, feeding on microorganisms at the bottom of the sea. I am mesmerized by one long, fat fish that sports a bright spattering of red polka-dots, interrupted by a red line, followed again by red poka-dots, all on a dull silver background. What beauty!

After swimming, there is time for a bask in the sun, lying on my stomach, warmed by beach pebbles, sifting through the rocks with my fingers as I wait for my suit to dry, feeling utterly relaxed and content.

Then it's exploration time. Throwing on the sarong over the bikini, I flip-flop up the small grassy path to the wider grassy path that runs the long way on the island. The place cannot be described as charming or idyllic. There is an aura of gradual neglect that pervades it, a subtle sense of sadness that I feel but whose source I cannot pinpoint. The few houses I see are the usual concrete blocks so sadly prevalent in Turkey. As in the rest of the country, people sit on balconies and sip tea, some chat peaceably and some argue just like everywhere else. Some part of me wonders, you could easily have made this your paradise...why on earth didn't you? I wander on down the path, passing increasingly opulent-looking houses to my right -- the right side, the sunset side, the view-of-the-open-sea side. I stop when an elderly man, out trimming his rhododendron hedge in a painfully miniscule Speedo, greets me in perfect English. It would be perfect, of course -- because the man turns out to be English. A brawny, wild-grey-haired, Speedo-wearing, clipper-wielding Brit, who is, it is immeditely obvious, randier than a sailor on three-day leave, but is nonetheless entertaining to listen to. Still, I have certain objectives. I have to, for example, get to the end of the island, the rocky cliff past which all the gulets glide on the home stretch, the point upon which I, like an impatient Penelope, would await my captain, perhaps waving a handkerchief to draw his eye up to the top of the cliff.

This particular journey takes approximately two minutes (The island itself is a paltry one kilometer long by .36 kilometers wide.) The path doesn't go quite to the edge where one can see the sea and the passing ships, and so,determined to get this view, I scramble around in the thorn thickets in bikini and flip-flops until I am successful. Scratched and bloodied, but successful.

On the return trip, having narrowly sidestepped a bees' nest and a nasty patch of thistles, I encounter the wild-haired British gardener, only this time he is wearing a decent pair of shorts. We chat for a while before I realize that this is not actually the same man -- I am at his neighbor's house! It only dawns on me when the first man -- the Brit -- appears from his house to deliver a bottle of wine to the man I am talking to.

The Brit -- let's call him Guy (since that's his name) -- seems horrified to see me chatting with his neighbor, who is now (if not before) officially 'The Enemy.' Encroaching on his territory. Talking to The Girl. There is an immediate mood shift. Guy turns sullen, muttering 'you still owe me for the last bottle of wine,' quickly handing it over and then facing me with charm turned up full blast: "I've got a great wine cellar in my basement. Would you care to come over and see it?" This is awkward. I have just been invited inside by my newest acquaintance, Hilmi, and although I don't owe any particular loyalty to either of them, on the other hand, I don't want to upset anyone, either. Gingerly I tell him that it would be lovely, time allowing, but that Hilmi has invited me to come in for wine and sunset and I've already agreed...(privately, I'm thinking that Hilmi seems like less of a potential pervert and wack job than Guy, anyway.) Acknowledging that he's lost this round, a crestfallen Guy turns and leaves the scene, throwing out one last appeal: "If you'd like to swim our side of the island, just come on over and use my stairs. I'll give you a towel and you can dive off of my private pier." (Note: there is a significant stretch of this tiny island to which access is limited to the people living there. This part of the island is effectly inaccessible cliffs -- the only access is via stairways descending from people's houses.) It sounds appealing, I have to admit, especially at this time of the day, when their side of the island is the sunny side. Thinking I can maybe appease both parties, I tell Hilmi that I'd really enjoy a dip prior to wine, and spend the next half hour bobbing in the dark blue water off of Guy's pier. I bring my own towel. No need for unnecessary complications!

The sun is hanging low in the sky as I climb out of the sea. It has been a beautiful day, and it seems that things are looking up for me on this trip. I sit on the pier for a while in the glow of the afternoon sun, drying myself and watching the boats come in from their day tours, like chickens to the roost.

Hilmi's house is gorgeous, all high ceilings and wood and terra-cotta, done shades of beige and cream. I use the shower to get the salt off (I don't know why this seems so comfortable -- perhaps I should be more cautious, but somehow it feels perfectly natural and safe.) Later we sit in the living room where Hilmi tells me about his work. He is, or was, a journalist. Now semi-retired, working on a comfortable two-piece per month agreement with a national newspaper, he covers topics like the Kurds and the religious right in Turkey. It is a delight to talk to him. Literate and well-spoken, he knows three languages and a great deal about the world. It has been a long time since I've been able to discuss important topics on a deep level in my own language. I dive in, and without my realizing it, the conversation stretches on and on. He shows me some of his writings, good by any account, but especially impressive since he writes in English and it is not his first language. Then, seeing that the sun is about to sink behind the island in front of us, he prepares some fresh fruit, pours cold glasses of white wine, and move to the balcony to better enjoy the view. They call the island Kiziladasi (Red Island) because of the particularly vibrant shade of red it takes on at sunset. Watch...

Sure enough, the sun is soon silhouetting the entire island in a fiery red that seems to grow increasingly more intense. I wonder what it would be like to witness this show of light and shadow every day at sunset. Would a person get bored? I have trouble imagining it. We continue our conversation with our gazes turned to the sun, talking mostly about his life experiences, about working as a journalist in Turkey. My imagination is sparked...what if? what if?? It is easy to fall into the belief that in order to live abroad, one has to teach English (unless, of course, one is sent somewhere by some multi-national corporation). It is something of an eye-opener to realize that there are other things one could do, that teaching is just one of many options. I do enjoy writing...maybe, I start to think, this journalism thing could be an option...?

We are interrupted by a voice from below us. A man is standing on his lawn, one house over, waving at us. Hilmi tells me that he is a wealthy Istanbul industrialist whose wife has just opened a modern art museum in Istanbul. Curiouser and curiouser, I think... Come on down, have a drink, the man urges. To Hilmi's inquiring what do you think? look, I reply in the enthusiastic affirmative. The theme of the day seems to be go with the flow and reap its rewards. How many more interesting people might I meet today? What other opportunities await?

I'm a little self-conscious about going over in a t-shirt, sarong and flip-flops, but then again, I think 'at least if they like me, it's for who I am, not what I look like.' And if they don't? Well, I'll probably never see them again, anyway. Mehmet Ali is a riot, cracking one joke after another, making me feel instantly at home. I can easily understand why he has been successful in the business world. He asks Hilmi and I what kind of cocktail we would like, and I suggest that he invent a 'cocktail du jour,' something really unique, and serve the same thing to everyone. He likes the idea, and disappears into the kitchen, coming back 10 minutes later with his first prototype for our testing: a fizzy mixture of truffle liqueur and champagne. Not bad at all! As we sip them on the revolving chaise lounges on the edge of the cliff over the sea, I think that I could maybe, possibly, get used to this lifestyle.

Mehmet Ali's wife, Şerife, appears on the scene along with the second cocktail. A robust and lively woman whose conversation sparkles with wit and humanity, I immediately like her. She opens her kitchen to Hilmi and me, offering us a range of gorgeous mezze, and encouraging us to stay for the main course, a whopping 9-kilogram Lagos fish that will be baked in the oven. Receiving this much unbridled hospitality is overwhelming. These people don't know the first thing about me, and yet they are opening their house to me, bringing me into their kitchen, feeding and engaging with me...

What makes the hospitality all the more marvelous is that at some point during the evening, the doorbell rings, and a well-dressed Turkish-American couple enter. I then learn that tonight is a special dinner party for the board members of Mehmet Ali's company, and that ultimately this is a business function. These people have flown in from all corners of the country, some perhaps even from out of the country. Even more amazing that they didn't look askance at my dropping by! As more and more guests arrive, I meet people of various nationalities in all ranges of work. It is again an eye-opener to see that there are foreigners living here in Turkey who are businessmen and women, journalists, lawyers, and many other things -- English teaching is not the only option.

I am happy, happier than I have felt in a long while. It seems as though my life is rich in good and interesting people from all walks of life. Doors of possibility that I had thought closed now appear wide open, requiring only my initiative to walk through them. I wish I could stay and talk to these people for hours, plumb their depths, remind myself of my own forgotten self -- but knowing when to say 'when' is important.

As the fish exits the oven and the guests -- including Hilmi and me -- are called to dinner, we make our polite excuses, expressing the wish that we will meet again. I really hope we do.

At this late hour, the taxi-boat service is no longer running. Come on, says Hilmi, I'll take you home in my boat. Better yet, you drive -- I'm tired. And so it is that we quietly motor back to the Fethiye harbor in the darkness, Hilmi asleep in the back, me at the helm. I am tired but elated by the whole wonderful, unexpected turn of events, convinced that I have made good on my promise to make the most of this day.

To-Do List

2009-11-08T09:01:00.004+02:00

buy ribbons, beads and wire from the bazaar for Christmas ornaments
Shop for some new work clothes
hike in the woods, reconnect with nature
finalize bayram plans
save the planet, or at least a small part of it
connect with friends -- enough hermitude
find a way to make life richer and more varied
laugh
appreciate every breath
plan for the future, at least a little
come to grips with mortality
learn to play an instrument
dance

Tales from the Road - Lycia,Day 9 (Tuesday)

2009-10-29T21:39:00.005+02:00

It's the jackhammer in my head and a texture vaguely remniscent of a cotton wool ball in the mouth that wakes me up on Tuesday. Having gotten my evening off to such a promising start, how did I come to have this whopper of a hangover today?

It all started innocently enough. Dinner for one at a lovely restaurant of gardens and fountains, chit-chat with the charming, handsome waiter, then a stop off at the Deep Blue bar, which has been serving a bit like the Greek chorus to my Tragedy in Fethiye. Most nights have been punctuated by a visit here, some long, others perfunctory, but I have developed a camaraderie with the characters who work there, their quirky personalities, their nuggets of wisdom. The Deep Blue wasn't the problem. My friend Yasemin and I met there and caught up over a beer, and then she, having to work the following morning, took off. I stayed for another and chatted with Berat and Behiye and Cem, but finally the particularly atrocious flavor of hard rock they were playing finally drove me out of my seat and into the street.

Might as well go back to the hotel, I figure, despite still feeling cheerful and energized. What else am I going to do on my own? On the way to the hotel, I pass a restaurant where I'd stopped for coffee earlier in the day. I'd been talking with the manager, Tarik, about paragliding (I decided I'd finally worked up the nerve to do it) and I was picking his brain about the best companies to go with, and how to get a good price. Like every other person in Turkey whom you ask for information about something, he says he's got a friend in the business, he can hook me up for a good price, he'll just need to talk to his friend and get back to me.

So I'm strolling past the restaurant and see him there, decide to stop in to find out what was up with paragliding. Sit down, have a drink; what'll it be? Whatever you're having, I say, and a moment later a vodka Red Bull makes an appearance. No developments on the paragliding front, I soon find out. Whatever...

The speed with which the man can down a mixed drink leaves me dumbfounded. And then I make my first mistake -- I try to keep up, swigging a great gulp even though it's mostly vodka, I soon discover. Out on the blackness of the bay, there is an enormous, piratey-looking hulk of ship lit up in blue neon light, and there seems to be music playing. Curious, I ask Tarik what it is, for I haven't seen it before. Turns out it's a new disco -- on the water.

"Want to go see it?"
"Why not?"

And before I know it, we're piled into the motor boat and zooming through the cool night air out to the boat in the bay. It's an interesting concept: climbing up a steep ladder onto an old wooden ship in order to go dancing. I like it. The wait staff are all dressed as pirates, complete with eye patches, swords and sashes. The treatment he gets makes it obvious that my host is a VIP of sorts, which is quite all right with me. I can't honestly remember the last time a man took me out and bought me drinks, or dinner, or both...bring it on.

The drinking sprints continue, and I'm holding my own like a champ. I even get out on the dance floor with a gregarious group of Dutch people who are urging us on. Tarik wisely stays seated, while I practice spins that nearly send me flying off into the inkly blackness. (Tip: a downward sloping deck, combined with too many cocktails, is not the best place to attempt to rediscover one's dancing prowess.) Drunk or no drunk, I have a hilarious time, dancing like I haven't in years, liberated by the fact that no one here knows me.

I don't remember leaving, don't remember the cool wind on my face on the boat ride back. Have no idea how I got to the hotel room. How I undressed myself is no mystery -- I didn't! But at least I managed to get the shoes off.

So this morning is the usual litany of curses and self-beratement about the stupidity of drinking to excess, the why don't I ever learn self-flagellation, the oh my god I think I'd rather be hit by a bus than suffer this agony....

The day is pretty much a bust, dedicated as it is to surviving the hangover.

It's a quiet afternoon and evening in Fethiye, mostly spent wishing I weren't such a colossal idiot.

Tales from the Road - Lycia, Day 8 (Monday)

2009-09-26T09:14:00.033+03:00

When I awake, my spirits are languishing at the bottom of a deep, dark well. The somber thoughts that followed me into sleep the night before have festered into something dark and ugly overnight. This morning I am stupified by an overwhelming sense of futility and purposelessness in my life, by the sense that this earthly path is far too long, tedious and sorrowful. The feeling is debilitating and terrifying. What the hell am I doing here in this hotel room? In Turkey? In my life, for that matter? How many years have dripped away while I obsessed about the things that really didn't matter; what do I have to show for any of it, except for a growing list of ex-boyfriends and some really nice photographs? I can feel Depression take my arm and gently but firmly begin to pull me down, down, down the old path, whispering to me in its familiar seductive tones. Gritting my teeth, I practice the drill I have grown so familiar with over the years, the emergency-brake self-talk in a desperate attempt to stop the further downward descent...but I feel so precarious, my grip on the sunlit world so very tenuous. Long minutes go by where I bury my face in the pillow and breathe deeply and try to stop the crash...I don't want to even move...and it is finally only the conscious calling on memories of triumph over adversity in my life -- marathons, mountain climbs, honors classes, public speaking -- that I can finally feel the strength and perseverence that lies buried somewhere in my soul. Holding tight to that, I get up.

The courage doesn't last long. When I emerge into the breakfast room, E., the manager of the pension, whom I'd met before and didn't like much, takes a long look at me and says, "You look old."

(....!) A long pause while I try to control the sudden white-hot rage that boils up from my spleen and makes we want to scratch this man's eyes out.

"Excuse me?"

"You look old," he repeats. Oh my god. Suddenly in my head it's a cacophany of racing ER doctors and defibrillators and shouts of "She's crashing!!" Forget the marathons and the mountain climbs and the honors classes! I mean, that was all about accomplishing a specific goal.... The analogy doesn't fit! I cheered myself up under false pretenses!! We're talking about life here, babe, which you can't 'accomplish;' it's a different sort of game altogether, you can do it well or badly...and oh my god mine is slip-sliding away, and I suspect I may be doing it very badly indeed...and what's more, I look OLD. Might as well go hurl myself off a cliff now.

"Ah. Thank you so kindly. You are indeed a gentleman."

"I just mean, like, you like you haven't been taking care of yourself."

"Once again, thank you so much."

"Hey, come on, I'm your friend, you want me to lie to you?"

To my surprise, tears have sprung to my eyes. "Didn't your mother ever tell you 'if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all'? And for the record, you are not my friend," I add, with more vehemence than I had expected.

And then, not knowing what to do with this sudden impotent rage born from grief (when I lived in San Francisco, a co-worker told me once, "baby, you got the existential blues") that has surfaced out of nowhere, I march up to the counter, wiping the corners of my eyes, and ask for the bill. I want to check out. I want to get out of this hotel, out of this town, out of my own life if possible.

The man is shocked by my reaction -- I had told him that I planned to stay a while. His friend, B., tries to console me, look, he didn't mean anything bad...it's just a language problem. Really, he's a good guy. And you look great, by the way.

The words fall on deaf ears. I want out. I don't need to put up with this f*cker, not today, not ever. Nor anyone else who makes me look at my life and hate it, for that matter. I pay and leave, having not even breakfasted.

It is time to get out of Dodge. My one thought as I trudge down the street with my duffle slung over one shoulder is to get to the bus station, get to Izmir, get to bed and sleep for about a week, to sleep until I can wake up and manage to find something to smile at.

On the way to the bus station, I pass a hotel that I've passed a zillion times before, and it occurs to me to wonder why I've always chosen to stay at the crappy pension on the hill with its overinflated prices and managers who like to insult their customers. I wonder what prices elsewhere are like...and so just out of sheer, idle curiosity, I pop into this hotel, where the staff is gracious and smiling, and, it turns out, the rooms are 10 YTL cheaper, and have sea views, balconies and air conditioning...how can I resist? Before I have a chance to overanalyze it, I say I'll take it, and once again, my homeward-bound intentions are derailed. Miraculously, too, the combination of the smiles, great prices and views act like a vaporizer on my black mood until all that's left are a few scattered little puffy gray clouds.

It is sometimes a beautiful thing to be a grown-up, with a steady job and paycheck. This big white bed, the lovely harbor view, the heavenly A/C...I realize suddenly that if I want, I can have this until the end of the holiday, when I REALLY have to get back to earn more money. I stretch out on the crisp, blindingly white sheet, the sea-light pouring in through the balcony doors and the A/C whispering sweet, cool nothings into my ear...I will sleep today, I will thoroughly justify the rent of this room, I will spread on lotions and mud masks and paint my toes and read books and wear lingerie and I will, goddammit, I WILL feel good.

Amazingly, I succeed. The day is a delicious cycle of intermittant dozing, book-reading, lotion-applying, sauntering out onto the balcony in my lingerie, feeling totally happy. Totally. Happy. Unusual for me. But not altogether unpleasant. Welcome to my bi-polar life.

I also take the opportunity to do a little thinking, which is pretty much impossible to do fruitfully when in the grips of depression. M. is a yacht captain. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I'm drawn to him. There's something incredibly appealing in the idea of man as captain -- the man who is in charge, who knows where he's going and makes decisions with cool expertise and authority. Captaining, obviously, is a skill that I admire, and yet it occurs to me, sprawled out on my cool white bed, that perhaps I have never quite donned the captain's cap in my own life. Certainly I have traveled and taken certain career risks, but at the same time, it seems that I have always depended upon the idea of the MAN who would rescue me, make it all so that even if it all went KABLOOEY in my face, I'd still have the safety net: the MAN, the man who loved me, the man who would take care of me. And it was always, which man? This one, or the other one, or the one I haven't met yet? Where will they take me? Did I ever stop to think about where I wanted to take myself? Or did I unwittingly buy into the fairy tale every little girl knows by heart from the age of four, where the prince on the white horse comes and saves her from a life of hardship? What we (or I, anyway) failed to ask was, where did he take her? What did her life look like then? The story tells us she was happy -- but what made her so? Her rich and varied life? We are given no such details, and therefore it is dangerously easy to make the unconscious assumption that handome man + money (he was a prince, after all) + white horse (or yacht) = happiness. Oh my god, was I that much of a sucker?

Lying under the heaven of the A/C, thinking these thoughts, an entirely new feeling begins to come over me: here I am, in a hotel room paid for with my own money, thinking of two men but belonging to none, and suddenly, strangely, I am okay with that. Happy in my own skin and glad that I am alive, that I am here, and that I have a good job that enables me to finance all of this. Good stuff. I could go outside now and talk to anybody; I could go out and salsa dance, dive from great heights into aquamarine sea, sit and drink a beer, alone, and watch the sun in its marvelous trajectory across the sky, and be quite content throughout it all. Wow... is this what it means to be a grown-up, I suddenly wonder? Being comfortable in your own skin? Acknowledging that you alone are in the driver's seat?

That evening, as I wander about the restaurants, bars and beaches, I enjoy this new sensation that is the gentle weight of the captain's cap on my head. I'm in charge of this life, more than anyone else on this planet. And hey, I'm kind of starting to like that idea.

Tales from the Road - Lycia, Day 7 (Sunday)

2009-09-12T20:45:00.015+03:00

He is gone in the wee hours, as I am only half-awake. There are hazy goodbyes, but fortunately I am too groggy to feel the pang of separation...I awake mid-morning, alone in my hotel room. Slowly sitting up, I say good morning to Loneliness for the umpteenth time. And then I begin to ponder what to do with myself today.

It's been a week. I could, and probably should, go back to Izmir. Then again, why should I, really? Because simply hanging out in various towns and hotels with no particular agenda reeks of irresponsibility? Because my American soul that finds virtue in work and sin in idleness (yes, I've tried to escape this particular paradigm but the vestiges linger) won't allow for plain ol' hanging out with no particular objective? I decide to banish these voices to a basement in my mind. Life is short. I am here, in good health, with about as few commitments to anything or anyone as I am ever likely to have...why not stay until I'm good and ready to return?

To be honest, it takes a little psyching up to get myself to this point. I've been hanging around in Fethiye waiting for The Man, and he finally shows, only to disappear again...what now? Another week of waiting? The town, full of tourists and the people who cater to them, feels empty now without him. It is very tempting to stay in bed, to wrap myself up in the blanket of melchancholy that has become so worn and so familiar to me, and doze in its folds for a while...but this time I elect not to. I will get dressed. I will go out, make some new friends and have new adventures; break the cycle.

***

The lagoon at Ölüdeniz, on the far side of the peninsula on which Fethiye is located, is probably the most photographed stretch of coastline in all of Turkey. A long, white pebble beach borders clear turquoise waters, and the backdrop is of majestic pine-covered mountains that rise abruptly and dramatically from the coastline. This is also the paragliding center of Turkey, and at any given time, you can look up and see dozens of floating black specks in the air, curving, twirling, gradually descending until they take on the contours of a parachute and human form. It looks both exhilarating and terrifying. Perhaps someday I will do it...looking up at those marvelous soaring figures, I can't help but see a metaphor for my own life, thinking how just as I am too afraid to paraglide, so am I shying from the really big, and (if they don't kill you, in which case you won't know any better) exhilharating risks in life...but enough, already.

Despite having been warned that it will be horrendously crowded, I decide to spend the day in Ölüdeniz. It is simply the most spectacular setting for a swim and a nap that you could possibly envision. Upon arriving and paying the 3 lira to get into the National Park where the beach is located, I discover that the people I talked to were right: nearly every inch of beach is covered with lounge chairs and umbrellas...this is not the place to go for peaceful meditation. All the better. I am in a high-risk mood right now, and could easily fall off some crumbling emotional precipice. It's best not to leave too much room for sitting and thinking all alone. I need people.

The day is spent pleasurably sunbathing, swimming, reading, sleeping. The beach boy who rents me my lounge chair and umbrella is curious about me, and because I am alone, and because I can speak Turkish, he comes over frequently to chat. I don't mind, so much...today I am feeling open and mellow, and I know that it will do me good to meet new people, however temporary the connection.

His name is Hasan, and he comes from a little village near Antalya. He perches on the edge of the neighboring lounge chair, looking down at me with a handsome, suntanned, impossibly youthful face. The conversation is pleasurable: he is curious about my culture, I am interested his origins, what it means for him to have grown up in this country. When I leave in the late afternoon, he suggests that we meet that evening in Fethiye and go out on the town. It's a deal, I say.

***

When we meet in Fethiye that evening, I am surprised by his height, or rather lack thereof. I tend to be taller than the majority of Turks, but this case is ridiculous: I am probably close to a foot taller, and although this is not a 'date', I still feel supremely self-conscious with him, experiencing an odd sense of guilt, as if I am taking my young son out bar-hopping. Probably I am more self-conscious because I'm pretty sure that he isn't looking at me as a mother figure.

***

Ahh, the burden of youth. Much though I sometimes curse the aging process, I would not for one minute voluntarily turn back the clock and relive that particular uncertainty, insecurity and inability to express -- or even know -- what I really want that characterizes so much of the younger years. We spend part of the evening at a bar I don't really like, too loud for real conversation, the look on his face making it clear that although he doesn't really like it, either, he thinks I do. Not an alcohol drinker, he drinks because I do, just to go along...and keeps asking me if I am having a good time, what I want to do next...everything hangs upon my whim, he has no wishes or opinions of his own, but is entirely pliable to ME...a fact that I find entirely disconcerting.

There is a critical moment where he needs to get the last bus back to Ölüdeniz, where he lives, or be stuck in Fethiye for the night. He tentatively posits that if, by chance, I were to want to keep our conversation going, he would be willing to spend the night in Fethiye, even if it meant having to sleep on a bench somewhere. I put my hand on his shoulder, look him dead in the eye, and lay it all out. Our conversation is great. I am happy to continue it, but absolutely nothing is going to happen between us. Furthermore, if he elects to stay in Fethiye, he must know that he may NOT stay in my room at the hotel. No problem, he says...for the chance to talk longer, I will sleep outside if need be...

At the hotel it is somewhat of a different story (anybody surprised??). He balks at the cushioned kiosks outside the hotel that I point out as possible places to lay a weary head. Wheedles that if I let him come in, nothing will happen, I swear, I won't even touch you, we'll just share a bed...I lose my temper rapidly and say look, you knew the terms of the deal when you accepted it, please don't piss me off. You are NOT sharing my bed. This, I must admit, is hard for me. Being a hard-ass, insisting that some poor soul sleep outside without so much as a blanket (there isn't even one in my room to give him); I have always verged towards being overly tender-hearted; always had trouble toeing the hard line, generally wind up giving in when I shouldn't. But this is the new Me. This time, much as it pains me, I will not budge. I will NOT be manipulated by someone who knew the score going in. Wishing him a good night, I go to my hotel room. I lock the door behind me and sink onto the bed, relief coursing through every synapse that I am alone...or at least, alone, as in not-with-him. Memory of my recent reconnection with M. suddenly comes rushing back, and I curl up clutching a pillow, reliving that almost dream-like memory, so fleeting and surreal, dreamy, romantic, intense, that I wonder briefly whether it really happened at all...just as I am drifting off to sleep with that in my head, my phone beeps with text message from Hasan:

I never got the chance to share your bed, or kiss your flower-scented skin, but nevertheless I am happy to have spent the evening with you. Sweet dreams...

Suddenly the whole cycle of love/lust/infatuation/longing whirls before my mind's eye, and I feel supremely tired, like Sysyphus pushing the same damn rock uphill for the gazillionth time. When it comes to relationships, isn't one always wanting more than the other? It is a constant Push-Me-Pull-You of wanting and retreating, desiring and escaping. Do we ever really arrive at a point where we both want each other equally? If so, how long can we expect it to last?

Tales from the Road - Lycia, Day 6 (Saturday)

2009-09-06T21:17:00.013+03:00

Most of Saturday is sleep. I rise late, leave my hotel, meander past the marina on a quest for coffee. Then my heart skips a beat: above the trees that separate the road from the marina, the wind ruffles an Austrian flag off the stern of a gulet. His is the only boat in the marina that does not fly the Turkish flag. He's back! The urge to run straight there is nearly irresistable; I know somehow that if I can just stand there, facing him, look him in the eye, everything will be fine. But from somewhere in my pathetic, groveling soul, I manage to dig up a shred of self-esteem...and I walk on by. There have been no phone calls, no hey, I'm here, come by..., and so I will not go. I will not go.

I don't go too far, though. Plopping down on a bench in a nearby shady park, I begin to write furiously, hoping to review and process all that's happened on this trip. Maybe half an hour goes by. A child's cry causes me to look up, and by sheer, stupid happenstance, at that moment I see Hasan, M.'s nephew (who also works on the boat) walking directly past me. He does not see me, but I feel obliged to greet him. The customary how are you's and how's it goings, then a Why aren't you at the boat with M.? and a muttered Well if he wants to, he can call me...

Hassan leaves, and I suppose must tell M. that he's met me, for fifteen minutes later my phone rings -- it's M., and he sounds genuinely glad that I'm there in Fethiye. Don't go anywhere, he says, I'm coming...wait. And so I wait. And wait. And wait. An hour goes by. I get tired of the flies that bite and the splintery bench that scratches my legs, and decide to move to a nearby restaurant to sit and drink beer, and write...and wait. Finally, close to two hours later, I see him. And it's just like the beginning all over again...the sight of him, the silly flip-flop of my heart, the jello feeling in the knees that makes me glad I'm sitting down, the stupid, instant forgiveness for everything that against my better judgment I seem to keep giving....

Spotting me, he walks straight up and enfolds me in a bear hug that seems to last for hours. I'm sorry, he breathes into my hair. And with those words, the last of my peevishness dissolves, and I am simply happy that he's there, sitting next to me.

We talk for a long, long time. Mostly about what's happened to him since I saw him, all the craziness that constitutes his job, especially so with this week's events, and the state of his health (not good). After I left, he had orders from the agency to dock at Kaş and disembark; a new captain was being sent, and he was being relieved of his duties. However, the night before, the passengers caught him packing his bags, and when they got wind of what was happening, were irate. They phoned the agency, declaring If he goes, so do we. And so the agency was left with no choice but to have him stay. In the end, the passengers were all happy with the trip, so what could the company really say? He continues to be employed...a fact that I am delighted by, but still, I cannot help but remind him, he SHOULD have told me.

We walk together a long way down the wharf. It is pleasant, walking together, and easy to forget the reason that I came here six days ago -- to separate from him. It feels so good and so easy in his presence, in spite of the fact that all my logic cells are buzzing irately that this is an impractical, impossible, untenable relationship, based on pure, chemical, pheremonal infatuation, and destined to end badly.

We stop to enjoy a laugh over some domesticated pelicans that squat on the wharf before a restaurant whose benevolent manager keeps them sedated with fish. Then we sit down to a magnificent supper, and probably some of the best fish I've ever had. There is a gypsy woman with roses; he buys the whole bunch for me. This is NOT the time to say look, you and I, we just aren't going to work..., nor do I have the inclination to...the closest I get is to say, hey, if you want to break up, just say so. DO you want to break up? (Equal parts hoping and fearing that he'll say yes.) He looks at me long and steadily, with that bottomless stillness I have always loved, big brown eyes looking deep into my own. He lights a cigarette and smokes it in that way I love to watch; in through the mouth, out through the nostrils in two graceful tendrils, gazing steadily at me all the while. There is an eternity, an abyss of silence. My hands are shaking, I can't bear it. And finally, just when I am about to speak again...Let's drop this 'breakup' topic, all right? This is an inaccurate translation...in Turkish, the meaning was more 'let's put an end to this topic,' a delightfully, maddeningly enigmatic way to say 'let's not break up,' but not in so many words, exactly. An expression more of a desire not to break up than to stay together...tell me, someone, why, oh why, do I so enjoy difficult people?? :-(

We return to the hotel, sated, happy. There is wonderful reconnection, and I realize again that I have been thrown off the track of my initial intentions; namely, to simplify my life. But for the moment, I really don't care.

Tales from the Road - Lycia, Day 5 (Friday)

2009-09-05T22:35:00.017+03:00

It is definitely time to go, I decide upon awakening. I cannot bear, even one more time, to run the gauntlet of yes, please, hello, I love you, where are you from? that is de rigeur when I leave my hotel. I still have no idea where or how M. is, and the waiting to hear from him is making me cranky. I want out.

***

The bus to Fethiye is insanely, ridiculously small. It is not so much the bus itself that is small, although there's that, too, but the seats seem to have been made for children. I am sure that I am narrower than your average Turkish village woman, but even so, my hips spill over the edge of my seat and it is impossible to fit my knees into the space provided unless I hoist them up and shoehorn them in against the seat in front of me. There is a ridiculous little pillow that appears to be covered with a home-knitted tea cozy that serves to take up what little space remains, and the faux-silk draperies that line the window flap in my face, the tie that should hold them having come loose. My seatmeat, as bad luck would have it, is a hefty middle-aged woman who definitely takes up more than one seat. Our hips meld together in this tiny space, and I know these next few hours must be an exercise in disassociation of mind from body if I hope to survive. I take a deep breath.

***

Although I had expected the trip to Fethiye to follow the coast road, just as I had come, it seems that this time I have wound up on the yayla route through the mountains. Yaylas are the high mountain pastures to which villagers who dwell on the coast in the winter months move in the summer to escape the heat. After the lights and hustle and myriad foreign languages and topless sunbathers of Alanya, seeing these high, lonely places is a shock. Suddenly, a short distance outside of Alanya, I am plunged into the heart of Anatolia. The mini-bus fills with local villagers, suncreased, gap-toothed, dressed traditionally in layers of clothing that the foreign tourists would find incomprehensible in the summer heat. There is much chatter and eating on the bus as we chug ever so slowly up the mountains. I wonder what life is like for people here...is it hard to make enough money to sustain themselves? How many of them have seen the flashiness of the city below? What do they make of it? Are they able to make anything at all of it, or is it altogether incomprehensible to these people who live more or less the same lives of villagers since time immemorial?

***

My seatmate is a chatty sort who fills my ear with her son's tale-of-woe-turned-happy-ending: the son worked in a jewlery shop, where a beautiful young Polish woman later came to be employed. They fell in love, got married, but then she fell in love with their boss and left him. The son is now, however, happily married to a 'decent,' very beautiful, Ukrainian woman who speaks excellent Turkish. I detect the pride in the woman's voice at her son's having successfully (this time) snagged a foreigner. It is an interesting phenomenon that I have observed a number times in Turkey: although there is a certain mistrust of foreigners and sense that 'they'll never be one of us,' it seems to be a point of pride among many families if someone manages to acquire a foreign (by which I mean European or North American) bride. I wonder, is this because a foreign bride connotes 'Westernness', a value that many Turks are keen to embrace? Or is an economic status symbol, like buying a Mercedes? Foreign women tend to be viewed as possessors, or at least representatives of wealth; therefore a Turk who gets a foreign woman may be presumed to have a high level of education and/or income, or possess other fine qualities marketable enough to net them a foreigner. Hmm.

***

Many bum-aching, neck-cramping hours later, we reach Fethiye. From the otogar, I head to my usual pansiyon with its fabulous view of the bay. It's seriously run down at the heels, and the prices are far too high for what you get; still, I know the place, I know the people, so there I go.

***

B. is a tall, lanky young man with long, greasy black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He is perpetually wearing sunglasses because of his fondness for a good smoke (of the non-legal variety). I regale him with tales of the boat adventure and all the annoyances of Alanya, topped off with the lingering worry/sadness/irritation that three days following my ejection from the boat, there is still no word of any kind from M. How can the man not realize that I am worrying?? I am trying to leave him his space, of which he seems to need vast quantities, but three days? Why has it not occurred to him to let me know?? B. offers me a joint, on the grounds that I need it after what I've been through, but I pass, knowing it won't help.

***

Now and then I get a phone call from someone whom I've saved in my mobile phone's address book as 'Mehmet bağlama' (bağlama is a Turkish musical instrument). I never answer, just let it ring while staring at the name and trying hard to remember who this person is. So far, the penny hasn't dropped.

I'm sitting there in my divey pension, pondering the view and what to do next, when the phone rings and I see 'Mehmet bağlama' on the display. What the hell, I think. It's not like I have anything better to do than talk to someone I don't know.

Surprise, surprise, he turns out to be a musician I met once in Fethiye at a folk music place while out with M. I still can't for the life of me remember him, picture his face, or figure out why I would have given him my number, particularly if I was out with a boyfriend at the time. It must have had something to do with music lessons, probably...

So the man is living in Fethiye, playing at a place on the beach, and wants me to come listen. Why not? My week of sailing by M.'s side having been cut extremely short, and not having any further word from him, I am utterly free to do as I wish. Still, I am beginning to seriously agitate inside. Why hasn't he called??? Why????!!!! I feel like throwing something. Instead, I break down and send a text message, oh so casual: Hi dear, how are you doing? Haven't heard from you and hope everything is okay. Some time later, the response comes: Hi dear, I'm fine; how are you doing? Hope you're well, kisses...

As if a dangerous chemical reaction has been set in motion, something starts writhing and boiling inside me; anger mounts, rage and frustration at how this goes, how it has always gone since the beginning, how there is never enough, never anything for me, no apologies or explanations, how I am left to wonder and worry, how I seem to want and need more, how he is so warm yet so aloof, how this intrigues me and I wish it didn't because it makes me sick with wanting and anger and frustration inside. All this anger and sorrow and no outlet for it...I swallow it and get ready to go out.

***

A long taxi ride -- the tourist loop. I am overcharged. About to pay, the phone rings. It is M. Although I had been having calm and relatively cheerful conversation with the driver up to that point, when I see the caller ID, I crack. Answering the phone, I ask a few tentative questions --- are you all right? (yes) Where are you? (on the boat) Oh, so you're still working? (yes) And then the dam breaks, and I begin shouting in Turkish, a flash flood of words that cannot be held back: What the hell kind of person are you? Where have you been? Do you have any idea how I've been worrying about you? How I hung out in Alanya putting up with all kinds of shit just because I thought you might be coming to join me, just because I was waiting to hear what would happen? Did it EVER occur to you to think that I might be wondering about you? That I was upset for you because you'd lost your job? And you tell me now that you're FINE????!!! I don't think you have the faintest idea what it means to care about someone; you are the most incredibly selfish person I have ever met in my life...did it ever cross your mind to wonder how I was doing? Did it????!!!

I think he is taken aback by my rant. There are a few feeble apologies, then he is back on an even keel, remonstrating me to hang up and talk later when I've gotten a grip. Fine, I steam, anyway I'm going out now with a man I met in Fethiye. Yes, a man. How do you like them apples?

***

Hours pass at the restaurant. I am sitting in front, the waiters are treating me like a princess: cushions are proffered, fruit plates, raki, roses. I still do not recognize the man playing. I am still upset from my telephone conversation earlier, and every ten minutes or so I break into quiet tears, upon which Mehmet (the musician) smiles at me and starts singing love songs, inserting my name into them, which only makes me cry harder and wish I were somewhere else.

On a break, he comes and sits with me. He is a short, portly, balding man whose breath smells like cabbage. I feel suddenly ill when I realize he has more than a platonic interest in me. Arm around my shoulders, he expresses his great joy at our long-awaited reunuion. I cannot bear to see the happiness in his face, as if he were truly reuniting with his beloved. I shrink away from the hand on my shoulder. The tears come again, predictably, and it makes him crazy -- let me hold you! My dear, don't cry! Please! He pulls me close and I pull away, wanting to run, not knowing where to go, not sure even where the taxi has brought me.

***

We wind up drinking raki until the wee hours, not because I love his company, but because I feel an intense need to not be sober, and I don't feel like drinking alone, and anyway if I go back to the hotel now all I'll do is stay awake and cry into my pillow until daybreak. The alternative is the wearisome night we wind up spending: he spends his time convincing me that we are soulmates, that I should forget the other guy; I may not love him now but I will learn to. For my own part, I spend the night brooding over my own issues as well as chafing at the fact that this man is making me incredibly uncomfortable. A good thing does come out of the evening -- he shows me some technique on the bağlama -- but in the end there are too many pulls at my arm, taps on my shoulder, too much leaning in. I can't bear it, snap, bat his hand away, rise to leave. He insists on walking me back to the hotel, and it is a long and tedious journey as this same dynamic continues. Stopping, going, tugging, pleading, rebuffing. Repeat. It is 4:00 a.m. as we pass the marina, and there is a breathtakingly beautiful sunrise on the make. Blocking out the present company, I look with longing out to the bay beyond, thinking of M. and wishing to God he didn't have this undoing effect on me, wishing I were there, not here, and then, a moment later....feeling done with it all -- just wanting to be away from everything and everyone and have some peace, finally.

To my surprise, my escort is decent enough to say goodnight and leave when we reach the hotel. Once inside, I quickly lock myself in my room, hurl myself onto the bed fully dressed, and crash into a dreamless sleep.

Tales from the Road - Lycia, Day 4 (Thursday)

2009-09-03T21:35:00.010+03:00

I'm up early, 6:00 a.m., determined to get out before the heat gets too intense. Strange, the rhythms of my sleep these days....sometimes I fall asleep early and slumber deep and long, ten hours or more; other nights I cannot sleep at all, writhing on my pillow until first light and birdsong.

A morning dip in the sea refreshes. I've brought my goggles, and swim to the rocks where the fishermen try their luck. Sheer delight as a shimmering school of thousands of tiny silver fish encircle me, and a feeling for a moment that I am embraced by the universe.

Back on the beach, sunrise, beach pebbles, stillness and meditation. And then, without warning, it is disturbed by a smirk-wearing young man passing too close to me and wishing me good morning with more emphasis than is called for from a stranger. He passes me several times, good morning-ing me each time, and there is a rising irritation in my spleen. Then an elderly man passes, also wishes me good morning -- at least he's harmless, I think -- but he is back a few minutes later, and has the audacity to sit down inches away from me, as if we are old friends sharing a morning on the beach together. Rattled, hard-pressed to believe that I am being harrassed on a beach by an old man prior to seven o'clock in the morning, I leap to my feet, grab my things and go. I am dismayed and angry at having been robbed of this moment of peace and beauty. Why are people so cheap? I wonder.

Back at the hotel, breakfast, the usual Turkish hotel kind: 3 kinds of olives, 2 kinds of cheese, bread, butter, jam, cucumbers and tomatoes. Whenever I get tired of this breakfast I think back to our trip to Cyprus when I was a kid: the word was tomato salad. No other kind of salad to be had, and it was nothing but tomatoes. It became a kind of running joke on our trip. At least here we've got cucumbers.

Fatih shows up at the hotel mid-morning, offers to take me up to the mountain, where one can sit in the cool shade over a river, splash in the water, and eat trout from those very same waters. I readily agree, having nothing better to do, and we go. He takes me to an out-of-the-way place, not the one frequented by all the tourists to Alanya, and the road, which I suddenly realize is two-way, is terrifyingly narrow along the edge of a gorge. Fatih handles the vehicle well, however, and soon I am lost in conversation, forgetting about the vertical drop to my right. We cover a range of topics. Politics: People hate Americans because you keep meddling in other countries' business. Telling other countries what they can and can't do. The Jewish conspiracy: When the Jews take over the world...Me: oh, come on, you can't be serious! Well, most of the world is run by a relatively small group of people, most of whom are Jewish. Hmmm... Islam - me: is it true that the Kuran mandates the killing of the infidel? Him: Absolutely not! Where on earth did you read this? I refer to the book The Crisis of Islam and he insists that either I misremember or the author doesn't know what he's talking about.

The difficulty of arguing any serious topic in Turkish leads me to say boşver (forget about it) and comment on the loveliness of the scenery.

We have a tranquil lunch under the trees and over the river, pausing to dive into the cold -- but not as cold as expected -- clear water. We doze a while in the shade, then make the trip back. I thank him and head for the hotel room, diving once again into sleep beneath the A/C.

***

Late afternoon beach, a swim, a doze in the slanting sunlight. A sudden presence so near me that it brushes the hair on my arm. I open my eyes to find a pair of earnest-looking brown ones staring down at me. He is not so much sitting next to me as on top of me, and I recoil slightly.

Guy (in broken English with a strong accent): I saw you sit here I think you alone I come next you.

Me: Oh.

G: What's your name?

Me: Katherine.

G: (rapturously) Ahhh! I am Serkan. (Rolling the words on his tongue...) Serkan...Katherine...Katherine...Serkan...ahh...together so beautiful!

Me: (creeped out, and switching to Turkish because if I have to put up with creepiness I'd rather not ALSO have to put up with bad grammar and a broken accent) What are you doing here?

G: (breathing, rather than speaking the words, in the manner of an all-too-excited patron of a seedy cinema) I saw you looking at me...come on, you were looking at me, weren't you? (He is gently picking pieces of sand off my skin in the manner of an amorado and I swat his arm away.)

Me: (testily) Yeah, I was probably counting the psychos on the beach today.

G: (totally unfazed) What are you doing tonight? (try to imagine this being said in a heavy-breathing pervert sort of way)

Me: I have plans.

G: Ohh! But Katherine, you and me, tonight, you know? We could be together...

Me: Like I said, I've got plans.

G: Cancel them! This could be our only chance! Tomorrow I return to Istanbul! You and me...

Me: (pushing the guy off me and gathering my things) The thing is, I don't want to cancel them. But I hope you have a nice night and a pleasant journey home.

G: But Katherine! I can't bear it! You can't leave me like this!

Me: Goodbye.

G: Don't you have a telephone number?

Me: (laughing out loud) You seriously think I would give you my telephone number???

G: Pleeeease....Katherine, tomorrow I return to Istanbul!!!! Don't do this to me!!

Me: Like I said, have a nice trip.

G: (with insanely pleading eyes) Can I at least give you my telephone number?

Me: You can give it...

G: (eyes lighting up) Really! I'll get a pen!!

Me:...if it makes you feel better, but I'm not going to call you.

G: (crestfallen, but nonetheless writing carefully) Please call me...this is my last night here, you know? You, me...

Me: (pocketing the number) Yeah, whatever. Enjoy it.

G: Wait! Can you read my number??

Me: Yup, it's clear.

G: No, read it out loud to me!!

Me: (Just to get rid of him, I read the number out, then begin to walk away.)

G: (scurrying after me) Say, is your hotel on this street??

Just when I am contemplating making use of my runner's legs, a tall, severe-looking elderly man intervenes with harsh words to my harrasser.

Man: You again!!! What the hell are you doing? You've been harrassing the girls on this beach all day!

G: What, me??!

Man: Yes, I've seen you! Get lost, and don't let me see your face around here again!

And thus I am spared from having to make a sprint in flip-flops and sweltering heat. Thank God for guardian angels.

***

A shower, a spontaneous decision to take another crack at a run to the castle. Out into the lowering dusk...only to discover the legs are hamburger, wasted from the day before. I take the turnoff down to the marina, where I wander pensively, looking at the boats and the captains and crew having tea or dinner on board, their day's tours finished. I am soured on boat tours; it gives me a pain to watch these men, to listen to the hustling, Yes please, would you like to take a boat tour? to remember the days when I was an innocent in this country, excited and beguiled by everything, and now feeling simply tired. I slowly turn away from the wharf and return to the hotel.

***

Overlooking Damlataş beach is a restaurant where I have been told there is fasıl (a trio of muscians playing classical Turkish music) every night. Wearied of this cheap, fast environment I find myself adrift in, I decide to put on a nice dress and treat myself to a civilized evening out.

The man at the door greets me with an expression that says I'm so sorry; he was mistaken, tonight there will be no Turkish music because of the beach party. Beach party? Yes, you can have a look if you like...

I choose a table on the edge of the terrace, closest to the beach, from whence you can get a good look at the goings-on below. Loud pop music with explicit lyrics blares. Gorgeous young blonds, mostly women, gyrate their sleek, tanned hips alongside dark-haired, olive-skinned men -- probably Turkish, probably employees. The girls are from Norway and Sweden, and most of them can't be more than 18 years old. I watch as they dance, seeing how free they feel and how they revel in their youth and beauty, how they know they are beautiful to the men who watch them with hungry eyes...for a while I am envious, wistful. Aging is cruel, I think, the gradual dissolution of the body...I remember being young and beautiful once, I remember having that sense of wide open horizons. Why do I feel as though I've reached the end, that all those doors have closed? What do I have to replace the vanished youth? Am I wise? Somehow I do not feel so...

I eat and drink in silence, the dance continuing almost as if in a dream, me lost in contemplation of my own place in the scheme of things. Life goes on, we live, we age, we die. Perhaps we contribute an idea, a smile, or a child to this planet. But in the end, what does it really all mean? Stuck on this, I gaze beyond the revelers to the now-black sea, and think how just now I would like to run down there, strip off everything and throw myself in, abandoned to the tides and the winds.

The spiral down into these dark chambers of thought is interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. It is Fatih, he's finished work and wants to know if I'd like to meet. Glad to be rescued, I walk with him along the streets with the shops half-closed. We go for a drive; he offers to take me to the mountain again, but tonight I am somber and I decline. Instead we cruise slowly along the coastline for what seems a great distance. I talk and he listens, and gradually tales of conflict and sadness emerge, this great darkness that fills me dispersing a little as I talk. I am glad to have a listener. I take his hand, squeeze it, thank him. I may never see him again, but it's okay, I feel that I have nonetheless found a friend. He drops me at my hotel and I go to bed, a little lighter than when I left.

***

Tales from the Road - Lycia, Day 3 (Wednesday)

2009-09-01T19:58:00.006+03:00

Long, late sleep. Breakfast and back to bed again, face down under the cool air conditioning, hugging a pillow and mentally running through scenarios of what may be happening with M. as I lie there...imagining him anchoring the boat, gathering his belongings, leaving tall, silent, proud. Wondering how he will return to Fethiye from Kas, whether he will be able to collect his pay or whether that, too, will be forfeit now... imagining his sadness and shame at losing work, work which he prides himself on doing well, and at having had to put me off the boat. Wishing I could do something except lie here uselessly in this hotel room.

When I emerge finally in late afternoon, it is sweltering. The humidity is inescapable, the moment you step outside drops of sweat gather on the skin. I head to Damlatas beach, a place I remember liking for its tiny little stones that massage your feet and back, and go for a swim. Even the sea, despite its inviting turquoise color, is tepid and does not refresh. I emerge uncooled, thinking longingly of my hotel room and the air conditioner. Still, I am here in Alanya, there is a wonderful castle on the hill, and there is nostalgia to be indulged...

The run up to the castle is brutal, even if you happen to be in good shape and it doesn't happen to be high summer. Once upon a time L. and I made the run, and by now time has blurred that memory so that I don't recall if we actually ran the whole thing or not. Nonetheless, I remember summiting triumphantly, drenched in sweat and surveying the town and the beaches below like our own personal fiefdom.

I barely make it 400 meters up the initial dauntingly steep slope before slowing to a walk. Clearly my physical condition has deteriorated since my last attempt...

Through a combination of walking, jogging, shuffling, and stopping and puffing, I make the gates of the castle just five minutes after closing time. The guard is impervious to my pleas; no, I may not go in for five minutes just to see the view. The sun is about to set behind the castle; I can't see it from where I am, but know that just now the view would be magnificent. Turning away from the guard, I grumble inwardly, Turkey isn't what it used to be. But disappointment turns to delight -- I discover a rambling path down through olive groves and small meadows, winding down and around the old castle wall, eventually far enough around that I can watch the sun in its magnificent trajectory into the Mediterranean. I have not come this way before...there are tranquil walking paths, an unexpected mosque hidden in a copse of trees, some small village houses with people lounging in the shade of their terraces. The path takes me down, down, down, finally back to asphalt and the final descent to the town and the beach.

Stripping off t-shirt, running shoes and watch, I dive into the sea in my shorts and running top. It is beautiful to float there in the gentle surf as the last brilliant orange rays of setting sun dance on the water and the sky beyond turns to gold and rose. I wish I could stay here, bobbing on the sea like driftwood...wish for the umpteenth time that I could escape the conflict and hard choices in my life, wanting out from under this burden of sorrow that has been weighing me down for the last year, no, longer than that...

Was I asleep, living in denial, lying to myself all those years L. and I were together? It was great, nonstop fun, except for the wildly dramatic and sorrowful parts, which I suppose carried their own sort of excitement. It continued to be fun for so long, it amazed me that we were able to continue it that way. It was only when the topic of marriage was broached that things went awry...I suddenly realized that for whatever reason, I could not see him as my husband. I analyzed this feeling from every angle, alternating between blaming our past, blaming his character, blaming myself and my own neuroses. Finally, exhausted with analysis and no closer to a conclusion, I brought it down to this: the fact that that feeling, that gut reaction, is there, is enough. Perhaps I will never be able to pinpoint its origin. And so, hoping beyond hope that I wasn't doing something I would regret for a lifetime, I separated from him. It was agonizing, brutalizing. To my discredit, I clung to M., the captain I had met that summer, as a lifeline of tranquility and stability. I just needed someone to talk to, I said; didn't see myself falling in love or doing anything more than talking and sharing. Somehow through our shared conversations, the revelation of his own struggles with depression and search for God and meaning in life, my soul found someone it recognized. We continued our relationship, deeper feelings developed, but running parallel to those were dangerous currents of guilt and loss. I was drowning in them when I stayed at home, escaping them only when with M. But it was putting a Band-Aid on an unsterilized wound, and that had begun to fester...relations with M. got terse, especially when he came to visit me in Izmir. Poor soul, not knowing what he had landed in, found himself being lashed out at, all because he was not someone else. I wanted him to stay and I wanted him to go...depression deepened; I was no closer to clarity. Which is why I had made the trip down this way this time: to close things up, to simplify my life, to let some of that guilt and sorrow float away on the tide. But Fate has an interesting sense of humor -- the conversations I planned to have with M. never happened, the emotional distance from him I had cultivated before coming to see him, the distance that was going to help me with that difficult conversation, vanished in the course of the dramatic events on the boat. And I found myself caring all over again, and back in that river of opposing currents, flailing.

I return to the hotel, dripping. Fatih, a handsome man my age in faded jeans and salmon-colored t-shirt, greets me. I like him immediately for his calm demeanor, the depth and intelligence in his eyes. We end up having dinner together, or rather I have dinner while he makes marks on the map I've brought to show places I should go. He offers to take me on a night tour of Alanya. I agree, and we get in his car and go, stopping at a bakkal along the way for beers. There is talk of place of origins and what life is like there, his early marriage in his hometown, and subsequent move to Alanya, glimpse of the 'wider world' and conclusion that he married too young. I talk of my own struggles; there is a point of common ground there, where we both feel stranded in the lives we've made for ourselves. We park at the top of a hill with a spectacular view of all of Alanya, sip beers and listen to the radio. It is nice being here with someone different, and I maybe even briefly manage to forget about M. and L. and all of that...

He drops me at the hotel. It is late; I can't stop yawning. Turning on the air conditioner, I strip off everything and sprawl under it on the large, white, and reassuringly foreign -- disassociated from all memory or emotion -- king-sized bed.

Tales from the Road - Lycia, Day 2 (Tuesday)

2009-08-29T15:07:00.013+03:00

10:30 a.m. I am drifting in and out of a lovely, lazy sleep, enjoying the utter stillness outside and the faint rocking of the boat. Suddenly, there is a loud, urgent rap on the door. It comes again. We both sit bolt upright. Turgut’s head and arm appear through the partially opened door, proffering M.’s telephone, an uncharacteristically grim look on his face. You need to take this. M. pauses for a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes, takes the phone, and after the first ‘Efendim…’ there is a long silence. Then he attempts to speak, ‘tamam, Huseyn Abi...’ ‘Ama, evet, ama Huseyn Abi…’ This happens a few times; apart from the man’s name, he is incapable of getting a word in edgewise. Finally a long silence, and I think that he is listening, but when I look I discover him sitting with his head in his hands, telephone on his lap. I don't know when the conversation ended, but it can’t be good…and somehow I have a feeling I know what this is about.

For a long time he will not answer my pleas to fill me in, just sits with pale face staring blankly at a spot on the cabin wall. It finally falls to me to speculate out loud. The boss? A nod. Problems? A nod. He wants me off the boat? A long pause, a heavy sigh, a slow nod.

Have you ever been asked to leave a party, an apartment, any sort of place or function? If so, you know what a wretched, humiliating thing it is. The ego gets wrapped up in it – what, they don’t want ME??! – and it takes some processing before you can ascribe it to something other than a defect in your generally sparkling personality (unless of course there really IS a defect in your sparkling personality). My eyes begin to well up as I reach for my bag, contents untouched. There is anger -- I had the best conversations with those traitorous bastards last night…they were smiling and friendly, totally engaged…and now this???! I later learn that someone from the group had phoned their father, who was the mayor of the city (i.e., pompous bigwig), who found this totally unacceptable, phoned the agency, which of course jumped as soon and as high as he wished, and it in turn phoned M. with orders to remove me from the boat post haste. It was sadly a question of the passengers acting too hastily -- by the time the agency phoned, outraged, everybody except the agency was perfectly happy.

My forced disembarkation wasn’t the worst of it: he was told to leave the boat at Kaş the following day, and they were sending a new captain. This latter news completely floored me, making me forget all about my self-pity at being evicted. What?? The man has lost his job over this? This thankless job where he slaves for six months without a single break just to earn a fraction of what I do, this job that sometimes goes unpaid when unscrupulous owners or agencies decide to keep the profits for themselves, this job to which people keep returning because they desperately need the work…this job where he has to be ‘on’ 24/7, where he works in sickness or in health, has no private place to talk or sleep, this crappy job…he’s lost it because of not asking special permission to have me - a person who is important to him and hasn't seen for two nonths - on board?? I am devastated at having been somehow involved in this horrible turn of events, sick at how the whim of holiday-makers can determine the fate of the underdogs who serve them, sick at a system that allows this. It is not that I think the passengers were entirely wrong, but I am sick at the results. And, I think, they could have handled it differently. Not a word was said to him or to me before this telephone call was made -- a call that cost him his job.

M. himself admitted to having made a mistake. Back in the winter months, back when he was sanding and painting the boat and in frequent chummy conversations with the owner, he had discussed in broad terms the possibility of having a visitor on board from time to time over the summer. Not a problem, he was assured...but this time, it was a private group; protocol dictated that he ask special permission from the agency and from the group. But he was ill, exhausted, fed up…I can well understand why he said to hell with it, just come.

Fifteen minutes after the phone call, I was walking the plank at Demre. Okay, a ladder, not a plank, but at the time it felt pretty plankish. A wizened old man in a motorboat ferried me to shore, where another loaded my things in a mini-van and shuttled me to the bus station. Where to? Two mini-busses idle: one to Fethiye, one to Alanya. Fethiye, I sigh, beaten, figuring from there I will catch the bus back to Izmir. On the bench-seat in the bus, through tear-stained eyes I glimpse the signs pointing tourists to the church of St. Nicholas, and some far-away part of me wishes that I were in any kind of condition to see it. It is, after all, the birthplace of Santa Claus. Still, this awakens an idea in me…I can’t return to Izmir sad, teary-eyed, defeated, in no better condition than when I left. And as I am already here, many hours from Izmir, why not stay a while? I grab my bag, jump out and clamber into the bus going east, to Alanya. Who knows? A change of scene might do some good…

***

The ride in the mini-bus, whizzing around teeth-clenching, white-knuckling hairpin turns on the edge of precipitous cliff, passing slower vehicles on the curves, is far longer than I expected, or at least seems longer than I expected. We pass Finike, the orange-growing capital of Turkey, then climb, climb, climb, through lush pine forests and sweeping sea views. We pass the intersection down to Olympos and the great fire-breathing Chimaera, continue past the holiday resorts of Tekirova and Kemer. What seems an eternity later, we arrive in Antalya, where I have to change busses to get to Alanya.

My mind is wiped. I have gone from distraught to empty, devoid of feeling or ability to think, operating on pure auto-pilot. I had arrived with emotions bursting out of me, ready to offload some; now it's as if a circuit has shorted. Not only did we not have the conversations I had hoped for, but things have now taken this unpleasant twist...how wretched can life get? I am standing there in the bus terminal parking lot, lost in these thoughts. Fortunately a helpful man helps get me to the correct bus and ensures that my bag gets put on it, otherwise I might well still be standing there.

Then we are off again, along the Antalya Gulf to the smaller city of Alanya. The scenery begins to change. Aromatic pine forests give way to lusher, more tropical vegetation. The wind dies; humidity rises. Palm trees and flourishing plants of all sorts are everywhere. You sweat prodigiously, day or night.

I am surprised, again, by the length of the trip. Probably over two hours, although I do not count. When we arrive, it is evening. I unwedge my cramped body from the tiny space into which I had managed to shoehorn it (tall people should not travel in Turkey), stumbling out into the moist and windless evening air. I stand blinking, rubbing my eyes, not sure what to do, not caring to do much except sit on a beach somewhere, and sit, and sit, and sit...

It dimly occurs to me that I should get on the service bus to the city center. As we are driving off I realize I've left my bag in the bus. A man on a scooter brings it to me. Duh.

Driving through the city, dim clips of memories past flicker in my head. L. and I came here years ago, when I was new to Turkey. It was L.'s youthful stomping ground, home to many short-lived romances and long, boozy nights. He had showed me some of his favorite places, some of which still existed, some of which only lived in memory. I met G., 'his captain,' a man he knew many years ago and deeply respected for his seamanship as well as his quiet wisdom. Must go with the job description, I think...damn those captains.

The service bus winds its way through the streets and I crane my neck to peer down the side streets, hoping to recognize a neighborhood from that one trip here years ago. Not that it really makes any difference: any hotel, anywhere, will do. Hell, at this point any flat surface will do. Still, when in a place I have been once before, I find I am drawn to the familiar, and I want to find the area where we had stayed, not because the hotel was wonderful or out of nostalgia, but just because it is known and conveys a sense of comfort.

The Hotel Baverya, quirkily enough, caters to Scandinavian tourists. There are signs everywhere offering myriad forms of entertainment, from excursions to beach parties to belly dancing, written in a language that I cannot quite recognize beyond being vaguely 'Scandinavian.' At 50 YTL a night, they are affordable, too. They have no room for me, however, and send me off down the block, to a shabby sister hotel that under other circumstances I might have objected to. This time, I settle in without a peep and sleep until 9:00 p.m.

***

Trying to find a restaurant in Alanya that does not print its menu in six languages and serve spaghetti in addition to Indian, Mexican and, oh yeah, Turkish food, too, is difficult. I wander the streets for an hour or more, trying to find a 'normal' restaurant. I try explain to somebody that I don't quite have faith in restaurants that attempt to 'specialize' in four different countries' cuisine. But what's your speciality? I insist. All, he says. My hackles are suddenly up. How can you possibly specialize in 'all'? I half-sneer, finding suddenly that I have become a totally unpleasant person. Trust me, everything very good. I elect not to trust him. Finally find a typical kebab place in the back streets and it becomes my local for the next couple of days.

Wandering back to the hotel, I am wearied by the humidity, quickly annoyed by the hustlers and the dazzling visual display. Bright lights, cheap toys, merchandise everywhere; it's buy, buy, buy, it's the hawk-eyed young men who lurk at the entrances of shops and restaurants with the yes, please, hello, where you from? Can I ask you just one question? Please, wait! I love you...

I am in no mood for this. Cranky, suddenly ready to turn on someone, any hapless soul that inadvertantly crosses my path. Another Yes, please! and I've had it. I stop, clench and unclench my teeth, take a deep breath. Look, buddy, I got a little tip for you. Give you an edge up on the competition, like. See, in English, 'yes, please' is an answer to a question. I didn't ask you anything, so don't say yes, please. 'Buyurun' doesn't exist in English, got it? So if you must say something, just say 'hello.' Capish? Better yet (this said to myself), just leave me bleedin' alone.

Feeling worse rather than better for having gotten some sort of an outlet, I march off to my shabby palace, where I take a long, cold shower, then flop into bed and sleep depression's sleep...twelve hours and still no sense of being rested.

***

Tales from the Road -- Lycia, Day 1 (Monday)

2009-08-29T14:22:00.007+03:00

It all began as a one-week thing. The plan: go see M. on the boat, spend most of a week swimming, relaxing and thinking, then have some light talks building up to a Serious Talk, close things up nice and neatly, leave and finally reunite with the man I have been grieving over ever since I insisted that our separation was the best idea back in July of 2008. To finally begin to live again was an idea I hungered after ever more intensely. I was seeking peace and clarity of one sort or another, and so I went south, on the night bus, to see M. He had been the catalyst – not the reason, but the needed excuse for something that had occurred to me too frequently in the latter years – for my breakup with L., but he had quite unexpectedly found a place in my heart, despite my being utterly incapable of dealing with such a possibility at the time.

A year later, I am stranded with divided feelings…there is this person who found a foothold in the heartland, but as a newcomer didn’t stand much of a chance against the six-year settlement that had been established by L. What to do? It might seem the obvious solution to evict the newcomer and stick with the long-time resident, but then, there must have been a reason the long-timer and I split in the first place (M. was, after all, but a catalyst); anyway, eviction has never been my specialty.

All these things whirl through my head on the night bus, on which I am totally unable to sleep. The sadness these days…it hits me from every angle; the pain of losing L., the incredible missing and sorrow over his pain, and the anguish of feeling I have to part from this other person, for whom I have great affection, dare I say love, and who has the same for me. In all situations, someone will cry, someone will hurt. Mostly it will be me, I guess…

Jesus, why am I thinking these things? There hasn’t been a day in the last 365+ days that I haven’t cried. That must be some kind of a record, right?? Tears, misery, the hermetic lifestyle (it’s not cool to cry in front of friends, so I basically avoid them), and anyway, nobody quite gets it, no matter how eloquently I try to express it…watching days that mean absolutely nothing slip by, fighting a sense of panic that I only get one life, that I need to get on with it and live, dammit, but somehow…can’t. Which is why I’m on the bus, why I find myself sliding out into the tiny, quiet station in Kas at 5:30 in the morning, exhausted and neck-cramped and hoping for a guiding vision of some sort or another.

***
Kaş at 5:30 a.m. A magical time to arrive in a magical place. I love the stillness of this tiny town at this time of the day, the only signs of human habitation as one walks from the otogar to the harbor a few taxi drivers chatting quietly, a restaurant worker hosing down the pavement, a few fishermen slumbering on benches facing a silk-smooth sea not yet touched by dawn's rosy fingers. I wait on a bench, facing the sea wall made of piled boulders, the lighthouse, the sea and mountains beyond. I have such a profound sense of peace from merely being here. It is already enough....leave me on this bench another hundred years and I will be fine, just fine. Ten minutes later, the distant sound of a motor; a few minutes later, a tiny launch comes into view. It is M., bundled in a windbreaker against the morning chill. I watch, for now with an undiluted happy heart as he pulls into the marina, ties up and comes out to greet me.

He is his usual reserved self: out of respect, there are no public displays of affection. There is a brief hug, the usual kiss on both cheeks that perhaps lingers a fraction of a second longer than usual; no more. But then there is an unmistakable glint of happiness in the eye that is nearly palpable, a gentle chuck on the chin, a wink, the barely audible ‘fıstık’ and I feel happy; it is enough. It occurs to me that the idea of 'spaces in our togetherness,' mentioned by the poet Rumi, is not such bad idea after all.

***

I may have been his invited guest, but upon waking after a few hours’ snooze and surveying the crowd on board with a wary eye, I concluded that I was certainly not theirs. A mixed group of hyphenated Frenchmen (Turkish-French, Moroccan-French, Tunisian-French), as well as a few non-hyphenated ones, they had rented the entire boat for the week and had not been alerted to my spontaneous, apparition-from-the-mist arrival. This was pointed out to me rather belatedly. Generally, boats are rented by the cabin, not as an entire boat; therefore one does not know the people one is sailing with, and one additional passenger makes pretty much no difference to anybody. But this was different: a group of old friends from university, they had chartered the boat, and the sudden appearance of an unexplained person was strange and unsettling to them, to say the least. Thus was the day spent in awkward silence, me trying to make myself as small as possible and simultaneously attempting to ingratiate myself through friendly eye contact. In quiet-but-nice Kate fashion, I attempted interaction: I laughed at their jokes (thank God for the degree in French!), nodded sympathetically where required, but still, the lingering feeling persisted that I was unexplained to them, and that behind those cautiously welcoming eyes was the burning question, “who in the hell is this woman??!”

***

The ice was broken over dinner, or rather dinner preparations. M. was grilling pirzola, köfte and chicken wings (yum! yum! yum!) for dinner, and I was sitting with him, offering encouragement to the meat. A few meters off, the passengers swilled rakı and chatted, yet still the eyes strayed our way, boring holes, asking questions I would have been happy to answer…had they been asked.

Several glasses of rakı later, two of the French girls wandered over to our spot under the bare lightbulb and wafting grillsmoke. Not too surprisingly (I reflected later in light of what happened next) these were two of the French-French girls, not the hybrids. Anaeis and Marion. Marion did the talking; Anaeis stood by to lend moral support. It all started off quite charmingly, a bit of small talk, some introductions, a few polite questions about my country of origin, etc. Then we got down to brass tacks: But he never told us you were coming…yes, but, well, it was spontaneous….yes, but he should have told us, he HAD to tell us!…well, I’m sorry, really, but it didn’t seem like such a bit deal…but he said NOTHING!! He has an obligation to the passengers, this is not okay, ce n’est pas correct!! (the French are very big on correctness). Just a moment, I say, allow me to translate…

I put it to M. in Turkish: the discomfort of the passengers, the overlooked (but obligatory) nicety of alerting them of my arrival, or, even better, asking if they minded. Of course, in typical Turkish Man fashion, he was unperturbed. I’m not asking for anyone’s permission, he says, nonchalantly flipping a lamb chop. What do they think, they own the boat? Well, actually, I say, they kind of do…for a week…that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Agency said it’s fine, he grumbles, nearly hurling a chicken wing off the boat…they think I’m going to ask permission? From them?? I’ll put then off the boat first, no questions, no arguments. So this conversation goes in circles for a while, me attempting in vain to convince him that while no, he shouldn’t have to ask permission, pretending to do so would be a much, much savvier business move. There is no give, however, and it ends in this way: Marion straightens up, looks me directly in the eye, says stiffly, we shall be on the other side of the yacht, awaiting his apology. After which, I sincerely hope that we can all enjoy ourselves together. A turn on the heel and she’s gone. M. says nothing and chucks a meatball into the embers.

***

My experience in my three years of living here is that generally, pigs will fly before a Turkish person will say ‘I’m sorry, I made a mistake,’ at least in so many words. The culture is very Asian in this respect; loss of face is a big deal. Apologizing implies weakness, which is unwise to own up to in a Machiavellian world. This is not to say that apologies are not made: you simply need to be aware of when you are receiving one, for they can be subtle.

I felt a twinge of pity for Marion and the group, who seemed actually nice enough if a bit rigid, waiting there in the back of the boat for M. to appear and make a public admission of his gaffe. Never in a million years, I thought. But of course they don’t know that.

What followed was indeed an apology, although I wonder how many in the group recognized it as such. I suspect that the hyphenated Frenchmen, the ones with Eastern backgrounds, probably got it. Because at the end of it all, it seemed to me that the ones without the hyphens were still looking at me/us with traces of reserve and hurt in their eyes, whereas the others seemed to have accepted us.

M. served dinner, sans issuance of a mea culpa. While they ate, we had a beer and discussed the situation again. After dinner, to my surprise, he pulls out a large bottle of single malt scotch and offers it to all of the guests. (This is also a rather big deal because any imported liquor in Turkey is astronomically expensive.) One woman prefers coffee instead, and although generally drinks consumed outside of meal hours come with a charge, he quite enthusiastically insists that it is no trouble, no charge, and voila – it is ready in the blink of an eye. He fishes around in a trunk somewhere, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but tea lights…

He lights twenty or so and places them around the boat. The effect is lovely, out there on the water under the stars, tiny flames dancing in a hint of a breeze. Soft music plays, whisky flows. People begin to relax and smile and joke. For my part, never one to interact with whole groups, I start initiating conversations with people on an individual basis. One by one, I offer small apologies for not introducing myself sooner, and then we move on to other, more interesting topics. It is fun to alternate between English, French and Turkish. The conversations are fascinating, the people engaging. Later I confer with M. briefly on the status of things. We agree that everyone seems happy. Look at me, he mutters with a chuckle, am I one to light tea lights? Tea lights, for God’s sake… he shakes his head. M., classic lifelong sailor, not hotelier, poet or entertainer; for him, tea lights on a boat is like a sweater on a dog, silly and unnecessary. It is true – for him, he has gone above and beyond. I smile, too, thinking about it. All is good…we have been accepted, good faith has been restored. Finally, yawning, we bid them a happy good night.

***

Wednesday is Pazar Day

2009-08-26T22:00:00.003+03:00

People occasionally ask me when, or if, I intend to return to the U.S. I have never been able to successfully answer that question, not being a great planner, but the pros and cons of staying do have a way of sloshing around in my psyche, and depending on the angle at which I am currently tilted, there are times when the beaches of my soul catch a lot more of one than another. Today there is a current of 'pros;' I find myself walking with a spring in my step and a happy upward tilt of the chin. There are things to love here, I am reminded again...

One of the many reasons to stay that is as small as it is wonderful is the local pazar. Although the word resembles the English bazaar, the meaning is quite different: whereas the English word bazaar conjures images of trinkets, antiques and handicrafts, a Turkish pazar is typically an open-air market where what is sold is approximately half fruit and vegetables, the other half clothes, shoes, belts, handbags, bedsheets and such.

My neighborhood, Bostanli, is famous for the pazar that sprouts up every Wednesday a block behind my house. People make the trip in from all parts of the city to enjoy an assault to the senses. For the eyes, the riotous colors of the produce, the headscarves of the local ladies, the wildly-patterned textiles on offer; for the ears, the shouts and cries of the vendors, exhorting, extolling, cajoling, a veritable opera of veggie salesmanship; for the nerve endings in the skin, the pushing and bumping of the wheeled carts and amply upholstered, sweaty bodies, and the tickle from overhead of dangling textiles; for the nose, the aromas that waft from the mountains of tomatoes and peppers, the pungent cheese counters, the aromatic meat being prepared on small grills just outside the pazar perimeters; all form part of a curiously adrenaline-inducing experience.

Summer is especially wonderful. The produce I've come to know and love in Izmir is second to none that I've ever encountered. The quality is impeccable, the quantity stunning, the prices jaw-droppingly low. There is so very, very much, but what I remember first and most is the mountains of tomatoes, how they glow dully in the shade, giving off their soft, musky scent. Though not billed as 'organic', they are clearly produced in a way that is somehow more natural than the perfectly uniform tomatoes-with-vine that one finds in German, and sometimes Californian supermarkets. They are varying shades of red, often comically shaped. Sometimes they do not even look tasty...but slice one open, and you get blood red tomato meat, juices that gush out, pure essence of straight-from-garden tomato. And a kilo is to be had for just one paltry Turkish lira...in U.S. terms, that's 75 cents! The same can be said of the peppers (there must be at least 10 varieties), the melons, the peaches, the grapes, the apricots, the cucumbers, the green beans. Their taste is to die for, the price so ridiculous that I, single person, wind up buying enough to feed a family for a week. Inevitably, the poor things wither and wilt in the kitchen, try as I might to eat my way through them as fast as possible...

Would I want to return to dollar-a-pound tomatoes? Tomatoes that are hard and tasteless, even in peak summer when no self-respecting tomato has a right to be? While in California this summer, I was impressed with the variety on offer, but horrified by the prices. There, adding produce to the shopping list is guaranteed to double the bill...and too often, the luscious look of the stuff belies inferior taste: perfectly purple plums are dry and woody within. Yalancı sebze, I mutter to myself, liar vegetables. So could I, would I abandon my luscious produce paradise? Ask me after summer, when I've finished wiping this year's bounty from my chin.

With Friends Like That...

2009-08-03T21:31:00.008+03:00

"Mieux seul que mal accompagne," goes one of my favorite French sayings. Better alone than in bad company.

An interesting aspect of being a part of a country's expatriate community is the friend dynamic. Very often, one's 'best friends' turn out, with a little reflection, to be people whom one would never dream of even meeting for coffee, let alone choosing for a bridesmaid, if one were ever to escape the expat island. These unlikely pairings arise out of necessity. Our selection pools are smaller, our need to speak our mother tongue a major driving force.

I've often wondered whether this is blessing or curse. Just as spending time with the greater familia, whose varied lifestyle preferences we have no choice but to live with (they are family, after all), broadens horizons and hopefully exercises the empathy gene, so do these unlikely birds of a different feather. Instead of reading about it in a self-help book, 'working with difficult people' becomes a reality. Our patience and compassion is put to the test. We of necessity do things we would never normally do, in ways we would probably never do them. We grow...or do we?

The other possible conclusion to this associating with-people-you-don't-actually-like-that-much phenomenon is the that one becomes embittered, spiritually compromised through a gradual lowering of personal standards, and the ropes that bind us to our principles and character are hacked through with social machetes; there is a danger of becoming spiritually amorophous blobs who are willing to be anybody -- ANYBODY -- just to have a friend who understands the syllables coming out of our mouths. We are deprived the luxury of being choosy. Of course, we could heed the French saying, and choose solitude. I used to place great stock in that saying, but these days I wonder. What was the author's context? Might he have been referring to nothing more than a couple of humdrum Saturday nights in Paris? Was he ever an expatriate? Could he possibly have dreamed of a lifetime of that dichotomy? As one who loves and craves an unusual quantity of 'aloneness,' take it from me: there is a breaking point. Sometimes we've got to go for the bad company.

I like to think that if one holds on to one's roots and one's principles, repeating them like a daily mantra, these 'friends of necessity' will not do much damage to them. At most, we will live with a lingering dissatisfaction that the kind of people we'd like to be with do not exist in our current milieu. But really, even in our own worlds, aren't we always choosing from what's on offer? The ideal friend or partner has yet to be created; when life hands us lemons, might we not just as well hone our ability to politely make lemonade?

Into the Fold...and Back Out Again

2009-08-01T08:24:00.012+03:00

Last night I sat outside until the wee hours, not in the mood to sleep and dazzled by the vision of a perfect half moon that caused the water below to sparkle and dance. As I watched, I pondered a version of the age-old question of trees and forests: if a lovely moon shines on a summer night, and there's no one of importance to share it with, does its loveliness really matter?

I have spent the past month amongst my People -- my family and countrymen. The homecoming was initially awkward. Time and distance had removed me from the culture as well as the webs of relationships and individual personalities. I had forgotten old rhythms of speech, rituals of interaction. My movement within these groups was stiff, even wary, some part of me fearing that I would be called to account for my absence and what I had made of myself; what would happen if my account were not fabulous enough to compensate for years of relationships left behind to shrivel on the vine? What if I accidentally let on about this sadness that's been eating at my soul for some time now? It would confirm the feelings of those people who feel that I am wasting my time over here, give leverage to the ones who wish me back, subtract from my fight for this adopted homeland that I cannot help but have a fierce love for and loyalty to...

Our family has never been close. We are an intellectual, serious, introverted, and generally interpersonally clumsy bunch, and when I first moved away I did not see the physical distance from the clan as anything of much import. The ethic of rugged individualism, of go-your-own-way and do-your-own-thing, has always been alive and well; from the outset the space between all of us was cavernous, whether we lived next door or on the next continent. Over the years, though, there has been a shifting of the tides. It began with the death of my grandmother, my father's mother, which I think produced such a sense of loss in my father that the importance of family ties began to take on a fresh significance. He started to organize annual family get-togethers, only one of which -- the first -- I was able to attend. At that point I was still fairly cynical and not quite sold on this idea of 'family togetherness'; I saw it as a reaction to grief on my father's part, and I seriously doubted that I would ever develop a close relationship with him or the other members of my family, we being what we were.

As I have aged, and perhaps in part also as I have lived in a country whose culture is so vastly different from my own that it is easy to feel a sense of disconnectedness, these family meetings have begun to take on new significance for me. My brother Carl, who keeps a wonderful blog, wrote that "whenever I revisit my family, I am amazed at just how narrow my circle [of acquaintance] really is." He speaks of the great diversity that is present even within our family alone, and the limits of one's professional world and the types of people one comes into contact with. I come at this issue from the other side. I left the U.S. because I was thirsting for the world, fascinated by different cultures and walks of life. In one day of my current life, I might have conversations with academics, fishmongers, housewives hailing from the old aristocracy, bus drivers and gypsies. My world is very, very broad; what family gives me is a sense of core, puts me back in touch with my DNA, stiffens my spine and reinforces the knowledge of who I am and where I come from. I discover, perhaps really for the first time, that I am proud of my family and the legacy of which I am part. I realize anew that I am not 'nobody', that I have reason to hold my head up, to walk with a calm self-assuredness that stems from the collective depth and integrity of my clan. For my brother, encounters with family are a study in expansion. For me, they are an exercise in returning to the center.

And now I return to the problem of this moon, this perfect half-circle, the filigreed light on water, the breeze that I try in vain to sketch with words but will never be able to whisper over anyone's skin without their actually being here. I love this land, deeply. It is as much my home as California, possibly even more. I miss it when I leave, and feel a sense of homecoming when I return. Still, my friendships here are few, family members nil, love life in shambles. These treasures of the senses ring hollow to me, and my days are shadowed with silence and loss. What use is this moon, the Aegean summer's particularly yellow shade of sunshine, the splendid aquamarine waters you could while your life away in, if there is no one of significance to share it with? I am a dog in possession of a Van Gogh. Caught between two worlds -- this bright and exotic one that fascinates me every time I set foot out the door, and the world that grounds me. How to reconcile the two? My friend Mitch always used to say 'you can have it all -- just not all at the same time.' Perhaps he's right. Something's got to give, but what, and when?

Sparks in the Darkness

2009-06-07T22:17:00.038+03:00

Not long ago, I sat across a table from a young Turkish man with a serious face who was curiously wise beyond his years. He looked at me for a long time without saying anything. Finally, peering intently into my face, he said, "You're not happy. You are afraid of something, and I have no idea what it is, but there is a fear there. You live your life..." Here he paused, and then corrected himself. "You don't seem to actually live your life; you observe it like a film, but you don't participate. You need to get in the ring, roll up your sleeves, get dirty, or you will always be an outside observer, and will never escape this lingering unhappiness." I thought for a long time about what he said. As I mentally flipped through the events and circumstances of my life, I realized he was on to something. Even the very nature of this blog gives it away. The experiences it recounts are observational, not interactive. No one had ever put it to me like this, and I spent several days mulling it over, slowly sinking into a depression out of the sudden sense that my prospects for happiness and fulfillment were doomed due to an inherently flawed nature. This was not what my friend had intended, of course; he was merely nudging me to get out there, but my knowledge of self combined with an at-times fatalistic attitude were leading me to believe that there was no way out of this...

Such are my dark thoughts as I sit home on yet another solitary evening, gazing at the lights across the bay, thinking of all the people I could call, but don't; wondering why I don't, asking myself if I have the will to change, fighting a rising sense of panic at the slipping away of the years -- years that I will never get back -- and this persistent refusal to engage. Suddenly the house seems suffocating; I have to get out. I slip on my running shoes and am out the door into the cool evening.

If you have never been in Izmir on the Karsiyaka waterfront on an early summer's evening, then you have probably missed something magical. I say 'probably,' because the universe is capricious about when she doles out her magical moments. If there is one thing we can count on, it is on not being able to count on getting magic on demand, whatever the conjurers with their rabbits may lead us to believe. Predictability at any rate defies the very essence of magic, doesn't it?

There is the briefest of periods in Izmir every year when the capricious winds of Spring throw their tantrums and wreak havoc with the world. They stomp and twirl, tug and pull, and then, childish passions exhausted, they make way for the gracious gyrations of the imbat, the unique summer wind of Izmir, so seductive and soft.

Out on the waterfront where grassy strips extend as far as the eye can see, it is late evening, and the sun has become a fireball crash-landing onto the distant Karaburun peninsula. The sky is splashed with variegated shades of lavender, rose and amber. In the gathering darkness, humanity teems. Kids on skateboards and bikes swoop and swerve in the dusk. Little girls kick a football with their father in a pool of lamplight. Fathers tote saucer-eyed babies while their wives amble and chatter, catching up on the day's events. Outrageously lanky young men shoot hoops, while children with gleaming eyes run madly after the remote control monster trucks that their fathers pilot with diabolical laughter, swerving them in and out amidst the errant footballs, the serious cyclists with their iPods, the perambulating housewives, the lawn gymnasts, the recumbent families on the plaid blankets with the grills with hot coals and the samovars simmering tea...and always, always, this silky wind gliding all around, caressing the skin like a lover, giving life to inanimate objects. Overhead hangs a perfectly circular pumpkin moon; in the foreground, silhouetted against it, is a cluster of multicolored kites, only their tails belying the presence of the wind. They remind me of fish I have encountered in tropical waters, which are not swimming but simply bobbing gently in the current, a wall of undulating color and light.

There is a dizzying array of activity. A young cotton candy seller totes his odd tree of pink blossoms, and another peddles those bendable glow-in-the-dark sticks that contribute perfectly to this shadowy funfair atmosphere. One gray-haired man strolls the waterline, hawking inflatable squeaky toys, squeezing them as he walks to show that they really work. Your choice: dog or chicken! Get 'em while they're hot. The nut and seed vendors wait patiently on low stools, their bins brimming with roasted sunflower seeds (whose main selling point, it must be said, is the salt), water sold on the side. These are destined for the couples deep in conversation who settle themselves on the waterfront benches or the boulders that hold back the sea, away from the melee, or perhaps for solitary individuals with no one to talk with and much time to suck on these kernels, separating shell from seed with the tongue and expelling the husk out of the corner of the mouth in one casual but perfectly calculated move...At the corn vendor, the scent of charcoal-grilled corn tempts my nostrils. I look in his direction, and am momentarily distracted by the stunning backdrop of the glossy purply waters of the bay and the golden lights that ring it like a precious necklace. Then there is a sudden gust of wind, and the scene that follows seems like one manufactured in a surrealist film studio...in one fluid movement, the embers from the corn vendor's grill are borne aloft and towards me; at the same time, the bubble blower's bubbles are carried off, mingling in the breeze with the embers. For a moment I stand rooted as this fabulous sea of light and texture sweeps toward and around me like fairy dust. The tiny pinpoints of fire are reflecting off the bubbles, rising and falling on the air currents, floating around me like a hallucination. The poetry of the moment is stunning. I am awed and humbled by a world that can conspire to create such divine moments without the slightest forewarning, and that these moments are as unique and unrepeatable as fingerprints or snowflakes. This is all the indication I need of something greater than ourselves, some magnificent force that surrounds us. Call it what you may; on this evening it leaves me awed, and I return home feeling that rarest of sensations -- happiness. The kind that originates from the very core and radiates outward into the limbs, and from there, into the universe. For tonight, at least, I can hold on to this image, can forget that I do not know any of these laughing people, can enjoy my role of the observer, be glad, even, that I don't have to go home with any of these families and discover the tedium of routine and quarrels and work and all the tiresome patterns that crush creativity and zest for life.

Perhaps therein lies the fear that my friend saw -- a fear of becoming the prisoner of tedium in a world stripped of its magic. I suppose it is true. And yet even as I begin to accept this, my inner devil's advocate pipes up: Really, Kate, don't you think that if you're the kind of person who is inclined to see prisons wherever you look, you will eventually wind up in one, perhaps even while escaping the one you thought was the most to be feared? What I'm saying is that the prison is in the soul, man; it's a question of outlook. Freedom, or lack thereof, is mainly a question of attitude, isn't it? Come on, admit it. Then a line from an old Eagles song comes to mind:

Freedom, oh freedom, well that's just some people talkin'
Your prison is walkin' through this world on your own.

There is a sudden, momentary sense of letdown, the old depression creeping back in. And then I brush these thoughts aside. I want to hold on to my happiness tonight. On this soft evening, the role of observer is one that I am happy to have. I stretch out in my soft bed in the quiet house, glad that the portly housewives and the samovars and the running and laughing children are somewhere else, and I am willing to leave the philosophical questions for another day...the wind whispers through my window and I close my eyes, lulled to sleep with visions of floating points of light, the gloss of bubbles, and a marvelous sense of freedom.

Day 7 - Journey's End

2009-05-19T12:29:00.015+03:00

We awake to a Garden of Eden: a joyous cacophony of birdsong, the rhythm kept in the background by the gentle thumping of waves on the shore. Everywhere are marvelous and varying shades of green; already flowers are beginning to blossom; the sun is beaming down softly out of a benevolent sky -- no clouds today. We breakfast on the stone terrace with the enticing sea view, and I marvel that anyone ever finds this place. The tiny village of Kabak is actually a half-hour hike up out of the valley. To get to where we are, you cannot come by car; hoofing it is the only option. And yet I am told that they fill up in summer, and even as I sit enjoying my coffee and Turkish breakfast, hammering and sawing is going on below me as new cabins are constructed.

We bid farewell to our host, who accompanies us for a while along the path. Leading us as far as an orange and mandarine grove, he urges us to fill our pockets and packs with the ripe fruit, and to fill our water bottles from the pipe that funnels mountain spring water into the grove. And then it is just the two of us, climbing up, up, up, my legs complaining immediately. There are frequent stops to gasp for air and admire the view, and when we stop I notice that the only sounds are birds and the beatific humming of bees. At one point I take a step and a rock flinches -- closer inspection reveals it to be a tiny turtle sunning itself on the hillside. Up we go, winding around boulders and pines, eventually past a couple of small whitewashed pensions, and always, always, this marvelous Mediterranean blue stretching out beyond us into infinity. My heart is singing with happiness, my head filled with visions of dancing, sipping wine and eating olives beneath an olive tree, sailing on the bright, bright blue, playing instruments in the shade with friends, building one of the stone houses typical along the coast, gardens and goats and candles and flowers and good food, friends invited, laughter, music, art, a life lived broadly and with great joy...

We reach the top. I stop in at the shop in the village to snag some sodas and chocolate, and the man won't let me escape without trying to sell me at least six things I have no use for, and then settles for trying to drag me into conversation. It must be a lonely life up here, paradisiacal as the setting may be.

Our destination today is Fethiye, where we will go our separate ways -- I back to Izmir, and work, and he back to his pre-monkhood travels, wherever they may take him. Having gotten the need for purification through sweat-of-the-brow out of my system the previous day, I have no great desire for any massive hiking undertakings today. Fortunately the path towards Butterfly Valley, Ölüdeniz and Fethiye is gentle, and we are able to amble along conversing and enjoying the spectacular views that stretch out in all directions.

Butterfly Valley is so-named for a the thousands of species of butterfly that are said to inhabit it. It is located at the bottom of a stomach-churningly steep gorge. It is nearly impossible to hike down into the valley from the road without killing yourself; most people who visit do so by boat. Once in the valley, the swimming in the shadows of the towering cliffs is spectacular, with abundant fish below you and improbable quantities of birds (swallows?) performing aerobatics between the cliffs above. In the valley there is some human settlement, and local occupations tend towards organic farming, yoga, meditation and art. A path leads up the back of the gorge to a spectacular waterfall that plummets down the side of the cliff. At points it is so steep that you have to use ropes that have been put in place for the purpose, and you are forced to pass under some low jets of water that inevitably douse you and your camera.

I want to show all of this to Guillaume, but descent is impossible, particularly given our level of fatigue, so I have to content myself with describing it and a stop for photos. It is difficult to get a picture that really gives the sense of the whole valley. This is the best that I was able to do (vertigo got the better of me):

The professionals do it better, so I've borrowed this one from http://www.turkeytravelplanner.com/:

Having made it as far as Butterfly Valley, I now am mentally done with hiking. I want only to be beamed to Ölüdeniz, a spectacular beach that is probably hands-down the most-frequently photographed one in Turkey. We trudge along and wait for someone to pick us up and save us the hiking. It is perhaps only ten kilometers, but ten kilometers we can both live without. I want to be in the sea, I want to be floating on my back in turquoise, arms stretched out, toes bobbing above the surface of the water. And then I want to sit in the shade and sip ice-cold beer, feeling the fatigue gradually ebb from my legs.

A long spell of no cars, and we continue our half-hearted walking. Finally, rescue appears. True to the Law of Hitchhiking, it is an old, beat-up Tofaş, filled with two men in the front and a large pile of surveying equipment in the back. A good five minutes of rearranging is necessary to enable the equipment, two large-sized hikers and two large-sized packs to all fit into the car. This time I've decided to offer money. Not only have they gone to considerable trouble to accomodate us, but they deviate from their original route to Fethiye to drive us to the far side of Ölüdeniz, at the start of the long, white beach which is also a national park. To my surprise, they refuse payment, wishing us pleasant travels before they drive off. Guillaume and I pay the pedestrian entrance fee, hike for a while down the long, long, pebbly beach, and finally succumb to the lure of the bright blue water, laying down our packs and donning swimsuits. The water is chilly at this time of the year, but nowhere close to Pacific Ocean chilly. After an initial small shock to the system, it is lovely; cool but not cold, gentle, soothing. I float and swim, turn somersaults, dive to the bottom and lay my whole body flat on the sandy floor, gazing at the tiny fish who have come to gaze at me. I am light and happy, cannot think of anything that would make me happier than this moment. It is good to be alive.

We dry in the sun and enjoy the much-anticipated cold beer. Finally it's a dolmuş to Fethiye and accomodation in a fairly repulsive pension (the other budget pensions are still closed at this time of year, and the only other option is a high-end hotel, which neither of us are prepared to pay for). In the evening we go out on the town, dining al fresco in a pleasant courtyard with low lighting, a waterfall and even a duck pond full of ducks. The evening ends at a bar at the end of a steep flight of stairs, where live Turkish folk music is played into the wee hours and you get to stretch out on cushions on the floor. Then it is back to the pension and to bed. I sleep soundly and late. Guillaume, who has a bus to catch, departs at the crack of dawn, and I have only a dim recollection of propping one eye open and seeing him standing at the end of my bed, fully laden with his pack, and hearing the words 'Ciao, bella.' Then he is gone, and I am back to sleep until late morning, when I sadly say farewell to Fethiye and board the bus back to Izmir and my other reality.

Day 6 - Kekova to Kabak

2009-04-14T22:19:00.018+03:00

Kekova lies at the end of a small tributary road that runs perpendicular to the main one. It's a sizeable hike to get to the main road; alternatively, there is one very-early-morning service bus that goes there, and we manage -- just barely -- to get on it and save ourselves a time-consuming extra bit of hiking.

The plan is to hitchhike. Theoretically the three of us are hitchhiking together, but the thinking is that it's easier for a person alone to catch a ride. Barely have we agreed on this then P. is off like a shot down the road, out of sight in minutes, Guillaume and I looking after her in bemusement. Then I wave Guillaume off, since my bag needs reorganizing and adjusting, and once he's gone it's just me, too many kilos of pack, and the open road. My only companions for a while are a flock of Guinea fowl idly pecking at the side of the road. A few cars come and go. I quickly discover with hitchhiking that the cars least likely to stop are the nicer ones, but if the vehicle is twenty or years older, preferably packed with tools/vegetables/sweaty bodies, it will most certainly stop. We get our first hit with a beat-up Tofaş, king of Turkish automobiles, with two long-haired guys in front bearing an uncanny resemblance to the Dukes of Hazzard, a la Turka, of course.I say 'we' because in the interim I had somehow caught up to Guillaume, and we were picked up together. Only when we have assured our lifts to the next stopping point (which was really no stopping point at all, just a wide spot in the road -- I'm still not sure why they took us there), do we break the news that somewhere down the road another friend of ours will be joining us.

All three of us finally snugly ensconced, we head off pell-mell down the twisting, precipitous road that leads away from Kekova. We decide not to offer money for the trip, since the ride is short and uncomfortable, but still I can't shake my own unease that we are doing the wrong thing...the guys have decided to go out of their way, beyond their original destination, for us -- shouldn't we offer them something? In the end, we un-wedge ourselves from the back seat of the car, manage with great yanking and cursing to unlodge our packs, and there is a moment as we say goodbye that I reach down to close an open pocket on my pack and I see the one guy's eyes follow my action, and in that moment I am sure that he's looking for a little palm grease. It is the same pocket where my wallet lives, and I waver...in the end, I opt for the heartfelt thank you and leave it at that.

The men get back in and peel out, headed back the way they came in a cloud of dust.

It is a tranquil stretch of road, flanked by abundant greenery, but an unlikely place to have been left. P. predictably immediately takes off at full speed, leaving us in her dust in a matter of moments. Guillaume and I amble along at a more leisurely pace, chatting about Turkey and politics and the mysterious workings of God as we go. Guillaume, you see, is a monk-to-be, having decided to abandon his career in French politics. I am rather fascinated by him: how does one go from a career in politics, which to me is synonymous with scheming and wheeling and dealing -- far from anything pure and spiritual -- to a life in a monastery? Did he get disallusioned by his experiences? Is this why he seeks retreat? I question him on this topic and am intrigued by his answer. The only way to do as great a good in the world as one could (potentially) in politics, he feels, is to devote oneself to prayer. Prayer is equal to (or perhaps greater than) politics.

Still, I am unconvinced. Guillaume has traces of cynicism that come out all too frequently, and I can't help but think that anyone who goes into a political life actually is a fairly social being. Would such a person truly want to sequester themselves away from this society for perpetuity? I let the topic rest, knowing that there are many things that I cannot understand, and that perhaps this will become clearer to me with time.

Not many cars pass. Guillaume prefers to proffer the outstretched thumb to those that do. Ever the introvert, I prefer to keep walking, having learned from experience that there are plenty of people who see people walking and stop to help them anyway, thumb or no thumb. Soon a large milk truck rattles to a stop beside us...inside the driver is portly and cheerful; he is headed to the pretty, upscale little town of Kaş, and so are we, and he agrees to take us for the price of gas. We are wedged fairly tightly into the cab, and I'm wondering how we're ever going to fit P. in. Still, despite her concerted efforts to abandon us, I somehow can't bring myself to do the same, so when we spot her chugging along the roadside a ways on, we stop for her. Getting three of us into the cab alongside the broad-beamed driver is a feat of gymnastics. I am sitting approximately on the gearshift. Lanky Guillaume is wedged in beside me, head slightly tilted because he is too tall for the cab. P. is sitting across both of our laps, with her head also crooked to avoid the roof, and much merriment ensues due to the ridiculousness of the situation. And thus the merry band of travellers arrives in Kaş, slips the driver a fiver, and heads to the nearest cafe.

Kaş is a unique seaside town in Turkey. Unlike many towns, which are either poor and relying on the sale of small local handicrafts (necklaces, bracelets, etc.) to support them, or larger towns which have developed a tourist industry and earn their bread through hotel room sales and tacky trinkets, Kaş is an upscale place. The streets are in impeccable condition, the boutiques filled with high-end merchandise, and a different kind of merchandise than the ubiquitous carpept and kilim one finds everywhere in Turkey. It's got some magnificent Lycian tombs in its cliffs, and a gigantic one -- fit for an emperor -- sitting improbably at the end of one of the main streets. We order coffees and spread out the maps, plotting our next move. P. has her own plans. Guillaume is on the fence about whether to go with her to Fethiye and beyond (the original plan) or whether to hang with me. I warn him that I have in mind a day of serious self-punishing mountain ascension, but he seems unperturbed and in the end decides to go with me. P. steps out to use the restroom, is gone an unusually long time, and finally my phone beeps with a text message: "I'm outta here. P.:" Thus our goodbyes are said.

Guillaume and I get a minibus to the ancient site of Xanthos, and spend an enjoyable hour poking around in millenia old stone structures with wildflowers of riotous colors peeping out everywhere...it is a largely unguarded sight, unfenced, with no admission to be paid. It is clear that excavation is ongoing, and it is with the delight of an archeologist that I accidentally step on a bit of plastic tarp half buried beneath the new grass and blood-red poppies, pull it up and discover the remnants of a brown and white ivy-leaf pattern mosaic! Wow...this must have been someone's floor centuries ago...who were these people, how did they live? Here I am, possibly standing in their entrance hall... it makes me stop and visualize for a few moments. This land will do that to you.

The town itself is a strange place. The people seem surly; the döner is far pricier than what you'd find in Istanbul, and yet although there are some ancient things to see in this place, it is hardly what I'd call a tourist mecca. Guillaume is outraged at the price of the döner and much to my dismay begins to haggle with the man in that I'm-affronted-that-you're-taking-advantage-of helpless-tourists way that people do. Considering that we're talking about a price difference of 3 YTL -- about $2.00 -- I just don't think it's worth it. I'm tired and hungry and want the damn sandwich. The man looks bemused and finally gives us the food for a lira less than the original price, and we eat it sullenly while he looks on. Living here I have discovered that you encounter tourists of two varieties: the ones bursting with enthusiasm and naivete, who think everything's wonderful and wind up getting burned; and the pessimistic traveller -- these are the ones who've been around the block a few times -- who seem to think the whole world is out to rip them off.

The döner incident behind us, we contemplate how to get to the next point on the map, the point from which we will start our hike. It is tiny village called Alınca, and from the looks of things, it is approximately 40 kilometers from where we presently stand and at a considerably higher elevation. We manage to get a mini-bus to Karaağaç, which knocks 10 km off of the trip, but after that there are no busses. There is only a mini-market and a couple of hovering taxi vultures, offering to take us to Alınca for a mere 30 YTL. Ever the cheapskate and believer anyway in the cleansing effect of the sweat of one's brow, I turn up my nose at the taxi drivers, grab Guillaume, and start trekking down the road. A small boy on a bicycle follows us for a while, curious at these two lanky strangers speaking an unknown language and walking down this obscure road. He smiles at us and does a couple of wheelies on his bicycle, showing off. He sweeps in a graceful ark, disappears down the road, and just when we think it is goodbye, he comes racing back pell-mell, a demonstration of raw power.

Eventually we lose the boy and it's just us and the occasional goat. There's not much traffic on this road, and our hitchhiking prospects are looking slim. Finally a mini-van slows down for us. It is filled with village women in headscarves and baggy flowered şalwar, who hold enormous sacks of freshly harvested vegetables between their knees. One grizzled-looking man cradles a large crate of what looks and smells to be cheese -- fortunately he gets off first. The ladies are charming, and give us lots of furtive smiles as we bump along the road. They do not attempt to communicate with us, probably assuming it is impossible, so we just sit in companionable silence. We discover that at the last place where the road forks, the van will be taking the left fork, whereas we need the right fork. Our luck has run out. It is nearly 10 km to Alınca, steeply uphill, and the day is swiftly wearing on into late afternoon. We need to move.

There follows an exhausting but splendidly panoramic hike Alınca. We spot a grand total of one car, but it is packed to the gills with mothers, fathers, children and probably a few uncles and aunts thrown in, and the occupants just wave (those of them that are not so sardined that they can't move their arms) and the car roars by.

Clouds are gathering. At the point that we estimate to be our destination, or rather, the destination for the start of our 'real' hike, there is nothing but a mass of fog, or low-lying cloud, and I start to feel uneasy. Will be stuck outside overnight, perhaps in a rainstorm, on an exposed tip of mountain? Legs and lungs screaming, we finally summit. The usual village dog greeting ensues, then the usual child-running-out-and-looking-silently-with-big-eyes, then a young girl, perhaps 15, steps out of a small stone house. 'Welcome,' she says, in perfectly accented British English. I am taken aback. Here, of all places?!! Wondering if that is the sum total of her English, I ask her a few questions and she responds easily, fluently, not a grammar mistake to be found. I think I am visibly impressed. Perhaps it is not to be so wondered at, though -- although the village in which I stand seems to be as far from anything as it could possibly be, the greater area we are in is one of the most beautiful, and hence most visited by international tourists, parts of Turkey. No doubt she commutes to a tourist destination somewhere...

We tell her of our plans to hike to Kabak that evening. Although I detect a vague look of skepticism (or am I only projecting my own concerns?), she wishes us a pleasant journey and points us in the direction of the Lycian Way. Sure enough, there are the tell-tale yellow signs pointing us onto a single-track dirt trail. 7 km, it says.

The trail starts out at a mild descent, winding through boulders and richly-scented pines. I love this kind of trail, where the soil underfoot is soft, your footfalls make no sound, and you are constantly kept wondering what awaits just around the bend....

We walk, mostly in silence, for what feels like a very long time. And then a raindrop, landing squarely on my forehead. A moment later, another one, this time on my nose. And then the floodgates are opened, and in less than a minute I am drenched to the skin. Guillaume, consummate Frenchman, produces from his backpack a plaid umbrella (?!!) and continues behind me down the path pleasantly dry, while I soldier on, soggy and determined to get there. Guillaume's progress is slowed by the umbrella, which catches on rocks and trees as he advances, and indulge myself in an inner sneer at frou-frou Frenchman, zey ah oh so pretty but oh so unmanly...still, ten minutes later I have to concede that I am freezing and would have liked to remain in a similar state of dryness. Guillaume kindly gives me a dry shirt -- and the umbrella -- and all superciliousness put aside, I continue the hike under the auspices of the red and green canopy.

It is growing dark, and the heavy rain is not helping matters. We round a bend and stop short: there has been a landslide, and cutting across our path is a wide river of loose rock. It must be ten meters wide at least, and it has obliterated our path. Perfect! To summarize: Guillaume has the only flashlight worth mentioning (mine is the cheapo given me by The Vulture at Olympos, and barely illuminates the tops of my shoes); it is getting late; we are verging on being lost; the rain shows no signs of letting up; we don't know where we're spending the night. This is shaping up to be an Adventure.

We split up in order to find the trail. He looks high, I look low. We are scrabbling over loose rocks; I am peering around in the gloom for the red and white markings. Aha! I've got it again; we are back on...my legs are getting tired, they are quivering, they start to falter and give out.

Ten minutes later another landslide; the search in the semi-darkness, the eventual finding, the rain, the plugging onward, and again, a landslide, a search. There are four or so landslides in total, and the time and energy it takes to find the trail each time is enormous. Finally, just as total darkness sets in, we reach the bottom of the valley towards which we have been descending. We find ourselves softly treading through olive groves, moving alongside fences of piled stone, hearing the nightbirds come out as the rain stops and skies clear. The trail leads us down into a riverbed, but does not appear to re-emerge on the other side. I am exhausted and frustrated, legs are jello, and I want nothing more than to be somewhere warm and comfortable.

We retrace our steps out of the gully, and suddenly spot a light in the darkness. Throwing the trail to the wind, we simply follow the light, moths to the flame. At last we emerge, all mud and exhaustion, creatures from the Black Lagoon, into a haven of firelight, music and flowers. Two people relax before a brightly crackling fire in a stone hearth. Candles twinkle and music plays softly. As we appear, the two turn to us and register a moment of non-comprehension, and then it is all over...we are helped out of our packs, shown to a dry cabin, fed warming food and propped up before the fire with beer.

We have arrived at Turan's camping, a marvelously secluded little place in the village of Kabak. Turan himself, one-time member of the intelligentsia turned political exile turned nature-hugger, makes us welcome. After we eat and drink and warm ourselves, there is a bit of light conversation, and then it's bedtime. It is only a simple slat cabin we sleep in, with a mattress on the floor and a mosquito net over the bed, but for our aching bodies it is enough. Moments after getting horizontal, I am sleeping the sleep of the dead. It has been a long day.

Day 5 - Olympos to Kekova

2009-03-29T11:12:00.061+03:00

Morning. My legs are restless: it is time to get walking, and walking in a serious way. No strolling or lollygagging or perambulating, but intense, side-aching, lung-shattering, atone-for-thy-sins mountain ascension.

I am up early and pacing the front courtyard, anxious to be off. My new friends have not yet made an appearance at breakfast, no doubt electing to sleep in late (always more enticing when you have someone to do it with) after our late night around the fire. Like the lone cowboy in the westerns, I decide to leave without saying goodbye. The clock is ticking. I must be off.

The dolmus snakes up, up, up the nauseatingly winding road, along the ridge of the mountain, the valley of Olympos dropping away before me. At the main road, at the wayside stop where cheerful, colorfully headscarved women make delectable gozleme in the most gorgeous of settings, I hop a bus to Finike. I am down to my last 5 lira, and Finike, some half hour's drive away, is the closest option for cash.

The orange capital of Turkey, Finike is otherwise not much to look at. An everyday kind of town, its main distinguishing features are trees heavy with bright orange globes everywhere you look, and a resident sunbathing tortoise that I almost trip over as I am cruising for cash machines.

Later, feeling like a superhero after downing a glass of uncannily orange fresh-squeezed orange juice, armed to the teeth with cash and snacks, I am ready. Bring it on, world. I decide to abandon the bus at the point where a tiny, narrow road intersects with the main road. According to my trail maps, I should be able to access the Lycian way trails some distance down this road.

Not far into my hike, which starts out on asphalt, I spy a rutted dirt road running parallel to the asphalt road, and decide to follow that. For the umpteenth time since I have lived in this country, I am astonished and delighted-- after walking past quiet orchards, a greenhouse or two, and some contentedly clucking chickens, I emerge into an open meadow, in the center of which stands a magnificent Lycian tomb! I am in the middle of nowhere; this is most certainly not a tourist stop. There are no signs, barriers or plaques, just this ancient, stately tomb in the midst of a meadow surrounded by olive trees. This is what it looked like:

(For some good reading on the Lycians, and on all aspects of Turkey, check out this website: http://www.allaboutturkey.com/likya.htm)

The dirt road turns out to be good only for the discovery of the tomb. A few meters beyond, it begins to disappear under wild grasses and large boulders, and before I realize what's happened, I find myself on an increasingly slippery slope below the asphalt road. I cannot advance, as the place I am walking is rapidly turning into a cliff that drops straight into the blue sea, far below me; I also cannot climb up to the main road, as the ten vertical meters that separates me from it has also become an unclimbable cliff. I backtrack a little, but oh how I loathe backtracking! -- and so I proceed to waste copious quantities of precious time by clawing and scrambling and stumbling my way up the slippery hillside to get to the road. The whole time my rational brain is saying 'this is stupid, admit defeat and go back to where the roads intersect; save time and energy,' but pig-headedness has always been one of my more marked characteristics. And so it is that I finally emerge onto the asphalt road, gasping for breath, knees filthy, hands scratched from the thorns and rocks. A herd of goats witnesses my unexpected emergence from beyond the edge of the road, and after staring at me for a moment, they all trot off down the road in the direction that I will be heading. When looking for paths, I think, trust the goats. They've got it figured out. Thus it is that with only a vague idea of where to find the hiking trail, I set off after these goats in greatest confidence.

My instinct -- or was it the goats? -- turns out to be correct. After ten minutes of walking, my spirits are buoyed when I come upon this road sign:

A mere 11 kilometers to Kapaklı...no sweat, I think (wrong choice of idioms, I realize now -- certainly sweat was going to be involved, especially if I wanted to get there before dark!). I continue my brisk walk along the road, feeling high as a kite from the breathtaking scenery that surrounds me...I am walking through ancient Lycia! The Meditteranean lies before me, aquamarine and sapphire-blue. There are rugged mountains that plummet to the sea, dense forests, and not a soul to be seen. Now, if I can only get off the asphalt and on to a real hiking trail...

Finally I find it, the trademark yellow signpost that points me off the asphalt road and on to a dirt road that descends toward the coast. After five minutes of walking, my confident strides begin to falter as I realize that I haven't seen any trail markings for a while. I turn and walk back up the hill -- still no marks. There is some type of construction going on -- there are earth movers and backhoes and I fear that the boulders painted with the red and white stripes (indicators that you are, in fact, on the trail) may have been overturned or even carted away. In that case, where do I go? After some hesitation, I decide to follow my gut instinct and continue down the newly widened dirt road that I am already on. In any case, I figure, what is the worst that could happen? I have my maps. I can see the coast. I know that the village I am headed towards is also on the coast...what could possibly go wrong? (Note: whenever you start thinking this way in the wilderness, it is best to check your head for a second opinion.)

Down, down, down into a fertile valley, enclosed on all sides by craggy hillsides blanketed with boulders and thorn bushes. I arrive at a complex of greenhouses, a barking dog, a few shacks. Hoping that someone will emerge from one of them, I slow my stride. Nothing. The dirt of the road is wet and sticky down here, and soon I am slogging through mud, and once again the road is petering out. I find myself suddenly standing in a field behind a greenhouse, forbidding-looking slopes rising up on all sides, and a clearly visible barbed-wire fence amongst all this on the hillside in the direction I need to go. Low curses to myself. Just then, a creak, a scuttle, the sound of a human approaching. From behind an olive tree emerges an old man on crutches, hideously deformed, a face that looks like it has melted, one normal leg and one tiny little one with a ridiulous child's foot dangling at knee-height. I can't help but recoil. It also occurs to me to wonder what chemicals they are putting on those greenhouse vegetables, or were at the time of this old man's birth.

Then a child emerges, a bright-eyed and very serious young boy, perhaps 10 years old. He is articulate, polite and takes over the conversation, where I had been struggling to understand the old man with the melted face. No, I don't know of any Lycian way, the boy says; no, there's no road or path here, but Kapakli is over there, he says, gesturing in the direction of the craggy, thorn-covered, barb-wire-fenced hillside. Ah, says I, but the fence. No problem, he tells me, there's a way over. Come, I'll show you.

He leads me off through the squelching mud, then in amongst the bushes and boulders, and then lo and behold, behind a large bush I see what he was talking about: it is a kind of stile, a ladder that goes up and over and down again, neatly enabling one to bypass the barbed wire. (Somewhat defeats the purpose of the fence, I think...) He tells me that there is a pipleline (gas? water? I never find out) that goes all the way to Kapakli, and all I have to do is follow that. Before I can thank him, the serious young man is gone. I readjust my pack and clamber over the fence, wondering what adventure is in store next. The first few steps are easy. I manage to ascend the hillside to its crest, emerging into a pleasant glade where I sit and eat some almonds and take in the view of the sea. The way down is a different story. Almost immediately the pipeline becomes obscured in thornbushes and low-hanging trees. It descends small cliffs that are too steep for me to descend, and I am soon forced to re-think the idea of following it. Surveying the landscape again, I spy a brilliantly white beach far below me, and as I watch, a flock of goats emerges onto it and crosses. Ahh, the goats! Where there are goats, there is hope. I have a new target now, and decide to abandon the pipeline in favor of the easiest descent I can manage, while holding the beach in my sights.

The going is incredibly difficult. I am scratched and dirty and exhausted. Leaping across gaps and down from high rocks is not easy under any circumstances, but with 30 or so kilos of backpack on your back it is gruelling. The terrain and I are locked in silent combat. Finally, jubilation...the thorn bushes are starting to thin out, there is more soft grass beneath my feat, and even traces of goat paths. And then, yes, it is more than a trace -- I am on a goat path, and now I know that I am okay. Gratefully, I follow the path as it winds gently down to the sea. Twenty minutes later, I emerge onto the beach, just as the last of the goats have passed from it.

It is a gem, utterly deserted, made up of the characteristic golf-ball sized white pebbles of this region. I take off the pack, stretch out, remove my boots and socks from my aching feet. As always, I find myself lost in contemplation of these perfectly white, perfectly smooth stones, all nearly the same size. I can't help seeking symbolism and finding it in these stones. How flawlessly smooth and polished they are! Does this speak to the grinding down effects of time, how it erodes us, takes away our individuality...or is it a more optimistic message; is this about how time makes us wiser and more perfect...somehow there is something old and wise in a perfectly rounded and polished beach pebble. It has witnessed the tides, perhaps of centuries, it has weathered the storms, and all that time has been slowly evolving to perfection.

I notice the sound of the water on these stones, the lovely clatter, rising in pitch as the gentle waves roll in, the descending clickety clack as the waves recede. It is nice to simply sit, eyes closed, and listen to this melody. In a moment of inspiration, I take out my MP3 player and record the sound of the stones, thinking someday it will be a happy sound to listen to from my city apartment.

A brief wade in the water (chilly!) and then it's time to move on. I have just put my socks and shoes back on when I hear a rustle in the brush from the direction in which I am planning to head. A moment later two goats, one black, one white, emerge onto the beach, stopping in their tracks when they see me. They are stragglers, having no doubt gotten too engrossed in some patch of clover along the way and lost track of their herd. Now I am a barrier between them and the herd, and they look at me with desperate eyes. Fear of the stranger trumps desire to be with family, and they retreat into the bushes from whence they came. I shoulder my pack and disappear behind a large boulder in a meadow behind the beach, hoping the goats will feel free to pass now that I am gone. I wait for a good while, feeling a small burst of frustration at the goats and the rapidly sinking sun and the fact that I don't know exactly how far I still have to go (I have been hiking for hours, but the going was so difficult that I may have only covered a kilometer or two). At long last, I hear a tentative hoof on pebbles. Then another. Then slow, creeping, goaty footsteps, gradually gaining in confidence, until finally I see them pass my hiding place, cross the beach, and scamper up into the brush where their shepherd and flock await. Am I weird for showing so much courtesy to a couple of goats? Whatever... At the place where the animals have emerged from the bush I discover a boulder painted with red and white stripes -- my heart does a leap of jubilation -- I have found the official Lycian way!! At long last, I am back on track. The way goes up, up, up and more up. My legs are hamburger. I am in no kind of physical shape for this, and my strength is rapidly deserting me. Still, it is doing my soul much good to be out here. The path eventually flattens out, and I find myself walking through idyllic meadows dotted with olive trees and fluffy grazing sheep. There are signs of human habitation: the abundant stone of the area has been organized into neat, low walls. Still, I encounter no one but the sheep. I can't help thinking once again how Biblical this landscape looks, and I still am unsure why that is the adjective that always springs to mind. Was it an illustration from the children's Bible that I had as a kid that is bringing that adjective to mind so many decades later? Was it some Biblical TV miniseries filmed in this part of the world? Interesting how our specific memories fade, but impressions and links do not. Here is my 'Biblical' landscape:

The sheep are hilarious. A veritable opera cast, they mingle their bleats to perfection, the lambs' high sopranos punctuated by the rams' baritone, while the alto of the ewes keeps the middle line of the music going. At one point it is so comical and I start laughing so hard that I have to stop and sit on one of the stone walls and listen. I make a recording on my MP3 player; it's not bad, but unfortunately I missed the best of it.

It is beginning to get dark, and I am contemplating sleeping options. There aren't many, really. I am in the middle of nowhere; at least I am in a flat and grassy middle of nowhere, so I can imagine stretching out for the night and sleeping. I have never slept out in the open, unprotected by the sheltering walls of a tent, and the prospect is both exciting and nerve-wracking. It is such a vulnerable way to be -- vulnerable to predatory humans and insects and inclement weather -- but also so close to the natural world. I realize that stupidly I have brought my sleeping bag but no waterproof mat to put it on, so I will inevitably get soaked if I have to sleep outdoors. Not a nice thought, but then, I figure, it probably won't kill me, either. And it's only for one night. The bigger concern at this point is that I am down to two swallows of water. And I'm thirsty. For this reason alone, I have to get to Kapakli.

More trudging -- the terraces and sheep and olives seem endless -- and then, finally, a glimpse of some houses up on the hill. I encounter a woman gathering wild greens, and ask her if the buildings I see are indeed Kapakli. She grunts an affirmative, and I begin the climb, legs devastated and nearly unable to make it. I arrive in a tiny village where children are playing football in the streets, drowsy dogs slumber in doorways, and a group of women stand conversing before the gates of the mosque. I approach them and inquire as to the existence of a shop....they laugh and tell me there is no shop in Kapakli. I explain that I am desperate for water, whereupon one women says come to my house, I will give you some.

Her house is only meters away (the whole village is only meters long and wide, come to that). I remove my shoes and enter; she offers me slippers and I pad after her into the living room. She brings me a small glass of water which I down in one gulp, feeling slightly embarrassed, but also desperately thirsty. She brings me another, and I sit, too exhausted to be nervous, while her two young daughters and their two young friends sit on the opposite couch and stare at me, wide-eyed. I soon learn from the woman that the village's water supply was cut off sometime that morning, and the only water they have is in a large bowl in the kitchen. Bad luck! I am reluctant to down great quantities of their very limited drinking water, so I politely refuse another refill and tell myself that I will be able to get my fill when I get to a real town with a shop.

She brings me tea, then small savory pastries, and we make conversation -- about her life in this village, the work she and her husband do (they are greenhouse farmers), and my life in the big city. She has never in her life been farther than Antalya, which is maybe a couple of hours away, and I marvel at the differences between our lives. I am thousands of miles from the place of my birth, and hundreds of kilometers from my adopted city. I live surrounded by concrete and paved streets and bars and shops and cinemas; she lives at the top of a hill, with a spectacular, sweeping view of the sea and nothing more. She finds her life dull; I find her place paradise. The shy little girls, Gizem and Gözde, begin to ask me questions, and we talk for a while. I tell them I am a teacher, and inquire about their lessons, whether they are learning English. Not much, really -- the younger daughter is in Grade 2, and they have no English lessons. The older daughter is in Grade 4, and they have English twice a week. She is astonished to learn that the students I teach have 16 hours of English every week. The woman urges me to spend the night at her house. I consider it, but then politely decline. I am touched by this hospitality; at the same time, I am no innocent. Sadly, I do not have total faith that pure hospitality happens very often. Generally, people want something, and the more you accept from them, the more in their debt you become. I have already accepted water and tea and snacks and a dry t-shirt. I hate thinking that I have a debt, but one never knows, and should it be the case that I am considered a debtor, better to leave before I add a night's accomodation to my tab. I lie, and tell her that my friend P. has reserved a pension in Kekova (a 15 minute drive away) and is expecting me to join her. As a matter of fact, P. did contact me earlier in the day from Kekova and invite me to come join her.

As you wish, the woman responds. My husband will be home soon. We will eat dinner together and then you can decide.

The husband, a ruggedly handsome man who makes his living from greenhouse cucumbers, arrives in the early evening and we sit together on the floor and eat dinner from a large tray. There are five of us, and three bowls of soup are set out. It is not clear whch soup belongs to whom, or how the sharing is supposed to work. I wait and see if anyone eats the soup closest to me. When no one does, I figure it is for me, so I have a few bites. Then the younger daughter takes her spoon and eats some of the soup from the same bowl, and I am perplexed. Is this the way it works, then? Communal soup? Regardless, the food is delicious. I am grateful for the family's generosity, but also concerned that they may be very poor, and perhaps they are depriving themselves of a meal or two down the road in order to feed me.

After we eat, more tea is brought. The children haul out the family photo albums and sit on the sofa with me, one on each side. The younger daughter shows me photo after photo of her and her family and relatives, flashing through them so fast I scarcely have time to look at them. The older daughter is the voice of maturity, telling her sister, slow down! She can't see them when you go so fast.

The pictures finished, the little girl disappears and returns with a box of sweets, which she holds out to me with great dignity. I accept one, then she makes the rounds, offering one to her mother and father and sister, before taking one herself. The older sister then makes the rounds with the ubiquitous lemon cologne, found in every Turkish household and on every bus in Turkey. She sprinkles a few drops in our hands, we rub them together, then over our faces and necks. It has been an unusual evening, and despite my slight discomfort at being around people I do not know, I am happy to be having this experience. Still, I need to move on. The father offers to drive me to Kekova, to my friend, and we all pile in the car. Five of us in a half-broken-down Tofas that seems unlikely to survive the drive. The father drives like a maniac on the pitch black and twisting roads, and I genuinely fear for our lives. As we near Kekova, I start to feel a sense of relief that my fears about being a debtor, about being expected to compensate for the family's generosity, were unfounded. And then the woman asks me, out of the blue, so, they must pay you a lot at that school you work at? Oh, how I loathe this question, so frequently asked. Well, it's enough, I say. How much? she asks. Enough, I say again, firmly. After some more covert attempts to elicit this information from me I say, as politely as I can manage, I'm sorry, but this is a topic I don't really care to discuss...it's just a cultural thing, I say as an excuse. She drops it then, but then goes on to tell me how little greenhouse farmers really earn. All my previous apprehensions return. Perhaps she is only making conversation, but then, why this topic, why now, at the end of our time together? Clearly, she is hoping for something. In the cramped space of the back seat, I surreptitiously check my wallet. I have a 50 lira bill and a 5. I am not about to give 50, and 5 seems too little. My reasons for not giving the 50 have nothing to do with being frugal. The services rendered to me were, from my point of view, worth that. But this is not hospitality. I would take any lost and dehydrated stranger in, feed and water them, and expect nothing. The world needs this. If we turn it into a place where such services are rendered only when payment is expected, then the world is a sad place indeed. I do not want to contribute to creating such a world. I decide to offer the 5 lira bill to cover the cost of gas, which is a reasonable expectation, I feel. Secretly, I am hoping she will not accept it, because I want this nice evening to have been a pure act of generosity, not a commercial transaction. We get out of the car in Kekova, bid our farewells. I turn to the woman and awkwardly offer her the 5 lira note...I'm sorry, I tell her, I don't have anything else, but I hope this will at least help cover the cost of the gas. You have been wonderfully hospitable, I say. I will not forget this, or you. To my chagrin, she takes the 5, says it's okay, and they are off. I am feeling a bit discouraged at this blow to my ideals, but then I think, perhaps such ideals are a luxury afforded by those in my financial bracket, just as hiking through the wilderness and making myself exhausted are. They are exhausted by a hard life; they do not need to seek out such challenges.

I check into the pension where P. is staying, and discover that she has acquired a companion in her travels. A tall, gangly young Frenchman named Guillaume is seated on one of the two beds when I shuffle into the room, exhausted and ready for sleep. We have a few beers together, regale each other with stories, and then it's lights out, Guillaume on one bed, P. and I sharing the other...I fall into a dreamless sleep moments after my head hits the pillow.

Day 4 - Olympos

2009-03-21T18:10:00.018+02:00

P., ever unpredictable, decides to leave without a word. I am not sure if I would have known she was gone until long after, had I not happened upon her waiting for the shuttle bus to the top of the valley. We decide that we each need some personal time, I see her off, and wander off happily on my own, savoring the lack of time constraints or itineraries.

My original intention was not to stay at Kadir’s for more than one night, but I have very much enjoyed the conversation of my new companions, and my glimpse of the beach yesterday is enticing me to swim…and so I linger through the morning over maps and a leisurely breakfast, watching people of all ages and walks of life come and go through the breakfast room. Later in the morning, I make the trek back to the beach with Selcen -- back through Olympos, over the rickety planks across the streams, past the mysterious rushes along the river, past the ancient tombs touched by beams of sunlight that penetrate through the trees. On the beach finally, I take a deep breath and dive headfirst into the crystaline water. After the initial shock of the cold, it is lovely, and I swim far longer than originally intended, mermaid-like, floating on my back under a vast sky, diving and pressing myself to the pebbly floor, observing the tiny fish that come to look at me and then skitter away, feeling very much in tune with the planet and my own soul.

Back on land, I don layers of warm things, and Selcen and I sit and talk until our stomaches simultaneously growl. We laugh and she phones John, who bounds out from behind some ruins he's been eagerly exploring, looking incredibly like a puppy who's been thrown a large, meaty bone. It turns out that the weight of John's backpack is not in fact due to the lunch that he had been instructed to pack and we had been eagerly anticipting, but to several books on archeology. Selcen growls her displeasure, our stomaches echoing the sentiment. As penalty for the egregious oversight, she demands that he treat us to lunch/dinner somewhere nearby.

Thankfully one of the three beach restaurants is open in the off season, and we end up whiling our afternoon away in a most delightful fashion: seated literally at the edge of the sea, nothing but a short expanse of beach pebbles between us and the lapping waves, not a soul in sight, lapping up meze soaked in olive oil, picking at delicate fresh fish just off the grill. Selcen is delightful, intelligent and witty; her English nearly flawless, her insight wise beyond her 25 years. John is equally interesting, with that earnest and boundlessly energetic characteristic I have often observed in young Americans abroad. He is deeply in love with S., and I can read his happiness and optimism in his eyes. I wonder, was I ever like that? Was I that lovestruck 20-something-year-old, full of possibilities, the world wide open to me? I think I must have been, and yet when I look back, my impression is of always having been caught in some net or another, whether forced upon me or one of my own making. I look at this community of backpackers, with their dreadlocks and their time off from whatever it was they have been doing back home and their lack of itineraries and their search for ‘good vibes,’ and they seem so free…but I do not recall in my youth having ever felt such freedom. What was I so bound up in all those years? I feel a pang of envy, a momentary panic at the inevitable passing of time, but then it, too, passes. I remember that the only place to live is now, and here I am in a beautiful place, with good people, good food, and feeling some contentment in my heart…let me not linger in regret.

The waiter at the restaurant proposes building us a fire on the beach later that night. He works there year round, and things get a little dull in winter. It sounds like a good idea, so after planning to meet later, John and Selcen head off to the Chimaera, while I return to Kadir’s to reserve a room for the night and wait until evening. Back at the lodge, the prospect of a walk through the ancient ruins in the dead of night (who said 'dead'?!) causes some trepidation in my heart, so I attempt to round up at least one other person to make the walk with me. On hearing ‘beach bonfire,’ the ears of everyone sitting in the lodge perk up, and before I know it I am off into the dark with a possee of twelve – them with great expectations of a good ol' beach party, me having only the vaguest idea where -- and if -- this fire would be and who would be providing food and drinks. We get to a pitch-black beach, no fire in sight, and predictably the complaining begins. I am for a moment struck by the fact that as a teacher I work in a position of leadership, but in life it is a position I cannot stand to be in. I do not wish to tell people what to do. Nor do I wish to be responsible for the pleasure – or lack thereof – of other people; it makes me profoundly cranky and sorely tempted to tell them where to go if they don’t like it. A moment of panic: am I in the wrong profession???! I suggest that if people are interested in a fire, we could start taking steps toward that goal by collecting firewood. At the very least, it is something to do other than sitting on the beach in the dark and shivering. Most refuse this suggestion, choosing instead to remain where we are and warm themselves with whingeing. Sarcastically, I offer to refund their admission fee and generously propose a free trip back to the lodge. Note to self: I should work on that sarcasm thing. It's really not so nice.

The fact is, I have absolutely no information about where and when the fire will take place, who will be gathering the firewood, where the consumables are coming from and who’s fronting the money…nothing but a vague promise that ‘there will be fire.’ Some two hours later than initially agreed, I get the phone call from Selcen: she, John and the restaurant guy are on the way. There is an added factor of difficulty to this equation: between the part of the beach that Olympos opens out onto and the part of the beach where the restaurant is, a briskly flowing river flows. It cuts the beach in half, and there is no bridge. Any transportation of provisions involves schlepping them over shifting pebbles, which is exhausting, kicking off the shoes and rolling up the pants above the knees, wading through frigid waters, drying off the feet, putting the socks and shoes back on, and continuing over more shifting pebbles, all the while schlepping the goods. Great is my admiration for these three who have proposed to undertake the task. Profound is my annoyance at the present company. When I explain to them the logistical difficulty of our current situation and how we should appreciate the efforts of our three friends, and maybe, just maybe, go and assist them, they decline. Bahhhh…

Eventually everything works out. The restaurant guy more than comes through. There are snacks galore, multiple bottles of wine and beer, and we drink and talk and are mellow late into the evening. I listen with interest to the stories of the people around me: the French Canadian climatologist and her Argentinian husband who both got so depressed with this global warming business that they quit their jobs and are now simply wandering the world; the young New Zeleander who is delaying college for a trip around the globe. The serious grad-school dropout Mike, who has ambitions of traveling to Iran, Iraq and Syria and is frustrated at his inability to get a visa. The quiet young man from Kyrgystan, whose story I never got, but who seems to be a student of some kind in Turkey. Mellowed out by the fire and drink and conversation, we walk back in the dark, the floating islands of light from our headlamps the only thing to cut the total blackness. It is tricky crossing the streams with only a few flashlights and a lot of people, but in the end we make it.

This is a story with a twist: the evening was a tale of adventure and, finally, friendship, but at the last moment the genre shifts. As we pack up on the beach and head for the lodge, Restaurant Guy announces that he's coming with us...spend the night at Kadir's, get a little change of scene. On the way back he starts paying a vaguely creepy amount of attention to me, stopping when I stop, speeding up when I do, dropping the occasional light touch on my back. There is no way I am putting out 'come hither' vibes, but there are those predatory types who require no such provocation. We get to Kadir's and stand in a group briefly, saying our good nights before everyone disperses to their individual cabins. I am feeling increasingly uneasy; I do not want this man to see where my cabin is. What's more, I had requested a change of cabin that morning (the tree house was too cold!) and now can not for the life of me remember where the new cabin is. The last thing I want was to be wandering around in the darkness by myself looking for my cabin while Restaurant Guy is about. I look at Selcen and John in desperation as they are about to walk away...can I go with them to their cabin, just for a bit? We stand in the yellow circle of their porch light for a few minutes, as I explain to them in a low voice what's going on.

Ten minutes later, John finally picks up on my subtle hints (he's young; I guess I have to cut him some slack) and gallantly volunteers to go with me to help me find my cabin. A few perplexing circuits around the campground do not turn up my lodgings, and this is starting to get embarrassing. Just when I'm about to swallow my pride and go and ask the front desk, voila! A half-second of jubilation at finding my bed is immediately replaced by a rush of consternation at the sight of Restaurant Guy fumbling with the keys to his cabin, which just happens to be adjoined to mine. The doors are inches apart. Unbelievable! Was this done deliberately, I wonder? What kind of film is this becoming...horror? comedy? romance?

He sees us, and there's nothing to it but to walk nonchalantly to my door and open it. John is about to say goodnight, his naivete (or apathy?) apparent in the way he is ready to bound off back to his girlfriend despite the evident awkwardness of the current situation. The camp manager Koray, who had also been at the fire with us, is there as well, and there is an uncomfortable moment where Restaurant Guy stands at his open door, I stand at mine, and John and Koray stand facing us two meters away. We all say our goodnights, and I start stalling, spluttering at Koray: "say, umm, do you...ah, well, this was great...say, could I just...?" I am not getting very far, because Restaurant Guy is standing right there, listening and looking intently, and I cannot bring myself to say "this guy is creeping me out!" right in front of him. (I am nothing if not polite.) I finally walk up to Koray and tell him in a low voice that I'm not feeling comfortable with the situation. Turks are generally so intuitive, but Murphy's law strikes again...he doesn't understand what I mean. I make a few desperate eyebrow and chin gestures at Restaurant Guy, and finally the light goes on. We can move you to another room, he says. Suddenly, I feel just very, very tired, and I say no, it's all right, I just wanted you to know that there's something weird afoot.

I assure him that I'll be okay, and then I go in and lock the door of my rickety wooden cabin behind me. A bit afraid (why, I ask myself? what could he, or would he, possibly do to me?), I leave the light on for a while. Nothing happens. You are ridiculous, I tell myself. You have lived too long in cities and experienced too many Creepy Man episodes and this is tainting your perception of perfectly okay people. Gotta work on being more open, I sigh to myself as I switch off the light. The moon shines whitely down on me through the window, and I think I hear an owl. I begin to sink into that kind of peaceful sleep you only get in nature. Just as I am riding that delicious crest between waking and sleeping, there is a knock on my door. And then another. And then a series of knocks, louder, more insistent. A pause. I am wide awake, my heart pounding. There is a rap on the window, then a heavy staccato of beats on the glass. I make no sound, and there is another pause. I contemplate what to use for a weapon if the intruder should manage to break down the door or window (not difficult in these cabins). The knocks on the door resume. And then the handle of the door is jiggled, the door creaks and I can tell there is someone pushing against it. Thankfully, I have locked it. The jiggling of the doorknob stops, and I hear the slow pacing of hard-soled shoes outside. Probably smoking a cigarette, I think. I am braced for the next assault, having fished my Swiss army knife out of my bag and opened the large blade. But it does not come. There is a sort of resignation in the air; the door next to mine is opened, then shut and locked, and all is quiet.

Much later, the pounding of my heart slows, and I am once again able to take pleasure in the moonlight and the owls. Life is so full of unexpected twists and turns, I think, drifting off...we are in the midst of a film that is constantly changing genres. This is both the upside and the frustration of it all. We crave both consistency and variety; but aren't they incompatible?

Tomorow begins a new film, or a new segment of the old one, and I wonder what kind it will be...a last thought drifts through my head before the heavy blanket of sleep falls...wait a minute... aren't I the director and the producer and scriptwriter of my life? I am the one who, more often than not, gets to choose the genre, barring of course occasional unavoidable pressures from financiers and lobbyists. I can make my life whatever I like, changing it as I go....and what fun that can be! Astride this marvelous sense of liberation, I cross into dreamland...

Day 3 - Tekirova to Olympos

2009-02-18T21:42:00.003+02:00

Despite the best intentions to rise and depart early, I find that the nature has a wonderfully soporific effect on me, and I am content in the morning to lie in bed and listen to the bird song that filters in from every direction. A late and leisurely breakfast, a stop by the beach to collect driftwood and pebbles, and finally P. and I are underway. The main road runs at an elevation along a mountain ridge. Now and then everything on the left hand side of the road drops away, and there is a dazzling view of lush, green valleys far below, craggy cliffs and sparkling sea. An idyllic landscape, indeed.

We arrive at Kadir’s Tree Houses, a funky backpacker hangout where the plank wood cabins were originally all literally built in trees – until the place burnt to the ground several years ago and was rebuilt, this time primarily on the ground. A hip, welcoming place, every cabin has a name and is adorned with murals and artistic graffiti; many of the former tree houses are now bungalows sporting bathrooms and heating. We, however, have our hearts set on sleeping in a genuine tree house, and so we request one of the three original that remain post-fire. Humorously dubbed ‘The Penthouse’, our accommodation is nothing more than rough planks nailed together, a window on each side, and a bare electric bulb. A tree – not to mention lots of drafts -- runs right through the middle of the place, and when I lie still I can hear the abundant insect life buzzing inside of it. Fascinating and wonderful -- and just a tad creepy -- to be so close to nature. P. suggests tree-hugging as soul therapy, so I try it, but maybe it was the wrong time or the wrong tree, because I mostly just get little pieces of bark down my shirt.

Dropping our things, we set off on the 10 km walk to the Chimaera, the mysterious place where fire inexplicably billows out from vents in the mountain. To get to Chimaera, you must first go to the beach; to get to the beach, you must first walk through the ruins of the ancient city of Olympos, and therefore pay 3 YTL. I gnash my teeth for a while at the fact that they always manage to get you in the pocketbook in the end, but the annoyance quickly dissipates as we began the walk through the secretive stillness of the sight. A river runs down the valley, lined with golden rushes twice my height. I have visions of Moses in the basket. Little rushing streams flow out from the hillsides to join the river, and frequent crossings on wobbling planks are necessary. There is the sound of rushing water, birdsong, and otherwise total stillness. Sunlight filters through enormous, horizontally-inclined pines, touching on the remnants of temples and triumphal arches centuries millenia old. The longer I live in this part of the world, the closer I feel to history, the easier it is to visualize the people who once lived here, and the more fascinated I am. Mysterious paths disappearing off to the side, into the rushes…it is tempting to explore, but I want to get to Chimaera before complete darkness.

The rambling footpath between pines and river rushes that runs through the ancient city of Olympus ends at a long, white pebble beach. This is all part of the Lycian Way, a 500+ kilometer hiking trail along the coast between Fethiye and Antalya. For the most part, the trail is well-marked, but coming out onto the beach, I see nothing that indicates where the trail leads next. Bewildered, I approach the only other soul keeping me company on the beach. He is tall and lanky, bearing a remarkable resemblance to my brother Carl, and is absorbed in the business of photography. John is a young and intensely enthusiastic American, underwater archeologist by training, English teacher in Istanbul, who has no more idea where to go than I do. I learn out that he is staying at Kadir’s Tree Houses as well, so promising that we’ll see each other later, I head off in the most probable direction of the trail.

Arrival at the Chimaera at dusk. The flames are there, bizarrely belching out of the mountain as promised. P. has some sausage in her backpack, and so we improvise a skewer and roast it over the flames. We discover a half loaf of bread that someone has left behind, still relatively fresh, so we made sandwiches. It all feels somehow slightly irreverent (to whom, I wonder briefly??), but is great fun, and we laugh as we sit in the gathering darkness and eat our sausage sandwiches, charred black the flames emitted from the mythical beast Chimaera, buried far beneath the mountain.

That evening in the lodge, we gather near the wood-burning stove. John from the beach is there, as is his delightful Turkish girlfriend Selcen, and a serious-looking grad school dropout named Mike. The tavla (backgammon) board inevitably emerges, there is much conversation varying wildly between the trivial and the profound. P. heads off to bed and I remain with the new friends, the tavla, and the warm sense of being exactly where I want to be.

Selcen and I get into conversation about relationships. Conversation flows effortlessly, for hours...

“Why is it that it is so rare to find a person who is visibly improved when you see them in the company of their significant other?”

She agrees that all too often, people shine less, rather than more, when their partner is around. Do partnerships improve us more than they subtract from us, we both wonder? Do we trade stability for being our fullest, most unique selves?

“And what about the ‘spark’ – that little flip-flop the heart does when you're madly in love with someone...is it an essential part of a relationship?”

“Well, I suppose that inevitably fades, doesn't it? Don't all relationships at some point turn into friendship? So even if you have this spark at the beginning, at some point, you are probably not going to have it.”

“So, assuming that you won't have it in the long run, why not just cut to the chase and be with someone with whom you share a lot of common ground? Would it work? Loving and being in love are two different things...is the latter doomed to a butterfly's existence? Can we live with without it? If not, what happens to long relationships? How do we stay in love? How do we nurture the spark?”

“I was raised to believe that the ‘spark’ is synonymous with infatuation and is therefore superficial and ephemeral. Friendship is what counts; friendship and common values. As I get older, I am starting to wonder if the spark part got short shrift…but nobody ever told me about this!! "

“Ever notice how the longer a couple stays together, the more they forget about their individual selves, needs, desires? In a sense they become more like one person, and yet at the same time they drift apart to the point where they hardly know each other any more.”

We talk on into the night. She is mature and insightful, and the conversation does me good, even if it does not bring with it any particular conclusions.

At one o’clock I climb the rickety ladder to our ‘penthouse,’ crawl into my sleeping bag fully clothed, pull my wool hat down over my head, and shiver as the wind finds its way between the slats and the insects hum about their business. Finally sleep comes, and when I awake it is to a chilly but magnificent morning, ready for the next adventure.

The Lycian Way - Day 2

2009-02-14T10:00:00.007+02:00

Raucous birdsong greets me when I wake. P. has already left, no doubt off creeping through bushes on some ornithographical outing. It is tempting to lie there snuggled between the warm sheets, without moving, but the world is out there, waiting to be greeted. I climb out of bed into the chill air, and I am outdoors, into the forest, beginning the ascent up the pine-covered hill behind our cottage.

The hike is steep but rewarding – I emerge onto a ridge where cliffs drop off below me to the sea. Behind me rises Mt. Olympus, snow-capped and majestic. I can feel the tranquility permeating my skin and filling my being. There is a trail along this ridge, and I follow it as far as I can. At times it is terrifyingly narrow, the drop to the rocks below disconcertingly far and steep, but it is a beautiful feeling to be so close to so much beauty. As if I am on top of the world…

Back at the ranch later, we breakfast, make the rounds of the facilities, greet the horses and their foals with their spindly legs and broom tails, then, feeling drowsy already, though it is only a little past noon, head back to bed for a two-hour nap. Isn’t that what vacation is for?

Awakening later, we begin to plan our next move. Olympus is the proposed destination. We decide on one more night at Sundance, and then Olympus the following day. In the evening, we go for a walk that leads us to the main road, then get the idea of going to Olympus for a quick look-around and reserving a place to stay for the following night. We manage to catch a minibus along the main road as far as the turnoff to Olympus, but we are told that there will be no more busses descending the mountain to Olympus that day. On foot it would be at least an hour and a half walk, and dark is fast approaching, so we decide to hang out at this quaint roadside stop, where headscarved ladies make fantastic otlu gözleme* and the view of the setting sun floating down into the valley below is nothing short of jaw-dropping. Then it’s a bus back to Sundance and another tranquil night in the woods where I am lulled to sleep by the secretive hooting of owls.

* Turkish version of a quesadilla: dough rolled out thinly and grilled on a convex iron griddle (heated from beneath with charcoal), filled with salty cheese, hot pepper and wild greens, then folded and flipped on the other side. And, in this case, brushed with melted butter. Yum.

Back

2009-02-12T20:09:00.006+02:00

The underwear held out, so did the socks, almost; the semi-rainproof gear wasn't really at all, and the knees complained vociferously. The nature, however, was spectacular, the conversations stimulating; it was a much-needed and appreciated break from the urban grind.

Following, my no doubt too long-winded account, and because I am painfully slow and long-winded, I will attempt to conquer this task with day-by-day installments.

The Lycian Way - Day 1

There is a species of city-dweller that professes to feel most at ease amidst the hustle and bustle and urban jangle and concrete. Perhaps they actually do. By this point in my life I have discovered that although I enjoy cities, they have a way of distancing me from myself and sucking out my life force. Perhaps it is sensory overload; perhaps it is simply the lack of connection to the earth. With a carpet of concrete beneath me, I find it difficult to listen to my heart and the murmur of my soul. I need trees and birdsong and the sound of the sea to connect to myself. So when our two-week semester break arrived, I seized the opportunity to jump on a bus to somewhere greener, where I could maybe hear my own heart beat again. What would it sound like? What would it tell me?

Day 1 – Izmir to Kemer
A booze-heavy night of long and philosophical discussions with L. left me scrambling at the last minute to pack the backpack and get to the 1:00 a.m. bus. In the end I made it to the bus station with just one minute to spare, and wouldn’t have made it at all had it not been for the taxi driver who took me seriously when I told him to step on it.

The good thing about bleary booze- and conversation-laden evenings is that they promote sleep. Hardly having settled in seat 1A, I leaned my head against the window and conked out, only awakening at 8:00 a.m. or so as we drew near our destination.

The Mediterranean coast of Turkey near Antalya is lush and lovely, with magnificent turquoise water, tropical palms, white pebble beaches and mountains jutting up majestically in the background. Already, just looking out the window, I felt my soul respond with a quiet leap of joy.

My ultimate destination was Olympus, another good stretch west down the coast, but Kemer was as far as my long-distance bus would take me. Groggily, I shouldered my too-many kilo backpack (didn’t weigh it, but as I had trouble lifting it, it officially qualified as heavy) and headed toward the town center. Might as well see the town as long as I’m here.

Kemer is a resort town about an hour from Antalya. There is a stunning quantity of hotels, even more places to shop, and a serene bicycle path/walkway that wends its way along the waterfront amidst lush foliage. At this time of year the town exudes the forlorn desolation of all tourist towns in the off-season. The shops were closed, steel cages pulled down over display windows; hotels sealed up for the winter, some undergoing major renovations. The only living soul I encountered by the time I made it to the beach was a Kurdish man selling fresh-squeezed orange juice. This region being the orange capital of Turkey, I ordered an enormous frothy glass, sat down on the pebbles of the beach and meditated on the sound of the sea. Even the waves sounded lonely, I thought…were they missing the happy feet of holiday-makers glad to escape their cities and their jobs and the many meaningless and soul-sucking responsibilities that are thrown at us?

Stretched out on the pebbles, I drifted off to sleep, basking in an improbable sun that had only narrowly come out the victor in a battle with a pack of brooding gray clouds.

Awakened by the crunching footsteps of another lone traveler passing by me, I prepared to move on down the coast, where I was to meet up with my friend P., down from Istanbul.

P. is a slightly off-the-wall, fiercely (and sometimes infuriatingly) independent spirit, part hippie, part nun, ornithologist, botanist, photographer and talented musician. She has at some point or another done nearly every interesting job under the sun, and is here in Turkey attempting to collect something for her soul; however, finding herself frustrated in her attempts to locate that elusive ‘something’ in Istanbul, she was happy to travel south to meet me. Two seekers in search of soul food.

We met in Tekirova, a 40-odd minute drive from Olympus. She was staying at the Sundance Nature Park, a sort of granola-ish place that put its guests up in rustic wooden shacks, uses only solar power, grows its own food (all organic) and is friend to all God’s creatures. The place was bursting with horses, cats and dogs. A quiet little stream flowed gently into the sea; on its banks, shy pointy-headed turtles basked, slipping into the water with a quiet plop, plop whenever footsteps approached. A kingfisher, startling in its electric blue, glided effortlessly inches from the surface, scouting for the small fry that teem in those waters. The birdsong was deafening, with a variety of rhythms and tunes that I had never heard all in one place before. Truly a Garden of Eden, and so out of the way that it was a marvel to me that the place ever had any customers at all.

That evening we were served an organic meal in front of a cozy wood stove, while four or five cats and two dogs (one snoring) curled up around our feet. It was a good start to the trip. I drifted off to sleep in our tiny wooden shack by 10:00, pleasantly fatigued, happy to feel part of the natural world again.

Off...

2009-01-30T09:23:00.009+02:00

I'm off to ancient Lycia, just me and some maps and a couple of spare pairs of socks and underwear. On the slopes of Olympos, in the pine forests that slope to the sea, among the scattered tombs of vanished civilizations, I hope to discover peace and clarity. More anon.

These photos respectfully borrowed from http://www.lycianturkey.com/

Morning Commute

2009-01-03T11:40:00.023+02:00

Despite the fact that I live in a sprawling city of nearly 3 million people, I am privileged enough to wake up every morning to a sweeping view of tall trees, silvery sea and mysterious mountains. I commute to work by boat. Every morning is a meditation, a prayer, a privileged moment alone with myself. On the ferry I sip piping-hot tea in tulip-shaped glasses, while seagulls dive and soar alongside in the pink rays of morning. They seem to take pleasure in their wingedness, and watching them, I feel joyful, too.

I suspect that these are the reasons that most days I arrive at work feeling peaceful and happy (except of course for those days when I miss the boat and am running like a madwoman in high heels with my backpack and my travel mug leaking coffee onto my shirt and nearly get run over by some idiot cabbie...but don't we all have those days?). The other day after a particularly cold night, the mountains that ring the bay were sprinkled white with confectioner's sugar...then there are days when the clouds spiral mysteriously about the highest peaks, and the sun comes peeking through cat-like...I see all this, and my colleagues, trapped in staff housing across the street from the school and shut off from views further then two blocks in a neighborhood of claustrophobically narrow streets, have no idea that any of this is going on...and again, I realize: I am fortunate indeed.

Here are some of the views that greet me each morning. Coffee on the balcony starts the day...

Then a ferry ride to the other side of the bay, during which I am treated to spectacular displays of light on water...

I wish I could capture those seagulls in a photograph, but they are elusive to my amateur's fingers. Who knew that going to work could be such a pleasure?

These early days of 2009 are days of hope and wishes, reflection on the care and feeding of the soul. Perhaps my brushes with the natural world seem an insignificant thing, but they provoke a recurring rush of gratitude. In this simple way, my soul unfailingly feels at peace. And in an increasingly chaotic world, what a rarity this is. What beauty in its simplicity. And then on these wintery January days, I think, this is the kind of happiness -- in whatever form they find it -- that I sincerely wish for all of my loved ones in this year and beyond. Happy New Year, everybody. Peace, happiness and abundance be with you.

Happy What? (On Christmas in Turkey and the New Year's Claus)

2008-12-27T10:18:00.006+02:00

Although this is a Muslim country, and one would not expect to find hide or hair of Christmas come December 25, this is not entirely the case. Although certainly not to the extent that one would see it in Christian countries, the symbols surface here and there -- Christmas trees start cropping up in shops and apartment windows. Lights are hung at shopping centers. At the supermarket, there is a giant bin of Christmasy odds and ends -- reindeer candles, little snow-covered porcelain house candle-holders, plush Santa Clauses, mini Christmas trees, shiny colored ornaments.

I talk with my students about this. That tree, I say; the one with all the lights and ornaments. What's that all about? It's a New Year's Tree, they reply. Really. Apparently the idea of a brightly decorated pine tree is so appealing (really, it is, isn't it?) that it has been adopted here, but stripped of its Christian association and made into a New Year's symbol. Further questioning reveals that the gift-giving tradition of Christmas has also been incorporated (they are New Year's gifts, of course). Okay, I think indulgently, let them have their pretty lights and gifts, even if it was our idea, and I am quite magnanimous about all of this until Santa Claus comes up in conversation. Ladies and gentleman, meet New Year's Claus. This is when I flip -- how dare you corrupt Santa Claus?! He's ours! You can't have him. I am irate. My friend C., ever more of a passionate firebrand than I am, is even more irate. She rants about this on the way to our Christmas getaway in Şirince. I try to put my own feelings aside and reason with her. Look, I say; there are no new ideas. We constantly recycle and revisit things that other people have thought of. Look at fashion -- the same styles keep coming back, with tiny variations. Christian symbolism was not invented by Christians -- it was taken from pre-Christian religions, then given a makeover in order to take on the symbolism that we wished it to have. We are constantly borrowing from each other; get over it, says wise old me. Still, she pouts. Father New Year???? Secretly, I can't help but agree. And dammit, she exclaims, don't friggin' take the evergreen! Decorate a bloody olive tree, or a pomegrate, but leave our evergreen alone! She's got a point. Where's the originality? Olive trees abound in this part of the world; wouldn't they be a logical choice?

Then there ensues a long conversation about Islam and holidays. It begins with the observation that there are no lavishly celebrated holidays in this religion. Bright lights and pretty things are antithetical to Muslim piety, it seems. The most you get is a string of lights and some extra nice chocolate displays in the stores around Bayram time. And where are the rich traditions? Perhaps there were some that have been lost; perhaps there are some that we do not see. But it seems to us, as outsiders, that there is something lacking, an absence of stories and mysteries and high celebration. We have the story of the immaculate conception, the trip to Bethlehem, the infant in the manger, the three kings, the shepherds, the star; we have the modern tales of the all-seeing Santa Claus and his nocturnal visits to deposit presents or lumps of coal. We stoke the imagination with these stories, we provoke both goodness and wonder. Where are these stories in Islam? I know of none. It saddens me to think of growing up without them, for they are some of my most cherished cultural possessions. It seems to me that we humans need the rich stories, the rituals, the pageantry. In a culture where those appear to be absent, what fills people's souls? What makes them wonder and dream? Is this, perhaps, the source of the hüzün, the melancholy, that grips the Turkish people and indeed from all appearances, most Islamic nations?

Turkish Christmas

2008-12-27T09:36:00.008+02:00

Christmas in Turkey, a 99% Muslim country, is a lackluster affair. More accurately, it just isn't. It is a painful time of year for foreigners, as it slowly sinks in that this year there will be no pretty lights and trees and family gathered round, no Elvis crooning "Blue Christmas," no hot mulled wine, no mistletoe under which to kiss or not, no tantalizing window displays in the shops to drive one into a frenzy of consumer indecision. It is just another day, another work day, a fact that can be understood by the intellect but is totally incomprehensible on a visceral level. Work? On Christmas??????

Our school is not an international school, but a Turkish one -- and therefore Christmas is just another work day. Out of consideration for the foreign staff, however, the board has made Christmas Day a half day of school, and a full day holiday for the foreign teachers. But Christmas Eve is just another day at the salt mines, and this, I confess, is hard to handle. I am not an ingrate, and certainly appreciate the concession to our faith and customs, however small. But Christmas Eve. More special, more ambience-filled than Christmas Day, and of all days, the day when you do not work. You shop, you cook, you wrap; you are together. Faces glow. Tummies ache with Mexican Wedding Cake overload. Carols are hummed as you go about your Christmasy errands. But this year, here, for us, was just a normal Wednesday. Which happens to be the most stressful day of my week, leaving me exhausted and panting at the end of it, so it was with a sense of bewilderment that at the end of this Wednesday workday, as I sat in my teacher chair flattened, it suddenly dawned on me, 'hey, it's Christmas Eve!'

Had it not been for my dear friend C., Christmas would probably have galloped by, celebrated by me alone with a large glass of spirits and a DVD. But she's a dreamer and a planner, and a fighter -- she does not give in to depression and naysaying. And so she orchestrated an escape to the charming village of Şirince, an old Greek village an hour from Izmir that has been largely restored to its former loveliness.

Six of us rented an entire house for a night. It was the kind of house I can imagine living in: all wood and stone, cozy niches in the walls for vases or candelabras or statues of the Virgin Mary, heavy beams across the ceiling, frosted glass in the ceiling of the upper floor to let the light stream in, a hamam style bathroom, all granite and made for sitting and splashing yourself with warm water; a fireplace ready for use, a basket of wood just outside the door; no TV!; no phone; just simplicity, a place that insists that you simply be, with yourself, with your company. Like the kings to Bethelehem, we brought offerings -- ginger cookies, bottles of bourbon, Christmas CDs, card games and books. We settled in, lit the fire, toasted our toes on the hearth, managed to hear Elvis crooning "Blue Christmas" after all (followed by the Vienna Boys Choir), and slowly, slowly, the spirit of Christmas began to seep in. It was like having been stuck out in the snow on a winter's night, and being brought in from the cold by a good Samaritan. The chill is in your bones; it takes some time for the warmth to permeate down deep. So was it with us...but it did. And by bedtime the very marrow of my bones had been warmed by the glow of Christmas, in all the right ways -- and it occurred to me, maybe a little ironically, that in this non-Christian country, my Christmas felt more authentic than ever before. We brought nothing, really, except ourselves and a few simple items to share. We had no commercial distractions. We found ourselves in this little white town, nestled into the curving side of a hill. Our house was perched at the very top, and we could look down on the rest of the town, the white houses, the occasional grazing horse or donkey or sheep. I couldn't help noticing the resemblance to the artistic renditions of Bethlehem that I have seen. The stars were myriad, dazzzling in their brightness, the air clean and crisp. This, I thought, is as Christmas as it gets. Even the sadness I felt at being away from my family was mitigated by the intensity with which I felt them in my heart on that starry night. A sense serenity and optimism filled me. Peace and hope -- isn't that the essence of Christmas?

Kurban Bayram -- The Feast of the Sacrifice

2008-12-07T11:49:00.005+02:00

Once upon a time, God, back in the bad-ass days when punishments such as instant-transformation-into-salt-statue were meted out on a regular basis, thought that a great way to test Abraham's obedience would be to command him to sacrifice his beloved son, Isaac (Ishmael in Islamic scripture). Abraham (naturally) wept at the prospect, but was nonetheless loyal to his god and set about preparations for the sacrifice. I can't help thinking how in modern days this man would have been branded a psychopath (hearing voices? from God? telling you to kill your child? All righty then....) and summarily put away in a safe place for life. Luckily for Abraham and Isaac, and for that other, theoretical modern-day Abraham vis-a-vis the law, God intervened at precisely the critical moment and provided a sheep for Abraham to cut in place of his son. And thus was born the tradition of the Kurban Bayram (Eid al-Adha in Arabic), the feast of the sacrifice, commemorating Abraham's absolute obedience to God.

These days, people are not called upon to sacrifice their sons and daughters. A sheep, a goat, or a camel will suffice. A prayer is said over the animal, and then it is slaughtered with a quick and deadly (and hopefully painless) slice to the throat. One leg is left untied so that the animal may kick as its life force ebbs away. The blood must be allowed to run free, as congealed blood taints the meat (so it is believed). The meat of the slaughtered animal is divided into parts -- one for family, friends and neighbors, one for the less fortunate in the community, and one for oneself. The idea is that no one, no matter how poor, will go hungry on at least one day of the year.

In Islam, this method of slaughtering animals is the only accepted way to do it -- holy day or not. A prayer is said, God's name is invoked -- it is a reminder that life is sacred, that our power over animals and the bounty we receive from them is a gift from God. As squirmy as it makes me feel to contemplate direct aquaintance with the animal I plan to eat, it actually seems the only truly right way. When I think of the millions of animals that are anonymously machine-slaughtered on an assembly line in American abattoirs, coming to us only after they have been neatly processed and wrapped in celophane, it seems inherently wrong.

I am getting my first taste of personal acquaintance with the victim today. On this crystal-clear, sublimely blue-skied morning, a flock of sheep wait anxiously in the entrance courtyard to the highrise building across the street. It is yet another of the endless, fascinating juxtapositions of ancient and modern that one constantly enounters in this country. My neighborhood is the most luxurious and modern in this most-Western Turkish city. The streets and sidewalks are carefully paved with bricks, high-end restaurants abound, new jogging and bicycle paths are being installed, some of the buildings are modern high-rises...and yet, there are the sheep. And as I type this from my perch on my fourth-floor balcony, I watch the men who stand around the sheep, assessing the merits of haunches and shoulders, the glossiness of the animal's eye and the perkiness of its disposition. Much discussion ensues. Finally an animal is selected, and it is pulled, kicking and protesting every step of the way, away from the rest of the flock. It looks about it panic, attempts to flee, but two men are holding it, wrestling it onto its back. For a moment it lies still, and even from this far-flung vantage point I can see its belly heaving in fright and exhaustion. Then a kind of calm comes over the animal, and I see one of the men pray over it. I do not see the knife, but I can, even from 50 meters away, visibly observe the life ebb out of the animal, the tension dissolve. Miraculously, this living will- and instinct-endowed creature becomes in an instant merely a carcass, food for the masses. The men are busy now, washing and processing it (I can't make out exactly what they are doing), but finally they hang the carcass on a nearby tree, and the business is concluded, for now.

It has been a long time since I have lived in California, but I still remember the growing organic consciousness, the idea that one's food ought to be natural and chemical free, and the rapid spread of vegetarianism, due to (among other things) the awareness of the horror of American feed lots and 'animal processing' techniques. Vegetarianism -- choosing not to participate in fear and death -- is how many Californians responded. I probably would have joined their numbers had it not been for my fondness for meat (particularly lamb chops). It is interesting, and oddly life-affirming, to be here in Turkey and see another approach. There is no horrifying wholesale mechanized slaughter, and neither are there many vegetarians. Animals roam relatively freely with their shepherds, living naturally off the land. There is a sacred relationship between them and their humans; from the human side, a deep respect for life, but also a belief that these creatures are a gift to us, provided for our nourishment. It is the cycle of life as it should be, all things fulfilling their purpose, and in return, great respect accorded to the gift.

Dawn Reverie

2008-12-05T07:15:00.004+02:00

Every morning, I wake around 5:30, and drift in and out of dreams and consciousness for another fifteen minutes. Then I throw on a robe and slippers, put the kettle on for coffee, and step out onto the balcony. All is dark still, and the bay before me is a field of black velvet ringed with a golden necklace of flickering light. A lone nightbird sings, getting a jump on his diurnal friends. And then, out of the ether, floating and dreamlike, comes the ezan, the morning call to prayer.

It is my favorite moment of the day, this poetic, echoey summons to God issuing out of the blackness. There is none of the fire and brimstone character of the prayer calls in full daylight; this is soft, sleepy, winding its way into your sleep, a soft touch nudging you from slumber towards devotion. It seems to last twice as long as a normal prayer call, and I love to sit there on my balcony, utter stillness apart from this ethereal voice, waking my soul along with my body. It occurs to me what an extraordinary life I have: from my balcony I can gaze out onto a Homeric sea, and I am woken each morning by a dreamlike chant from a minaret. How many can say the same?

On Distance and Proximity

2008-11-22T09:07:00.017+02:00

Now and then you have to get a little distance between yourself and whatever, or whomever, you spend most of your time with. When the familiar becomes too familiar, contempt is hot on its heels...and if you don't safeguard against that, you can count on an extreme counterreaction.

I had done this with my relationship; I realized at some point that I had gone too far down the familiarity path, and (much to both of our great chagrin) I decided that distance and renewed perspective would do me good. I managed this, gradually getting into the habit of fending for myself, physically and emotionally. But one night after a goodly period of solitude, I'm out in the town and coincidentally run into Levent. It was a pleasant surprise to see him, and we whiled away hours and beers catching up on everything. I mentioned at one point that I was planning to get out of the city the following day -- out of the country, in fact -- and taking the ferry to the Greek island of Chios. Our conversation turned into an invitation for him to join me on the adventure, he readily agreed, and thus it was that we found ourselves on my scooter at dawn the following morning, bundled like morphing caterpillars, zooming down the coastal road to Cesme. (For the record, 90 kilometers is a long way to go when you're riding double on a scooter in the early stages of winter.)

The dawn was lovely. The sun climbed up from behind a mountain as we sped by rolling hills and pine forests, still-sleeping cows and fisherman putt-putting out for the day in their tiny wooden boats. Winter is subtle here -- most of the foliage is perennial, there are no brilliant colors to behold, but still there is a change, magnificent in its subtlety. The light is pale, slanted; the wild grass takes on sepia tones; there is a sense of things hunkering down, resting for a spell.

We arrived in Cesme with stiff and frozen fingers and legs, and it was a couple of hours before we got the kinks out and stopped shivering. A bit of shopping in duty-free (oh, how I've come to love duty free, after living in Turkey where the price of booze is only slightly less that the going rate for gold!), and then we were off.

Chios lies a meager 9.5 miles off the Turkish coast; the ferry ride takes about 50 minutes. But things are so different there that you might as well have climbed into a space capsule and shipped off to another galaxy. The waterfront is lined with bars -- impeccably, expensively outfitted bars -- all done in themes. There was the 'nautical theme' bar, with the giant compass on the ceiling and the exquisite ship models adorning the walls; there was the 'vintage sports' theme, with an old wooden boat from the Oxford rowing club on the ceiling, wooden skis, old tennis rackets, and so on; there was the 'ultra-modern' look, everything silver and black leather and dim lighting. Turks have bars; we have lots of them on our waterfront. But they don't have themes. They have music and tables and chairs, and beer in varying degrees of coldness, but that's about it. And the people in Chios! Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, were young people squeezed into gleaming black leather. I would wager there was more leather and studs on this one strip that in the whole of San Francisco's Castro district. Hordes of these cowhide-and- ripped-denim-wearing young bucks in designer sunglasses screamed up to these glitzy waterfront locales, strutted in, and then whiled away hours over iced coffee, perfecting a look of sophisticated boredom as they swirled the ice cubes in the glass. Iced coffee -- even that struck me as so ooh la la after living in Turkey where the simple glass of tea is pretty much all anyone drinks. All of it screamed to me: 'We are Western. We are wealthy. We have plenty of leisure. We are nothing like our Turkish neighbors. And dammit, we are cool.' Coolness; that place was all about it.

It is odd to travel for such a short distance and feel suddenly so removed from where you were. We sat and wallowed in this sensation over outrageously expensive (to us, who were used to Turkish prices) 5 euro beers (small ones, at that!), and watched the leather-bound come and go. The women, I noticed, were much heftier than Turkish women -- either a testament to their greater leisure and wealth, or to the poverty of vegetables in their island diet.

Walking the streets of town, it was fun doing the mental gymnastics of trying to sound out the Greek words on the signs. Each word successfully deciphered was a small victory, and we managed to work out most of the alphabet's sounds by encountering words we knew (like 'taxi') or by looking at travel agency posters written both in Greek and in English. Later we popped into an 'open 24 hours (sort of)' home cooking place, where I'd ended up on my last trip to Chios. It had been an unexpected find -- I was there until about 11 p.m., drinking retsina and chatting with Dimitrius, the owner, and his loveable friend Marcos (although he didn't speak a word of English and I spoke exactly 2 words of Greek), and then suddenly they turned off the outside light, pulled down the shutters, whipped out a variety of instruments, and I was treated to a night of fantastic, improvised live music, right there in the restaurant, for the exclusive pleasure of the musicians, a couple of their friends, and me. I was crossing my fingers for another spontaneous jam session this time.

Dimitrius recognized me immediately, and was warm and welcoming. Marcos was there, too, big and loveable and giant-hearted as before, giving me a bear hug welcome. I introduced them to Levent, we settled down before giant plates of moussaka, a half liter of retsina served in a tin pitcher, and ate ourselves into a stupor.

Night fell. It got late. We switched to ouzo. Dimitrius and Marcos, it turned out, were not planning to play, because they had taken on the great responsibility of seeing to the drunkenness of a friend who was celebrating his birthday that day. This 'friend', it turned out, who sat at a nearby table and was consuming copious quantities of scotch, was a vehement Turk-hater, and he spent much of the evening making increasingly inflammatory remarks to Levent, while Dimitrius and Marcos invested much energy in calming him down. As the drunkenness progressed, so did the vitriol, and increasingly the man -- Tarnassis -- opted to insult Levent in Greek. At some point we heard malaka - apparently a pretty offensive word in Greek - and that was the last straw. Levent stood up, took the bottle of ouzo over to the other table, poured two glasses, handed one to Tarnassis, and said with a grand flourish and exaggerated politeness, 'a very, very happy birthday to you, my friend!'

This threw Tarnassis totally off balance (not that it would have been difficult at that point), and with glazed and befuddled eyes, he clambered to his feet and, supporting himself alternately on the table and on available shoulders, he beckoned us out onto the dance floor. He managed a couple of shuffling steps, then with exaggerated concentration propped himself on a door frame, fished his car keys out of his pocket, and made for the door, while Marcos lunged after him, arm around his shoulders, attempting to talk him out of his next foolish action of the evening.

That was when we met Stratos. The young, good-looking Greek guy with the tiny stud in one ear and the black shirt with the Chinese dragon, who had been alternately working at his laptop and observing the procedings all evening, moved to our table. In halting English, he apologized for the boorish behavior of his fellow citizen and we got into some small talk, mainly about his work as the owner of a radio station, 'Groovy FM' (I had to laugh at that), and his ambitions of extending into the Turkish market. Our conversation was interspersed with dancing, where we were joined by a rather feisty Greek girl who (according to Stratos) had an enormous thing for him. There was a small group of us on the dance floor. Every time I got up to dance, Stratos would, with jaw-dropping self-assurance, get up, cut in on my dance partner, take my hand, and proceed to dance (badly) with me. I found this hugely amusing, thinking 'good thing the Turk in my company is not your typical Turk', and wondering if Stratos realized that just 10 miles away, the same behavior could easily get him hospitalized -- or worse.

When we sat down at the table to take a break from dancing, Stratos whipped out his laptop, said 'here, have a look at my photos' and set his computer to 'slide show' mode. What came next made me want to crawl under the table with embarrassment. It was a parade of photos of various angles of Stratos, interspersed with photos of various women, a monument to himself -- Stratos' naked chest, close up; Stratos on the beach, oiled up in a tight black swimsuit; Stratos with dark glasses, casually leaning out of his BMW; Stratos on his bed eyeballing the camera with a come-hither look. The photos flashed by, and out of politeness we tried to look, but, equally out of politeness, kept trying not to look...Really, who could sit and look at this stuff, especially when the subject of the photos is sitting there at the table, watching you watch?

The rest of the night proceeded generally like this, with short interludes of dancing, returning to the table for the umpteenth view of the slide show that was still running in a perpetual, agonizing loop, until at last we'd squeezed the last drop of ouzo from the bottle. Eyes fuzzy, and dawn around the corner, we exchanged contact information and made the usual half-hearted pledges to keep in touch now and again.

Two days later, we get an email from Stratos:

Hello my friends levent and kate! How are you? how was your trip
and your first day on tsesme?I am very happy that i met you maybe at a
wrong time but i am sure that at another personal time we could have more fun
and better dancing without the other crazy girl!!!I liked very much your comany
and i hope for the next meeting of us!
It left me wondering, am I reading too much into this? Have I just lived too much and become a little too worldly? Or is he actually hinting at what I think he's hinting at? Which then left me, marveling once again, about very how far ten miles can be.

Weather and Paint

2008-11-02T09:53:00.010+02:00

November sky: indecisive. Clouds drift and gather, descend into moist haze, dissipate. The light slants, Fall-like, and then out of the blue, a bird sings, a wave of heat draws out beads of perspiration under my long-sleeved shirt. It is a constant old-clothes race, switching from sweats and sweatshirt to shorts and t-shirt. I am waiting, desperately, for resolution. Will it be rain? Will it be Fall? Will we dispense with all that and elect for eternal summer instead? Waiting. Indecision. Limbo. Much like my life.

These days lack of resolution has me painting my walls. The pure white of the corridor had grown tired and dirty looking, and so I invested in three buckets of 'candelight white' and am busy rolling it on -- walls, ceilings, my face and hair. Renewal through paint. But the metaphor, even as I'm craning my neck to get that corner of the ceiling I missed on the first round, has got me thinking. Is it renewal, in the sense of purification or cleansing, or do we simply bury the old unsightly stuff, never really working it out or throwing it out? Does the old baggage, the dirt and smudges, always lurk there just beneath the surface?

I like my pristine cream-colored walls now; I like this new surface. How tempting it can be to slather on a fresh new layer, a new look. Switch out a tired old job, relationship, or hairstyle for a shiny new one. Remake ourselves. But are we renewing or escaping? Are we changing our exteriors to reflect shifts in our interiors, or merely because we have grown too uncomfortably close with our interiors? And how to know the difference?

Gone Fishin' (An Apology)

2008-09-14T21:36:00.002+03:00

Dear Readers (assuming there are any of you left out there),
Difficult events of a personal nature in my life over the last couple of months have derailed me. I have frankly had neither the heart nor the mental wherewithal to write anything postable in this public space; I apologize for leaving you all hanging. Please bear with me until happier times allow me to continue with this journal. Peace to all of you.
Kate

Summer

2008-07-03T12:37:00.023+03:00

these days of
gigantic sugary pink watermelon coolness
when peaches explode down my shirtfront
zzzzt zzzt cicadas zzzt zzzt hum in trees, louder even than the busses
tenacious ants march through my kitchen, ever martyrs for their cause
and this once perhaps they are surprised
to find themselves victorious
- take the kitchen! have it!
I am fleeing the fortress, ceding the city, trading shimmering concrete and exhaust
for sea and the scent of wild thyme

out there
sunscreen smell speaks beach
sea salt draws white designs on skin, I think I can read my future there
ah, the scent of brine; the cry and squabble of the gulls!
floating in turqoise, I am an infant again, gently lifted and rocked
bikini lines - oops, I need a wax
zoooom - a Vespa whizzes by, quintessential summer sight.
at a shady fruit stand the proprietor sweats and dozes.
his sweet white apricots glow like gemstones, wine-dark cherries embody original sin.
not to be outdone, strawberries flaunt their outrageous come-hither aromas and I am drawn...

sizzle calamari frying ssssssssssssssizzle the scent is driving me mad (even though I had two portions yesterday)
smooth beach rocks surrender to idle contemplation
faces looking back at me
look - this one's got an evil grin; this one seems surprised to see me
- and over here's an alien -- with glasses.
come, rest in my pocket, let my hand brush against your coolness when I need this place again on some darker day

our heels rest on sea-worn beach glass, smooth on the edges, and a bit of tile with spiraling design - how much history has it seen, how long since it served the function it was born for?
summer shoes - flip, flop, flip, flop, flip, flop
grains of sand tickle between my toes
POP! fizzzzzz beer bottle cool on my leg guzzle guzzle cool in my throat.
aaaaaahhhh, SUMMER!
I drink, while the muezzin chants the call to prayer (forgive me).
BZZZZZZT!
a horsefly wants a piece of me - shoo, fly. You are impinging on my paradise.

we talk and sex is in the subtext, while aloud we speak of football and fashionistas, dreams and the dropping dollar.

sea wet becomes heat sweat; in I dive again, eyes open. A fish looks back at me, unblinking.

later an afternoon siesta; we sleep like angels and then
rising from repose, find the
sea has stretched our appetites.
in the kitchen
a radio plays, we sing, knives flash;
the scent of warm tomatoes and parsley mingles with the
purple twilight
a benevolent wind whispers through the house
big melon moon looms
lanterns flicker and go out; we try in vain to re-light them
then settle in the dark.
honey melon melts on tongue, raki spreads its anise perfume and with it dreams of a better world that we shall build, one night at a time
low conversation fills out the dark
i am too happy
it frightens me
ephemeral
summer

Ramblings of a Tired Mind

2008-05-18T22:25:00.007+03:00

I have apparently reached new pinnacles of slackerness -- after 'oh my!'-ing about the month lag between the last two posts, here it is more than TWO months since the last one. So much for building readership. If there's anybody out there who still looks in on this site from time to time, all my love goes out to you. You are the true fans; sorry mum's been the word for so long. I suppose you know the reason, too, so no reason delving into gory details--nobody likes a whiner.

I have had passing, scattered thoughts in the last two months which never quite developed into blogs but certainly tickled my neurons a fair bit. There were a few fascinating conversations in my head which I was too tired to record on screen, and now, sadly, they are gone; let me try to at least run the headlines by you, to prove that I was thinking about something other than my job:

- life here, for people in my particular socio-economic bracket, at least, is quite nice.
- children in Turkey are more innocent, more child-like, than children in first-world countries. Turn the clock back in America 50 years and imagine how the children were then; this, I think, is how Turkish children are now. (Stands to reason, since everything else is several decades behind.) Children are encouraged to talk to strangers, to be touched; they still play in old-fashioned kid kinds of ways (in the streets, with sticks for props, instead of PSII); and not only are they not having sex in the fourth grade, from all appearances they don't yet quite realize that boys and girls are different. Maşallah! May it go on like this. I am happy to live in a country where there isn't this fear -- sure, there are thieves and break-ins, but fear of violence, fear of psychos abducting us and doing horrible things to us, shootings in schools, sexual predators...it's hardly on the radar. Somewhere in this country these things probably happen, I'm sure. But they are still blessedly rare. Were it not for the totally insane drivers in this country, you could let your 4-year-old run free and alone in the streets and rest assured that he would be in good hands.

- With the weather we have here, if you introduced Western-style festivals and entertainment, it could be amazing. The Turks, however, are a rather serious bunch (is it religion or history? I am still trying to figure that out) and there aren't that many festivals; and the ones that there are are generally based on a religious or political event that hasn't been sublimated into cultural obscurity (like Christmas or the 4th of July), so you always have this rather grim sense of duty to God or country whenever an attempt at a celebration is made. People can't just go out and have a good time. Maybe that's a good thing. The hedonism (aka, normality) that I grew up with in the U.S. and seemed so normal to me now seems to have its limitations. Still, it galls me when expats blast their countries of origin. While a student in Paris I met a man - Michael I think his name was -- who was once a New Yorker but had been a Parisian for the past ten years, and he had nothing but negativity for his place of origin. He had even developed a French accent; deliberate or not, it chafed, when in company of his 'ooooh, those Americans' attitude. I love my country of birth. We have so many fantastic things going for us; but one that is for us and against us is our bloody, rugged individuality. Just this very night I was having this conversation with some Turkish friends. One, who had lived in the U.S., commented that Americans are very alone...they go to work, they're nice to their colleagues, maybe they go to a pub with their colleagues or their social friends, but in the end, they go home alone, she said. I couldn't help but agree, based on my experiences. We don't have friendships on the same level as people do here. Ever the devil's advocate, of course I had to step up and support this "Me, Wonderful ME" mentality that is the U.S. The advantage, I manage to blurt out in bad Turkish after the first half-liter of beer, is that we are so concerned with the pursuit of the maximum individual potential that we say 'screw the group, I'm following my star'. This has led to great advances in medicine, science, the arts, and the economy in general. We are all trying to express our fullest SELVES, in the totally non-Buddhist way we have. Turkish people, by contrast, are more bound by friendship, tradition and group mentality. They pursue the greater equanimity of the group over personal fulfillment. I really have no value judgments about either culture; it is plain to see the advantages of both, and as with everything in life, there is no free lunch, nothing is perfect, and the beauty of aging is that we see more and more of the facets life has to offer, more and more shades of gray, beauty in a wider spectrum. People and cultures have a lot to give to each other. When I consider three cultures I know well -- German, Turkish, American -- Iam able to see the inherent value and weak points of each and realize how very much we have to give, and to learn, from each other.

So now I am aware of change and progress in myself. My rugged individuality, which I was never aware of before, has become obvious to me. I hold on to it still as a part of my American heritage, and as an inextricable part of who I am. I will never be a 'groupie'. The beauty of living here, though, is that it's made me aware of this cultural peculiarity I share with my countrymen, of valuing it, and of distancing myself where necessary.

I am learning how to ask for help. I am learning it can be more pleasurable to sit with a friend instead of cutting them short in order to pursue my fitness routine. I am learning -- admittedly, it's a very hard lesson -- that spending time with someone is valuable just for the sake of spending time with them. You don't have to have something to do or something vital to discuss; you just need to be. Together. My friend Ebru left the restaurant where we were enjoying drinks early tonight. Why? Her mother was waiting at home, and they had agreed to have coffee together. It shames me to say it, but had it been my mother, whom I lived with (and me at the age of 33, as my friend is), and had I been sitting out on a balmy summer night with friends my age? Well, truth is, I probably would have blown my mom off. Maybe not even called. Apologized in the morning, figured, big deal, it's Mom, she's always there, right?? I like this importance given to the nuances of relationships.

- Turkish people are very much like Americans infamously are with regards to geography. There is your country, and then there is the vague world beyond. Another friend I talked to tonight asked if my mother, who lives in China, had been affected by the earthquake. No, I said, that was 500 or so kilometers away. Is China so big, then? he wondered.

And yet...they are aware of who the candidates are in the upcoming U.S. presidential elections, they are aware that we have an awkward relationship with our people of color, they wonder about Obama...it has nothing to do with him being black; there is no such history of African slavery here, but they wonder about our support of him when he has overtly pledged to support the claim that the Ottoman treatment of Armenians in the early days of the 20th century constituted genocide. They didn't say it directly, but it was clear from the faces of all my friends that this was a BIG DEAL. It took a while to figure out what to say. The Armenian issue is very sensitive in Turkey, and most people are so on the defensive that they're unwilling to even have a frank discussion about what actually happened (or didn't). Ultimately, I resulted to self-deprecating humor. Relax, I said. The Americans have no idea about geography. I guarantee you, 90% of them don't have a clue where Turkey is. And even if this is 'officially' deemed genocide by whatever administration is in power, don't worry...as long as it doesn't affect Americans' access to ease and comfort, nobody will remember. Not true? As I joked, it occurred to me that in addition to easing the situation, it might well actually be true.

More thoughts to come, these just off the cuff from a slightly tipsy me, sitting alone at an internet cafe where the moon is like a gigantic lightbulb overhead, the air balmy and the palm trees swaying with the music (which, incidentally, is brought to us via internet from a Swiss radio station). Ah, globalization. More anon.

Floating

2008-03-09T10:20:00.005+02:00

A month between posts...sigh...here I had such high hopes of keeping up the writing, but my job, which I simultaneously love and curse, has become increasingly more hectic and this has consistently taken a back burner.

But not today. The list of things to do that is approximately as long as my arm (and I have long arms) can wait. Today is one of those heartbreakingly beautiful spring days that you have to write about, sing about, dance to...

This morning I awoke to that unique Izmir sunshine streaming through my window. Why is it unique? I have tried and tried, but honestly I cannot pinpoint it. I just know that it is different from any sunlight anywhere in the world. Fascinating to contemplate: how just as every place has its own sights and smells, it also has its own light. I remember the blue-grey light of Paris the year I lived there. The sun rarely shone, and I was depressed most of the time. But the light was fascinating -- gray, but a unique kind of gray, tinged with purple and blue and lavender. With all the other gray European skies I've seen, I've never seen light the same as that in Paris.

And so it is here. We surely all are acquainted with that rush of joy that comes when winter finally looses its grip, the air turns soft, the breezes gentler. Today is such a day; not the promise of Spring, the tease, the dangling carrot -- but Spring itself. I fling open my window that faces to the East, and offer my face to the mid-morning sun. Its warmth fills me with a deep sense of well-being, from my hair follicles to my toes. Below me, the old man with the bicycle/display cart pedals slowly by. His pedals need oiling -- they squeak with every turn. He calls out 'Gevrek! Boyoz!' again and again, his voice echoing in the narrow streets. The woman on the balcony across from us sees him and swiftly lowers her basket on a rope, gesturing for him to place some of the fresh baked goods inside.

The birds are mad with joy. It is a riot of song in every tree, music that drifts in my window. And now, as I write this, the distant, dreamy call to prayer floats in, fluttering like my white gauze curtain in the breeze. It is a calm, meditative sound, contrasting neatly with the giddy birdsong and the bellowing of the gevrek vendor. My whole being feels unbelievably light. I turn from the window and race down the marble corridor to the living room, throw open the balcony door. Jaw-drop. The air is magnificently clear; I can see every detail of the mountains across the bay. Dozens of tiny handkerchief-sailed boats criss-cross the waters before me, narrowly avoiding an enormous cargo ship just arriving from China. The palm trees have fully regenerated since their brutal winter pruning (I had my doubts), and they now sway in the breeze. Are they, too, joyful at the arrival of spring? I think I see them dancing...

I settle into a chair on the balcony and unwrap a small paper bag I bought from a tiny shop last night. Inside are plump 'dried' figs -- although they are far from dry. They are heavy, pear-shaped and moist -- not at all like the squashed-flat, hard, dry ones one sometimes encounters. The first bite. Mmm. Luscious. They are so filled with sugar that a tiny trickle of clear syrup has run out of the fig and congealed. Figs, ancient fruit. Figs and olives, the fruits of time and myth, here in this land of myths and layer upon layer of history. I am happy here. I am happy in the way modernization hasn't taken over everything; happy in the way that life here is still simple in many ways. I find a profound pleasure in strolling the streets, taking in all the tiny shops, all the wares that the street vendors have to offer -- here, a cart with çağla, soft green almonds eaten with salt; there, a pickup truck with the tailgate down, selling artichokes on their long, torchlike stems and spinach that is the epitome of green. The streets are full of life, full of food and flowers and sounds -- chants of vendors, calls to prayer, honks and the putt-putt of old engines and the tinkle of spoons in tea glasses. The cheerful chatter of the birds; the scolding cries of seagulls. Scents of roasting meat, a hint of seaweed, the amazingly powerful aroma of the nergis, the narcissus, a regional beauty that is on every streetcorner these days. There are things to write about -- serious things, important things, like the EU issue, and the encroach of conservative Islam, and what's going to happen to Turkey...all those things are there, and probably I should write about them. But today is not that day. It is too perfect, too utterly joyful, and the only thing I can do is try to communicate that joy. I only regret that for all the amazing advances in technology we've made, there is still no way to take a perfect day, with all its sights, smells, sounds and tastes, and post it online. Now that would be a revolution.

Mountains in the Mist

2008-02-06T19:10:00.000+02:00

After a lackluster attempt at winter, the Izmir weather gods seem to have grown bored with the idea. Let's move on to more pleasureable things! they seem to be saying. There is a definite sense of imminent something -- something good -- on the air and I feel a certain sudden inexplicable need to be outside. These photos are from my last walk along the waterfront by our apartment. I love how the light is constantly shifting, and the mountains change clothes throughout the day -- now invisible, now black touched with gold, now gray, now lilac. Never a dull moment.

Mission Accomplished

2008-01-27T11:16:00.000+02:00

Success! At (very) long last, we've found our new home. It hasn't been easy. Over the past month we have flattened our arches casing out the neighborhood, gotten neck cramps peering up into windows, aggravated our phone bills with endless calls to smooth-talking realtors looking to sell their pet elephants. The inner aesthete has been sorely tested with endless viewings of microwave oven-sized 'bedrooms', windows facing onto gloomy pigeon-poop festooned airshafts, peeling imitation laminate flooring -- yes, imitation laminate -- and walls so flimsy you could easily punch through them on an irritable day. There have been apartments with ceilings so low that my vertically inclined family could never possibly visit. There have been slanted places whose lines were surely sketched by a preschooler or an alcoholic architect before his first drink of the day. There have been places with unspectacular views of water tanks and solar panels and soot-stained concrete, all going for astronomical prices which, we were assured, were as low as they get. And there have been the incessantly verbal realtors who start talking the moment you enter a place and don't stop until you've closed the door behind you. It's as if they fear that, in a moment of silence, your senses of sight, smell and aesthetics might risk waking up: you might actually see the place for what it really is. And so they talk...and talk...and talk.

It was late one evening after our umpteenth trek around the neighborhood. We were exhausted and fed up with looking, and had made up our minds to settle for one of three candidates. I was feeling a little glum about the prospect, since none of them screamed out 'take me!!'...they were mostly all just okay, and I hate to settle. We had just turned into our street, foot-weary and ready for some couch time, when Levent remembered a place he had looked at once without me. It was only a few blocks away, and the sister-in-law of the landlord lived in the building and had the keys...would I like to see it? I figured I could drag myself to one more viewing before we closed the door to any more applicants. Past the banks and the florist, past the sleek watering holes that populate our street, past the police station. Just past our favorite bar, we turn the corner (dangerous location if it's anywhere near here, I'm already thinking). A hundred meters up a wide, tree-lined boulevard, and we turn into a building walkway. Looking up, I think somewhat sourly needs sprucing up -- pieces of the building facing are crumbling off, gate needs painting, and what's with the scrawl of graffiti on the gate post? The entryway is okay but uninspiring. I am not optimistic. We go to the second floor, introduce ourselves and collect the keys, and continue up to the fourth. It is just about five o'clock when we unlatch the decorative wrought iron gate and turn the key in the door of the apartment. First impression: immense, cool, white space. White hallway, white marble floors. Slowly I take in the old-fashioned windows -- nice old-fashioned, wooden and large and locking with little bow-shaped brass locks. There is a big kitchen with immense white marble counters, and windows above the sink that open out onto a ledge over an outside balcony. Perfect, I thought, for flowers and herbs...I can open the window an sniff -- or snip -- them as I cook; I've never had a window to look out of before when I cook. I am starting to get excited. Levent calls me from the living room. I pass from cold marble to polished herringbone wood floor, and go to where he is standing at the window. I look and my breath catches: before us stretches a line of green trees, ending in a woolly green patch of park. Beyond that, the sea, spectacularly lavender and orange at this time of the day, and beyond that, a perfect mountain, purple and perfectly sihouetted in the fading daylight. We walk to the balcony to contemplate the view in silence. Suddenly I know that I could be happy here, cooking in my white marble kitchen with the windows that open to the outdoors, and the French door that leads to the mesmerizing tree/sea/mountain view. It doesn't really matter what the rest of the house looks like, I think....although in the end I decide to investigate. It's a lovely place all around. There are three bedrooms, one lilac, one pale blue, one soft pink. The master bedroom has its own bathroom, and all the rooms have wardrobes. The guest room even has a French door opening onto its own balcony. The whole place sings a resounding Yes!! and without a moment's hesitation, we return the keys to the woman downstairs, get the phone number of the landlord, and go and see him the following day. By the end of the day, the deal is done -- the place is ours.

That was nearly a week ago. Our move, as luck would have it, coincided with a two-week school holiday, and this past week I have been spending it sleeping late, puttering about the house, selecting new homes for objects, and cooking. Something about this kitchen makes me want to cook -- carefully, decadently, slowly. We've put in dramatic track lighting and I accentuate it by lighting a candelabra for ambience. A little music and I could happily inhabit this kitchen forever. We come back from the pazar with baskets loaded with tiny spring onions, aubergines glowing lustrous purple, pale striped zucchini, perfect organic cherry tomatoes, and green leafy things the names of which I don't know, but which I chop up and add to the salad.

I reflect on how 'home' is so much more than walls and a roof. When our physical interiors mirror our soul's interiors, there is a feeling of perfect contentment. When that synchronicity isn't there, there is always a dissonance; we make do, but we feel the 'something' that isn't right. I have made do with some terrible apartments over the years, and like most students, tended to believe that it didn't really matter where I lived, as long as I was warm and could afford the rent. As I age, however, the relationship between physical space and psychic space becomes ever more evident. I don't think I could ever go back to living in a dark windowless box again, or even to cooking in a kitchen where it's difficult to turn around. For all its insubstantiality, the soul needs physical space to breathe, relax, be happy. I feel immensely hopeful in these new surroundings, already wallowing in a peaceful sort of meditation as I watch the sun once more take its evening dip into the sea.

Carrying Ourselves

2008-01-12T21:09:00.000+02:00

Taşınmak, the Turkish word for moving house, is the reflexive form of taşımak -- to carry; therefore 'moving house' in Turkish is effectively 'carrying oneself.' When I think of the original nomadic Turks galloping down from the steppes of central Asia centuries ago, all glorious mad mobility, this seems fitting. Wanderers who nourished themselves on the milk and meat of their ever-mobile flocks, their homes were wherever they were -- 'moving' really was all about 'carrying themselves.' It is harder to carry ourselves these days. We have acquired wealth and comfort and lifestyles that keep us stationary. We are more likely to have a couple of guys with a truck do our carrying for us. It is hard to imagine the reactions of the light-traveling Turkish tribes of centuries ago getting a glimpse into the modern world their descendants inhabit.

We have been looking for a new residence for a few weeks now. One thing I have discovered: if you ever want to be acutely aware of your surroundings, start house hunting. The moment you do, you will perceive thousands of tiny and fascinating details that you never noticed on all your countless trips to the dry cleaner, the market, the bar down the street. Before our search started, if you'd asked me about the layout of the streets around our house, or the architecture in the neighborhood, I probably would have told you it's a bunch of boxes laid out on a grid pattern, nothing particular to look at. But now, with the glittering eye of the house hunter, I am 'awake' on my wanderings through the neighborhood as I have never been. High, sun-catching terraces catch my eye. I pause and contemplate well-hidden gardens, curious glimpses of spiral staircases and molded ceilings behind the drape of a curtain. The way some buildings sag and tilt, and how one building runs into the next, as if the builders simply ran out of room and decided there was nothing for it but to cement it to its neighbor. The curve of streets, the number of cars and garbage bins and stray cats, the sum total of trees on a given block....all of these catch my eye these days. It is a kind of fascinating hyper-alertness. If trying to find just the right apartment is an exhausting and nerve-wracking experience, the process of waking up and being so wholly present in the here and now is wonderful. I know now where there are hidden courtyards, triangle-shaped buildings wedged into the intersection of streets. I could tell you (not that you'd ever ask) the height of all the buildings within a ten-block radius and which streets are worth living on and which not. It amazes me to realize how much there is in our physical environment to perceive, and at how we (probably of necessity) tune so much of it out...how fascinating to know that we need not go ever further afield to discover something new: it is right there in front of us, if only we open our eyes.

Island Sojourn - Part 2

2007-12-22T11:25:00.000+02:00

All right, dammit. Let's do this. Here's a tip: I've discovered there's a sort of Murphy's law that applies whenever you label something 'Part 1'. Inevitably you will be hit by a car and fall into a coma or be taken prisoner by eco-terrorists or abducted by aliens with experimental inclinations or gored by a wildebeest -- anything to keep you from writing bloody Part 2. Never, EVER name something Part 1.

Anyway, Part 2:

Saturday morning on Lesbos dawned cool and clear. After a coffee on the shore, we went for a run. I love running, but especially enjoy it when I am in a new location. Exploring a place on foot is really the very best way to get to know it, and the advantage of running (versus walking) is that you can cover more ground. We quickly discovered that Lesbos is rural, rugged and dry, comprised mostly of olive orchards growing on the steep slants of mountains. Much of the island is volcanic, so the overall impression is rather stark. We nearly got lost in the twisting, turning dirt lanes between the olive trees, then found a dirt road heading up, up, up into the mountains....it was a challenge for my level of non-fitness, but the clean country air did good and it was exhilarating to push the limits. I was struck as we ran by the number of horses, and how beautiful and shiny they were. There are horses aplenty in Izmir -- they pull phaetons, colorful carriages that cruise the waterfront, and sometimes still pull laborers' carts. But the horses of Izmir are poor people's animals. They subsist on the meager grass of the roadway median strip, forage amidst the rubble and trash in the slums on the outside of town. They are poor beasts, smelly and showing all their ribs, perpetually ill-tempered. (Due to hunger or maltreatment, I wonder?) The horses on Lesbos were entirely different -- sleek, fat, lovely; the rich cousins of the Izmir horses. I reflected that this was not a Greek/Turkish thing, but rather a socio-economic reflection: the horses on Lesbos belonged to landowners, whereas those of Izmir belong to people living in hovels and scrabbling to make a living.

We made it up the mountain, lungs burning and hamstrings aching. A marvelous view of the coast, and then it was down, down, down....dirt road turned into paved, turned into village; I admired the lovely whitewashed houses as we descended, their brilliant blue doors making them distinctly Greek...felt a brief pang that so many of the lovely houses in Turkey have been destroyed and replaced by ugly concrete blocks, feeling sad that the rush to the future so often seems to leave aesthetics in the dust.

We arrived at the hotel as cold fingers of wind were beginning to whisper down over the tops of the mountains, and a charcoal cloud momentarily darkened the world. Suddenly, in the snap of a finger, it wasn't summer any more. It was cold. In our room, we surveyed our meager inventory of 'warm' clothes: mine consisted of one long-sleeved T-shirt and a windbreaker. Eek. Still, we'd paid great sums of money for our scooter rentals and weren't about to miss a day's worth of exploring, so we stiffened the upper lip, got bundled up as much as we could, and set off. The sky was relatively clear at that point, and with the sun warming us, it was actually comfortable...we rode for hours, vaguely surprised at how big the island was and how long it took to get from one point to another (there was no scale on the map, and although Iannis had told us it was a big island, we had been told such things before, and found that wherever we were really wasn't so big). But this really was big...after an hour and a half, we found we were only halfway to the far side, where Sappho's birthplace was. But I am nothing if not stubborn, so we decided to continue, however long it might take. We saw millions of olive trees, rugged mountains, sheep. Very few villages, which surprised me. In Turkey, it seems that you are always stumbling over a little village wherever you go, but here was nothing but sweeping landscapes and grazing animals and olives, lots and lots of olives.

The truth is, I began to get a bit bored. But I was determined to get there. So on we scootered.

Three hours later, we arrived. A quiet beach abutted a craggy cliff; a small, winter-vacant town lay dozing and waiting for next season's tourists. A group of young women in black, genuine Lesbians by the looks of them, sat outside at a cafe that looked closed. They seemed to be the sole inhabitants of the town. Steps from the beach, an enormous white statue of Sappho was the only indicator that the poet had ever walked these shores. A flyer on a light pole, weathered and partly torn off, advertised 'DJ Thunderpussy, every Friday and Saturday night.' How times change, I thought...and stay the same.

It was one of those places that you make a pilgrimage to just because of the concept, not because of what there is to see. It was really just another beach down in its post-tourist slumber, a sight repeated thousands of times along any coast in the world. We'd done it, we could check it off the list, and now it was time to go. A ten-minute stop was enough. Besides, there was the matter of the ride back....and it was getting colder by the minute, the clouds more numerous and the wind more aggressive.

There aren't too many details to report from the ride back. Basically it was a long, chilly (and increasingly chillier) pedal-to-the-metal let's-get-home kind of a trip. The scenery was the same as on the way out, although we took a different route. We stopped frequently when the chill became too much. It got dark. We paused at a roadside chapel to watch two elderly women in black get out of their car and light candles and incense, which they placed at the altar. It was a lovely moment, and our last of the day.

The wind started whipping up in earnest; night fell early because of the looming black clouds; the temperature must have dropped 10 degrees. I was chilled to the bone, and after a while started shivering violently. We had to get on a few sections of main road, heavy with traffic and enormous, bellowing trucks that nearly shoved you off the road as they passed and then finished you off with a violent gust of wind. The situation got grim: my arms and hands were frozen, teeth chattering violently, and I was perilously close to not being able to hold on to the handlebars. One gust of wind, one attempt at a quick maneuver could mean a crash, and it wouldn't be pretty. As the kilometers dragged by I dropped my speed until I was nearly crawling. I was so far beyond being in control that it seemed the only safe way to get back was to do it slowly, slowly enough so that if/when I did crash, I wouldn't kill myself. Levent didn't realize how bad my condition was, and sped ahead and out of sight; waited around a corner for me to catch up; started following me and beeped the horn at me when I was going too slowly. It must have seemed strange that I was crawling along at 25 kph, since he was not affected by the cold the way I was...I explained that I simply couldn't go any faster without risking my life, and we continued our struggle homewards. Between the heavy traffic on the main road, the steep curviness of the rural mountain roads, the wind and the drops of rain that were beginning to fall, the frozen arms and hands struggling to hold the scooter straight, it was excruciating. The taste of adventure had lost its savour...I wanted only to be in a warm, dry, well-lit place; I cursed myself and my apparent need for drama in my life.

Four hours later, we pulled into the bumpy stone driveway of the hotel. Peeled ourselves off the scooters. Staggered stiff-legged up the stairs. Climbed clumsily out of wind-chilled clothes. Stood under piping hot water (thank God there was good pressure) until the water seeped into the bones and brought a little life back. Got in bed, under all the blankets we could find. Lay curled together, shivering still, arms clutched tight to chests, trying to still the ever-chattering teeth. An hour later, our bodies decided it was okay to stop shivering. We got dressed as warmly as we could (not very) and went out to find some food. The storm was intensifying.

A dinner of meat and potatoes, mostly, washed down with ouzo, was followed by a trip to the main salon of the hotel, which was brimming with life. College students were everywhere, discussing travels, playing guitar and backgammon, drinking beer and watching the escalating storm. We settled ourselves with our drinks and wondered aloud what the weather would be like in the morning, when our ferry was scheduled to depart. We fell into bed that night exhausted, out like the proverbial light.

Morning dawned dark and rainy. The sea was whipped to a frenzy, and it seemed improbable that ferries would be going anywhere. Over a marvelous breakfast of spanokopita and other delicacies, we discussed the likelihood of getting home that day. It was Sunday, and I had to go back to work the following day.

We packed our bags, balanced them on the scooters and made the trip back into Mytilene. After dropping scooters and bags at the rental place, we inquired about ferries. The answer: a definitive NO. No ferries would be going anywhere today. We might as well get a hotel, because we weren't leaving the island. Which also meant that I would be late for work on Monday.

At the Hotel Poseidon, we wallowed in the luxury of a heater (there was no such thing at the other hotel). Cranking it up to max, we lay in bed and watched the Greek version of 'American Idol', reflecting that silliness is not contained by national borders. Later, on an evening stroll around town, we stopped by an ouzo factory. It first drew our attention with the anise scent that wafted out into the street; we entered to find a lone(ly) proprietor glad of some company, and we stayed and chatted for a while, about ouzo, about Greece and Turkey, about the weather. Of course we did not leave empty-handed.

We had dinner in Lesbos' oldest taverna, a lovely place of high ceilings, chandeliers, dark wood, and excellent food. Still, vegetables were not in great abundance. Carafes of retsina were dirt cheap, and we enjoyed the rare opportunity to drink wine at an affordable price. There is significant wine production in Turkey, but sadly the government taxes it so highly that it is really a luxury to drink it. The cheapest wine, which is often pretty wretched (as cheapest wines tend to be) generally goes for no less than 7 YTL, which is nearly the same number of USD. Most of the wines on the shelf in the market go for 15 YTL or more, which makes wine more of a special occasion drink than a daily accompaniment to a meal.

After dinner we called it an early night and went to bed, wondering what the status of the ferries would be in the morning. I had calculated that I would be able to get to work for at least half of my work day if the ferry left as planned in the morning. Unfortunately, the news in the morning was not good: the ferry was not leaving. The first information we got was that no ferries were leaving -- at all. Later, they informed us that there would be one ferry, but an hour and a half later than the originally scheduled one, and -- this was the kicker -- this ferry would be going to Ayvalık, not Foça (from whence we'd come). Ayvalık is much closer to Lesbos than Foça, an hour's ferry ride versus the two-hour one from Foça. Unfortunately, Ayvalık is also a two-hour bus ride from Izmir, instead of the one-hour ride from Foça. The total en route time adds up the same for both itineraries; the problem is getting from Ayvalık to Izmir. There are buses, but infrequent; every couple of hours, maybe. Because the departure time had been made two hours later (10 a.m. instead of 8 a.m.), I was already losing a lot more of my Monday; if there was no convenient bus from Ayvalık, it could mean all of Monday gone. I should have been delighted to get out of work for a day, but the truth is that I was more worried than excited. I had been looking forward to the day; I had lots of things planned to do with the kids. I was worried about them missing these things; I was worried about making a bad impression on administration for letting my personal life interfere with my job performance after only a month on the job. I was worried about not having left a substitute lesson plan, and even -- briefly -- that the kids would like the substitute much better than me. I've always thought of myself as easygoing, but maybe there is an small control freak in me, after all.

Anyway, it was settled: the Lesbos port authority would absolutely not allow any ferries to make the trip to Foça, so Ayvalık it was. On the ride to Ayvalık, sheer random stupid coincidence found me sitting next to the grandmother of one of my students. This we discovered in the course of our conversation. It was embarrasing to tell her that I was her granddaughter's teacher, and yet here I was on a ferry from Greece when I should have been teaching. I made my excuses and found another seat.

Ayvalık is a lovely town, and is located in one of Turkey's biggest olive-oil producing regions. The moment we got through customs and were out in the town, I took a deep, happy breath. The air was crisp and clean; everywhere there were fruit and vegetable vendors, carefully stacking their colorful wares. Restaurants were getting ready to open for the lunch hour, and the heavenly scent of roasting lamb hung on the air. We found a çorbacı - a soup place -- and decided it would be precisely the right thing in the chilly weather. We feasted on soul-satisfying bowl of red mercimek (lentil) soup seasoned with cumin and hot pepper, fresh, saucer-shaped pide bread hot from the stone oven, and colorful appetizers of vegetables prepared in various ways (my favorite has to be şakşuka, a garlicky roasted eggplant and tomato combo, rich with olive oil and topped with tart yogurt...my idea of bliss. I was happy, I realized between bites, to be back home. I was happy to be in Turkey and pleased that I thought of it as home. In all my nearly five years in Germany, never once had I thought, 'hey, I'm home.' But here it comes naturally, and when I'm away I feel a comforting love and longing for my adopted country.

Bellies full, we turned our attention to how to get home. It turned out that, as feared, there were no buses to Izmir for another few hours. At this point I had written off ever getting to work; it was impossible, since it was already noon. What I was wondering was how late at night it would be before we got back. Public buses were a no-go, so we tracked down the tour guide who had originally offered us a lift back on their bus. Her group was still in Ayvalık, and as luck would have it, was just about to depart. They offered to take us with them, no charge, the only catch being that we had to detour to Foça so that some of the passengers could retrieve their cars. Foça is a detour off the main road to Izmir; round trip it would cost an extra 45 minutes. Still, it seemed the simplest, and the best part of all was that the bus we were on was going to go directly through our neighborhood -- even drop us at the end of our street! Such amazing opportunity doesn't often knock twice. We went with it.

We arrived in the early evening; dropping our bags in the entrance hall, I thought for the umpteenth time how good it was good to be home. I reflected how every trip seems to turn into an adventure, and wondered briefly if I seek these things out. I meditated a little on the Greece / Turkey issue. I had been actively looking for similarities and differences as I toured Lesbos, trying to arrive at some definitive comparison. It was clear, though, that one island, one day -- and, I reflected, maybe even whole countries and a lifetime --were not enough to arrive at this definitive. The fixed idea is the danger; it is too easy to paint people and cultures with broad brushstrokes, to make dangerous generalizations that lead us to hatred or false pride that damages our sensitivity to nuance, to the myriad different and beautiful ways of being. It closes us up to change and possibility. Forget the definitive, I murmured, drifting off to sleep, the words of an old Indigo Girls song (appropriately, the first and most famous lesbian duo of my generation) echoing in my head..."there's more than just one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line... and the less I seek my source for some definitive....the closer I am to fine."

Don't Be Fooled...

2007-12-22T11:01:00.000+02:00

...Just because we live on the Aegean/Mediterranean doesn't mean we're cruising around in shorts and flip-flops all year. It gets cold...last night it was 1 degree C. Not cold by Canadian standards, sure, but I think it safely qualifies as cold. I was meandering home from a late night walk, passed through a section of street with a power outage, crashed into a palm tree in the dark, and as I was removing my face from the little pointy bits of tree, I could swear I felt ice.

Alive

2007-12-16T17:24:00.000+02:00

Yes, I am. Barely keeping my head above water, but alive. I wish I could say that the interminable wait for Part 2 of the Lesbos adventure was worth it; that you'd been sitting around cooling your heels for a damn good reason because the next installment is going to be jaw-droppingly good, full of suspense and unexpected plot twists. Sadly, this is not the case. We did indeed have an adventure on Lesbos, but not a jaw-dropping, wait-two-months-to-hear-the-stunning-finale kind of adventure.

I've just been busy. Really busy. Loving my job and all the young souls I am helping to mould, melting over the shine in their eyes and the arms wrapped around me on some emotional days, the whispered 'I love you, Ms. Toews', feeling my life is amazingly full because of these small people -- nonetheless, staggeringly busy. And on those few moments when not busy, priority generally goes to the fatigue that flattens me to the couch, or the desire to escape the confines of manmade structures and get out in the open air...hence, the lack of blog entries.

To briefly catch up on recent events:
- we went on an afternoon hike and wound up coming back in the dark, in a military zone (we later discovered), crawling through a drainage ditch and hiking along the highway, finally hitchhiking home with two guys in a low-rider with those custom blue-glowing lights mounted on the undercarriage.
- we may be moving to a new apartment soon
- we met a street kitten whom we fell in love with, named 'Fıstık', resolved to take her home, but couldn't find her again...very sad.
- my class put on a very entertaining show for the whole school in celebration of human rights week. A lot of work, but oh so worth it.
- The Muslim holiday of the Kurban Bayram -- the feast of the sacrifice -- is coming next week. We get four and half days off on this holiday where it is customary to slaughter a sheep and give the meat to the poor. In these more civilized parts, you can order your sheep pre-slaughtered.
Monday is Christmas Eve, and we have to work. Tuesday, Christmas Day, is fortunately a holiday for the foreign staff.
- We have been blessed with bountiful rain in the last few weeks, much needed in this drought-stricken region. The hills are turning a marvelous shade of green, and everything looks clean and shiny and lovely.

That's about all the news that's fit to print. Lesbos Part 2 coming soon, I swear.

Island Sojourn – Part 1

2007-10-29T13:58:00.000+02:00

The end of Ramadan arrived almost before I had time to realize that Ramadan had started, I had been so totally consumed I with the great, sucking black hole that is my job. Ramadan ends with the Seker Bayram, a 3-day holiday if it falls during the week. If it falls on the weekend, as it did this year, you’re pretty much out of luck, getting only get one extra day – but I figure one day is better than no day, since the two-day variety weekend doesn’t seem to be good for much except dropping dead, keeping my liver in a state of numb submission, and occasionally cleaning the house. With three days, I mused, I might actually be able to do something…maybe even go somewhere.

This last thought tickled the back of my mind long enough that eventually we decided to do something about it. Selected destination: the nearby island of Lesbos (Greece), two hours' ferry ride from the Turkish town of Foca, which is about an hour’s drive from Izmir. We thought it might be interesting to see how the other half lives. It’s fascinating, when you think of it – an hour’s ferry ride separating Asia from Europe, Islam from Christianity. And yet for all the differences, they are all Mediterranean people, united by weather and food and “the Mediterranean temperament”. Which would be most striking, I wondered…the differences or the similarities?

We departed early Friday morning while the morning was still fresh, taking a city bus to the main road where we waited for the bus to Foca. It is generally a pretty colorless place, this main road – full of exhaust-spewing vehicles and devoid of anything that could pass as scenic. But that morning, the first day after the fasting of Ramadan had ended, there was a sense of excitement in the air. It was almost a pleasure to stand there on that stretch of sidewalk and watch the people go rushing by on their holiday-morning runs to the butcher, the baker (didn’t see any candlestick makers, though). Finally able to go buy – and eat – food during daylight hours, people thronged the streets. There was a maddening scent of butter and baked goods on the air; the bakeries were doing brisk business. A stone’s throw from our bus stop, a bakery with fresh börek was drawing a crowd that stretched ten meters down the sidewalk. Over the tops of people’s heads I could see the fresh, doughy pastry with its cheese and spinach filling emerging from the clay oven and being whisked straight to the counter, where a gray-haired man was carving it into rough chunks with a dull knife and selling it by the kilo. The scene gave me a good idea of what a lynching would be like, only this was more benevolent. The börek didn’t stand a chance against clawing, reaching talons of the crowd. That much interest is generally a good indicator that whatever’s going is good, so I elbowed Levent into joining the throng while I kept eyes peeled for the bus. It took an eternity and a certain amount of pummeling for him to make it to the counter, but eventually he emerged triumphant with a bag full of the steaming hot, dreamily light and lovely pastry.

The timing was magnificent: my teeth had scarcely said hello to the first piece of pastry when our bus roared up and we hopped on. Ensconced in our seats, we gorged ourselves like starving refugees, managing to consume nearly a kilo between the two of us (oh what a frightening thought).

Arriving in Foca, the usual ‘Mediterranean experience’ ensued. Our intention was to take the Friday morning ferry to Lesbos and return via the Sunday evening ferry at 6:00 p.m. It would have made for a late-ish return home on a school night, but I’d decided I could live with it. But as Levent went to get the tickets, the vaguely testy-looking chap in the kiosk looked up from his newspaper and informed us that the return from Lesbos had been arbitrarily (my word, not his) changed to 9:00 pm. This, despite the fact that both the website for the ferry company and the ferry company’s telephone operators assured us that the return would be at 6:00! This was a significant setback. A 9:00 pm departure would mean an 11:00 pm arrival in Foca. Even assuming that we could get from Foca to Izmir at 11:00 (probably later) p.m. on Sunday, it would mean not getting home until nearly midnight, which was far too late for a school night. But more to the point: there were simply no buses from Foca to Izmir at that time of the night, which would mean a night in Foca and missing at least part of a day of work the following day. Levent’s attempts to get more explanations out of the kiosk guy produced more irritation and the distinct impression that we were preventing him from reading his newspaper.

Just as we were trying to remember what Plan B was, a tour guide materialized out of nowhere proffering chocolate. (This was, after all, Seker Bayram, when the tradition is to offer chocolate and other sweets to family and friends.) No matter that the guide mistakenly thought that we were part of her group; we were happy to take the chocolate as a consolation prize after watching our holiday plans vanish into thin air. Between bites, the matter of the impossibly late return came up, and she offered to take us back to Izmir with her tour group – and even drop us off in our neighborhood. Wonderful! Problem solved! Plan A rescued.

Punctuality and organization: two things the Germans are very good at, and the people of the more southern climes, well, generally not. To board the ferry, you have to first go through the Customs building for passport control at the port. There were approximately two hundred people elbowing each other to board the ferry, and one passport checker. At some point I calculated the average wait time at thirty seconds per person. Doesn’t sound like much until you multiply it by 200. True to form, the passport checking process didn’t begin until 15 minutes before departure, and continued until nearly an hour after scheduled departure time. Inside the building, which was painted a sickly shade of green and smelled vaguely of mold and a hint of bleach, we inched down a narrow corridor and (eventually) into an office on the left. It would have been child's play to simply keep going down the corridor unnoticed and get on the ship without bothering with passport control, but we are upright citizens.

We pushed and jostled down the hall at a snail’s pace. The jangle of cell phones and people shouting into them was deafening – on Seker Bayram, every family member is more or less obligated to get in touch with every other family member – and Turkish families are not small. I started to feel conspicuous because my phone wasn’t ringing. Several years later, we made it into the passport office. Inside, a bare dangling light bulb illuminated a Spartan white-walled office with one dangling bare light bulb. A small mustachioed man sat at a desk sans computer, marking mysterious symbols onto long lists and rubber-stamping passports with a great flourish. Beside him stood a clean-shaven man in an official-looking uniform, whose function appeared to be to open each passport to the appropriate place and hand it to the man at the desk. After mustachioed man had marked his list and rubber-stamped the passport, he would hand it to the standing uniformed man who, in turn, handed the document back to the owner. At last we had our stamps and were out blinking in the sunlight, boarding the boat. An hour later, we were off…

…And two hours after that, we pulled into the port of Mytilene, the government seat of Lesbos. At first glance it looked like every other small coastal town I’ve seen so far in Turkey…peaceful, white buildings, red roofs. But then a magnificent spire caught my eye, ornately decorated and stretching up above the low skyline of the town, and that was the first moment that I was struck by a sense of not being in Kansas any more. I took a mental note: first observed difference -- churches, not mosques.

Disembarking on Greek soil, we repeated the passport checking experience. It took exactly as long as it had on the other side, and there were exactly the same number of passport checkers. The interior of the building was even the same sickly shade of green. One check in the ‘similarities’ column. There were signs everywhere, but I couldn’t, as of yet, read any of them because of the unusual alphabet. One check for ‘differences’. Fortunately, having graduated from a university famous as much for its fraternities and sororities as its academics has its advantages – I was actually able to sound out some of the Greek letters. Who knew that that knowledge would ever come in handy?

Released from the stifling air of the customs house, we dropped our bags and wandered the tiny streets, struck by the quantity of cafes and the huge numbers of people in them. Also striking was the chic of these places – no classic village cafes, they were hip, modern joints with cool space-age furniture and trance music, or cozy places appointed with luxurious couches, jazz wafting on the breeze. I was struck by how very ‘Western’ it all seemed; how affluent, how hip, how very different to Turkey. The chicest part of Izmir is trying, and will probably get to this level in a few years, but one has the sense of a certain awkwardness, like they are still not used to living like this. Certainly there was more material wealth in evidence…wandering the narrow streets, we discovered boutique after boutique displaying expensive clothes and household goods. And another difference: they were all closed. The siesta, or whatever it is called in Greek, is in effect in this part of the world. Two more checks in the Differences column. And bad luck for us, who wanted to explore the town. We were hungry at this point, and stopped at a bakery for coffee and a pastry. I was surprised by both pastry and coffee: they both seemed distinctly American. The pastry was filled with cinnamon-scented apples, and the coffee was served in an enormous mug and was scandalously weak, tasting more like the milk I put in I than coffee. So little distance covered, I thought, and how far west we have come! Another check in the Differences column.

Our hotel of choice was 10 km outside of the town. We had decided to get there by rented scooters, which we would use for the rest of the weekend to explore the island. We undoubtedly provided an amusing spectacle as we cruised down the coast road with my gigantic pink duffle stashed under Levent’s feet. Things were less beautiful just outside town – against the foot of the hills there were giant concrete supporting walls covered with graffiti. Smokestacks belched black smoke, and mangy street dogs prowled the sides of the roads. Uglier, I thought, than what one generally sees on the Turkish coast. Things took a turn for the better a few kilometers later, and after passing through the village of Pirgi Thermis, we located our hotel. It was a sweet, quiet place, perched on the very edge of the sea, with a beautiful garden of figs and pomegranates, lemons and olives. I loved it immediately. It was a profoundly peaceful, comfortable place, and the owner Iannis did much to make us feel welcome. There was a giant, glassed-in living room/eating area looking onto the sea. There were sets of chess and backgammon, a graceful mix of Turkish and Greek music playing softly in the background…outside was a terrace in different levels, with table tennis tables; there was an outdoor bar and a clay oven, and old, gnarled olive and Cyprus trees with long tables beneath them, a stone’s throw from the water. In the evening, lights in the trees glowed softly and candles flickered on the tables. A tiny, narrow pier jutted out into the water, with a diving board at the end and a ladder to climb back out up. It was, in a word, perfect. I can’t remember ever staying at a hotel that felt so much like the home I wish I had -- so gracious, comfortable and peaceful.

We lingered in the hotel bar for a couple of hours, surveying the visiting college students (there on an archeological dig) quietly playing chess and backgammon. In Turkey I love the ritual of raki – the clear liquid poured into the tall, narrow glasses, the water added, the liquid turning from clear to cloudy. We enjoyed the same ritual with the Greek ouzo, and I reflected that here was another cultural similarity. The Greeks, however, have a longer history than the Turks of embracing alcohol as part of their culture, so it wasn’t surprising that the ouzo seemed mellower than Turkish raki. At any rate, it was far too easy to drink, and the warmth and the company, the music and the sea like gray silk that undulated and shimmered all made us want to linger. Only hunger and an empty ouzo bottle finally drew us from our comfortable chairs and into the nearby village of Pirgi Thermis. There were several restaurants in the village, and not knowing how to differentiate, we went into the first one we saw. Levent had been soaking up Greek like a sponge (how I envy him his linguistic gifts) and immediately began trying it out on Stavros, the tall waiter/owner/guy in charge with the jet black hair pulled back in a pony tail. His efforts were well-received. For at least the third time that day, we were told by a Greek how much they enjoy Turkey and wish they could get there more often; how they have friends over there that they miss. This ran so counter to the widespread lie that Greeks hate Turks and vice versa. I imagine that this propaganda is spread by governments to feed their own agendas; the people are just people, in the end more united by similarity than divided by difference.

We stared at the menu. For a while I got so caught up in trying to sound out the Greek words that I forgot to actually think about what to eat. We discovered that much of the food was the same as Turkish food, the striking difference being the dearth of vegetables. The closest we could get was a tomato salad; otherwise, it was meat and potatoes. Perhaps it is the barrenness of the island and the cost of importing produce that explains this; it nonetheless surprised me, because I had anticipated the same richness of vegetable dishes that is found in nearby Turkey. We ordered pork and fried potatoes. How could we not? In the culinary differences category, pork has to be the biggie. Fill up while we can, we thought. (Levent, suffice it to say, is not a particularly good Muslim in this respect.)

We chowed down on a pile of meat of barbaric proportions, ordered ouzo for the digestion, and invited Stavros to join us for one. He did, and as he did so, called his little daughter over to the table to meet us and practice her English. She was proud and shy, speaking little and finally squirming away to go and play with her friends. Again I was struck by everything that was universal in the scene: parental love and pride and desire to show off the children, the childish shyness. We talked – about Greece, about Turkey, about life on the island, trips to the mainland, the production of ouzo. In addition to being one of Greece’s major olive-oil producing areas, Lesbos is also apparently the capital of ouzo production.

Later, bellies full, we ambled back to the hotel, sleepy and content. An early bedtime was in order, as we had great ambitions for the next day – an expedition on scooter to the far side of the island to visit the birthplace of the poet Sappho. Too bad the map we had didn’t have any kind of a scale on it – and we had no idea what we were in for.

To be continued…

Coming Up for Air

2007-09-09T18:17:00.000+03:00

Since my new job officially began two weeks ago, the pace has been frenetic. Mornings start early, before sunrise, and some evenings it's half past ten when I finally trudge in the door. There has been an overwhelming load of meetings, information, information, information, constant emails with requests to do this or that, interruptions, communications, mis-communications, alternate bursts of enthusiasm and total panic on my part. I am exhausted already, and the students haven't even arrived -- these have been the preparation weeks.

Tomorrow morning is the first day of real school. It is then that I will meet my 26 young charges (4th graders) for the year, and finally have an idea of what I have really gotten myself into. I have been dreaming intensively about this moment the last few nights. In some dreams, the atmosphere is peaceful and productive, students cooperative and eager to learn. In others, there are tantrums and rampant misbehavior, a hail of hurled objects, and me fleeing the room in a cascade of tears. Probably this particular nightmare owes its being to the countless horror stories I have been told by teachers who attempted to succeed in the Turkish system. Even some of the best and most experienced of them fled the country after only a year, swearing 'nevermore' from between clenched teeth. On darker days, I think 'what chance do I have, then, as a relatively new teacher?' Fortunately, there are still as many days when I believe that I will not only handle it, but handle it well, and will make a profound and positive impact on these young people. I wonder what will ultimately be closer to reality -- fantasy or nightmare? Probably there will be some of each, depending on the day. May God just grant me energy, and infinite patience. More anon.

Finding Home

2007-08-26T18:42:00.000+03:00

Author’s note: My apologies for the long silence. I have been traveling and fiendishly busy for the past month and haven’t had much of a chance to write. Insallah, that will change now – although on the eve of starting a new job, it may prove a challenge. Thanks for bearing with me.

* * * *

I am just back from a trip to California, and it's got me thinking. The longer I am away from the States, the stranger the concept of ‘home’ becomes, and the greater the sense of dispossession -- of being without any country at all. Here in Turkey, I am immersed in a culture that is very foreign, and there is an omnipresent sense of ‘otherness’ – of not quite belonging, of being a stranger in a strange land. Depending on the day, the weather, my particular mood, encounters positive or negative, this specialness can be a wonderful thing or a source of endless aggravation. Yet for better or worse, it is a constant companion, and this place where I live, although it has become familiar to me in so many ways, is always curiously home-but-not-quite-home, mine but somehow not mine at all. Functioning in a totally different linguistic and cultural milieu is an exertion. The analogy that always comes to mind is of computers – imagine one computer running word processing software, an Internet browser, etc, maybe several standard programs at the same time. Lots of different processes are going on all the time as it executes these programs, but still the computer (unless it is ill) functions speedily and fairly effortlessly. Now imagine another computer running the same tasks, but this one (the ‘expat computer’) is also running a memory- and processor-intensive program in the background all the while it is executing the other tasks. The processors are going great guns, lots of memory is being used, and the ultimate performance of the machine is sluggish and prone to freezing and breakdowns if you try to do too much with the other programs. This second computer in many ways is a pretty fair representative of life as an expatriate. The constant processing of myriad new stimuli, the small but numerous decisions on how to respond to them, is a subtle but continuous exertion on body and brain that inevitably takes its toll. Like the computer, performance becomes sluggish, simple tasks take longer, and like the computer, sometimes there are freezes and breakdowns. A simple word processing program should not be so hard to execute, but with all this going on in the background…one just gets tired.

Inevitably, there are periods of desperate longing for home – not out of sentimentality or patriotism or even great love for the culture I’ve left behind, but out of the simple need to be in a place where things are second nature, where I don’t have to consciously think about every tiniest detail of life.

Coming ‘home,’ then, is a relief. In shops and even on the street, you find yourself striking up conversations with total strangers, from the sheer joy of knowing you can. You aren’t worried about grammatical mistakes, or cultural faux pas, and suddenly you feel larger than life, stronger and wittier and more capable than you’ve felt in ages. Even navigating through the maze of bureaucracy in the homeland feels like a cinch…having done it in a foreign language, in a totally alien system, it seems a no-brainer to simply read the documents and follow the instructions, however tedious they may be. And you can ask questions! As many as you like! And even understand the answers! What joy, what liberation! Even setbacks – conflicting instructions, unhelpful people – don’t seem quite as terrible when you come armed with a verbal arsenal and deep cultural knowledge. You realize that you have been living a sort of half-life in your adopted land, and marvel at how much you could do if you were only in a place where you knew the language and the system.

But there’s a funny thing about coming home, and it is precisely the fact that home actually isn’t home any more. It reminds me of a Ray Bradbury story where space explorers land on another planet and come across a town that looks like a normal Earth town…but it is somehow, indescribably, rather creepily different. Arriving back on American soil, there is an element of shock – first and most strikingly, what staggers is the voracious consumer culture. Everything is enormous and abundant – people drive fantastically huge vehicles, buy outrageously priced prepackaged foods from supermarkets where there is a bewilderment of choice. Stores are air-conditioned to arctic temperatures; one scarcely notices it is summer. The plethora of distractions and entertainment options is overwhelming. People are so free, so comfortable, so easy, so insulated, and have so very much…and I never noticed it before until I lived away, in particular until I moved to Turkey. Contemplating this have-it-all consumer wonderland, I feel a curious mix of repulsion and envy. There is repulsion at seeing how very much we possess, and how impossible it is amidst this outrageous comfort to imagine that elsewhere in the world there is bottomless suffering and deprivation. It is no wonder to me that we cannot think globally when we are so anesthetized…and yet there is some envy, too, and longing for these very comforts. The luxury of being in a well-air-conditioned house, a comfortable car, choosing from gourmet options at the supermarket, being surrounded by better quality pretty-much-everything, elevator music, supermarket music, doctor’s office music, have a problem, take a pill, buy it better, faster, cheaper, have a happy, happy life…it’s hard to resist wanting that, at least a little.

In the end, a couple of days at ‘home’ reveal the hard truth: here, too, you are an outsider. You’ve lost touch, you wonder too much, are shocked by too much that everyone else takes for granted. You are the 19th century person who has been shot into the 20th, looking about with gaping jaw while passers-by give you queer looks and wonder what on earth is wrong with you. It fits, it is the place you know…and yet it isn’t…

Back in little Atascadero, California, where I went to high school and part of junior high, I look around and sense that there has been a fundamental change. Remarking on this, I was told ‘well, the town has developed; it’s getting some class. ‘B’ establishments have moved out and a handful of ‘A’s’ have opened up…” And it’s true; the character of the town has changed in subtle ways. But I’m not sure that’s the source of the displacement I’m feeling. In the grand scheme of things these changes are relatively small, but the difference I feel is monumental, and I sense that it comes from inside me. Once again, I have become a stranger, looking on with outsider eyes. Where is home now, I wonder?

I remarked to a colleague recently that living as an expat ruins a person. She looked at me in puzzlement; how could a mind- and experience-broadening experience possibly be a detriment? It is because, I explained, that living in foreign cultures, when done with empathy and an open mind and heart, has the potential to make you a good - even great - citizen of the world. Exactly the kind of citizens the world needs more of, come to that. But it ruins you for any one culture. You become so broadened and develop such a global view that it becomes nearly impossible to relate to people who haven't developed this view. And not withstanding the ease of travel these days, the vast majority of the world's people have never experienced the mind-bending experience of living in a foreign culture.

So it is a bit unsettling. You realize that there is only a select group of people -- expats or former expats -- who might possibly understand where you're coming from. What's more, the concept of 'home' becomes increasingly confused -- different aspects of different experiences resonate, but other aspects, both in your 'original' culture and in your adopted culture, continue to seem foreign. Where is home, anyway?

Maybe it comes back to the cliché that home is where the heart is. And the heart, I’m finding, can be many places. It lies with the people we’ve known and loved and experiences we’ve had. The downside of being a global wanderer is that no place ever feels entirely your own – but the upside is that so many places are partly yours, in very special and personal ways. If home is where the heart is, then mine is in the scent of the wild grasses of the California hills in summer, the crash of the Pacific. This girl’s heart can be found in the burritos on Mission Street in San Francisco, nestled among the cilantro and black beans. It swims in the micro-brewed beers of the west coast, and gets rolled up in the sushi, thrown in to ethnic food as a spice. But it strays farther afield, too…it lurks in the warm summer raindrops of northern Germany, inhabits the scent of bratwurst and schmalzkuchen on a frozen winter night; it drifts lazily with the golden leaves of a European autumn, shivers with the clang of church bells, and hums along with the whir of the Strassenbahn in the streets of Bremen. And another continent away, it floats on the imbat, Izmir’s silky sea breeze, drifts among the cries of the street vendors, dances with joy at the rhythm of Turkish music spilling from a passing car, drowses in the sun with the street dogs…and of course, it follows the people I love, so that there is a part of home in them, wherever they are. It is a fascinating and wonderful concept: ‘home’ is not ceasing to exist; rather, it is fragmenting, so that there are more pieces of it in more places. If I can come to terms with not finding it all in one place, what richness is in store – so many homes in so many corners.

A Day in the Life

2007-07-10T15:25:00.000+03:00

So, in case you were wondering, here's what a typical weekday in the life of Yours Truly looks like.

I wake up around 8 or 9, look around, register the brilliant sun trying to sneak through the cracks in the shutters. Notice the beads of sweat on my skin and make a mental note of the uselessness of the fan that's been going all night.

Stumble out of bed, feeling brain-damaged from the heat. Throw on most minimalist item of clothing in my wardrobe. Fill up electric kettle, make Nescafe. Yes, Nescafe. Oddly enough, it's the most popular kind of coffee here, in the land of Turkish coffee. You can get filter coffee, but it's more expensive, and I have this unfortunate knack for making expansive gestures in the kitchen which have resulted in the untimely demise of at least three French presses. So until my next trip to IKEA, it's Nescafe.

I peer at my tomato plants on the ledge. There is some brow-furrowing, because the bottom leaves are mysteriously withering up and dying, and there are only 3 tomatoes on all of my 10 plants. Something is amiss with my babies. I drench them with water, only to check them a few hours later and find them bone dry.

I head to the balcony, take the bucket of run-off water from the air conditioner and use it to douse the balcony, rinsing off the copious quantities of dust that accumulate on a daily basis.

I come back inside, and resolve to make do with open windows in lieu of A/C -- for at least a couple of hours. Start trying to think about the day's lessons. My head is a swamp -- I have discovered that the heat has a debilitating effect on my thought processes, and wreaks utter havoc on my already weak organizational abilities. Despite intense effort, I cannot concentrate. I sit down at the computer in the study and try to work. The A/C does not penetrate here, and it is overwhelmingly hot. Staring at the screen, mind drifts vacantly...I start an email, discard it, start to plan a lesson, lose track of what I wanted to do, go back to the email, feel the droplets of sweat running down my chest and legs, finally give up and go and get a glass of water. Generally I forget to refrigerate it, so it's room temperature and not at all quenching. I sit down in the study again, and again the sweat and confusion. I move to the haven of the living room and stand under the A/C. Cool, organized reason returns. A deep breath. I think I am ready.

But back in the study, sans A/C, the mental problems return. I decide to work on Levent's laptop in the living room. Ensconced on the couch, the laptop on my knees, A/C hitting me wonderfully in the face, I think I've found a workable solution. But before long the laptop gets blazingly hot, nearly burning my thighs, and again, the rivulets of sweat crank up. The couch cushions are getting sweaty. There is a general sensation of ick. I can't work at the dining room table because it's too high to type. Instead I put a pillow under the laptop and hope it will shield me from the heat, but it doesn't. Next I experiment with balancing the laptop on the arm of the sofa and typing on it that way. Sorta works, but I nearly knock the laptop off the edge a few times.

Generally I spend hours getting lessons together, partly because I am inherently slow and disorganized, and partly because of this bloody, liquefying heat. I generally finish prep at exactly the last minute, no sooner, throw on clothes, grab my ferry pass and hightail it to the terminal. It's a 10-15 minute walk, and since I'm generally in a hurry, I arrive soaked, undoing all the good of the nice cool shower, clean clothes and sweet-smelling things I put on before I left.

The ferry takes 25 minutes, and it's a peaceful ride. But lately the wind has been violently gusty, so sitting on the open deck has been a bit trying. On the inside, drinking tea, I ponder the ships that hail from distant harbors and think about time and distance and the meaning of everything. I am jolted from my reverie by a violent air horn blast signalling that we have arrived.

From the ferry, I board a bus that takes me another 20 minutes up the coast. The buses are crowded and never air-conditioned, and it is a true test of endurance to ride them in the summer. I arrive at my destination wilted, demoralized and grumpy before my lesson has even begun. My energy is ebbing...where will I find enough for myself, let alone any to give away? My student is a 10-year-old girl with nearly no English. Our lessons last an hour and a half, after which her mother, who is lonely and happy to have me there, feeds me an enormous home-cooked meal and makes conversation. She speaks no English, and talks incredibly fast. Although it is pleasure and company for her, to me it is like work -- making the enormous effort to understand, to be understood. Sometimes I wish I could escape immediately after the lesson, in the interests of self-preservation. But it is not to be...we talk for 45 minutes, and at the end I am stuffed with the food that she keeps loading on my plate, and utterly wasted from the effort of conversation.

I emerge into the blazing five o'clock sun that feels like high noon, brave the dust and exhaust of the main street, find a patch of shade in which to wait for my bus. I have never been so aware of the smell of exhaust as I am in Izmir. Whether that is because most vehicles run on diesel or because the emissions standards are lower, I don't know. But there are days when it chokes me and makes my head pound. I wait with an ever-growing group of fellow-waiters. Most people are dressed for summer -- capri pants and short skirts -- but there are also men in jeans and conservative women in the full Muslim getup, and I simply can't fathom how they do it. I am feeling faint, and know that the bus will be no relief.

The bus pulls up with a roar, we board and I get ready to endure 45 minutes of sweaty, pushing, jolting commute. Fortunately my stop is early enough on the line that I can generally get a seat. And the men here are extremely gallant, and will generally leap up to give their seats to a woman. (Although I appreciate it, I do sometimes feel bad about it, since they may well be more tired than I...) On my narrow, sweaty plastic seat, amidst the jolting and the bumping, I try to finish some last-minute prep or go over how I will present my next lesson. It's not particularly easy, however, given the circumstances.

We arrive at my stop, an enormous, bustling crossroads of three major boulevards. The sun is so intense it seems to burn holes in your forehead as you exit the bus and face into it. I forge through the traffic and the fumes and the seas of pedestrians and finally manage to cross the street into the merciful shade. At last I arrive at the language school where I teach, take the tiny, rickety elevator to the 7th floor and enter the paradise of air conditioning that is my school.

It usually takes 15 minutes of sitting there doing nothing before normal brain function returns. Other teachers are there, making copies, browsing the library, drinking tea, and we exchange pleasantries. I'm sick of talking about how hot it is, but somehow you can't escape it. Some time under the A/C finally gets me feeling a bit less like an overcooked noodle, and I start feeling a breath of optimism that maybe, just maybe, I can not only get through this two and half hour class, but can actually do well at it.

The class comes and goes. Sometimes they are enthusiastic, sometimes not, and my energy level tends to fluctuate accordingly. These days one of my classes is about to end, and the absentee rate has increased every time, and the ones who do come only do so because their bosses hold them accountable. They have worked an entire day and are tired; the suffering and fatigue is unmistakable. Inevitably, my own morale and energy sinks. But we persevere, and at 9:35 we disband and go our separate ways in the hot (recently oppressively humid) night.

Murphy's law has it that if I consistently arrive at the bus station at 9:45, the bus will consistently arrive at 9:55, but the odd times when I am delayed and arrive at 9:47, the bus will have arrived at 9:45. Odd...I've been keeping tabs on this and found it to be weirdly true... and in these hot delirious days, it could be easy to believe that the universe is out to get you...

So I wait for the bus that defies my attempts to get there not too soon and not too late, dripping with heat and fatigue, feeling not the least bit of enthusiasm about anything. The bag of teaching books and supplies that I have carried around all day must weigh 5 kilos, and is digging a groove into my right shoulder and making me lopsided. The only thing that jolts me from my semi-trance is the taxis that cruise by honking repetetively, annoyingly, as if we waiters will suddenly come to our senses and realize that a taxi was exactly what we had been looking for.

Eventually the bus roars up, belching exhaust. I climb on, ride the fume-filled, kidney-jolting, brake-abusing monster back to my side of the bay, a 40-minute journey. I stagger in the front door at around 10:30, drop my bags in a heap by the door, and stand under the A/C. A change of clothes into a slip of nothing, a huge glass of water, sometimes followed by a cold beer. A vacant feeling behind my eyes. There are intentions to do this or that bit of follow-up work for the class I just taught, or a little prep for tomorrow, or a few emails to loved ones I've been ignoring, but the tiredness gets the better of me. I sink onto the sofa, caught between the glare of the television and the whisper of the A/C, promising myself that tomorrow will be a new and better day.

Snapshot

2007-07-06T12:46:00.000+03:00

Ah, summer on the Aegean. I think this pretty well sums it up.

On my 'My Yahoo' page I have saved weather forecasts for a handful of different cities. They are there because people I know and care about live in these places, and I like to check them from time to time and imagine what life is like for these people living in these places, in the weather conditions of the moment. Today it is hot, humid and still in Minneapolis, with scattered clouds lazing across the sky. I imagine my brother dashing out of an air-conditioned office for lunch and instantly being drenched by the humidity. He stands in line at a hot deli and then beats a soggy retreat to his office. New York is even more humid and windless. I imagine my little brother working in the confines an un-airconditioned autobody shop, sweating over his custom work, dying for a breath of the fresh air that can be so elusive in a New York summer, thinking of all the carefree out-of-town places he'll go on the weekend with his bicycle, his friends. In San Diego it is cool and humid and windless, and I imagine my oldest brother looking out his office window and thinking that this is a 'blah' day, and not what San Diego in summer should be, certainly not on a Friday afternoon. Back in Bremen, Germany, it's been raining for the last three weeks. It is cool and windy, and I can well imagine all my old friends there, soggy and huddling underneath nearest available overhang, grumbling about how summer in Bremen is no summer at all (reminds me of San Francisco, come to think of it). My mother has just arrived in California from her humid South China home, and I imagine her savouring the change from wilting humidity to honest heat. She has a sun hat on, and she's touring her garden, checking up on the plants she hasn't seen since last summer, glad to move without her clothes limply clinging to her skin. My father is returning today from a trip to the northeast of California, and I imagine him whizzing through the hot, pine-scented mountains and down into the blistering central valley, radio on, the air outside dry and fiery and scented with wild oats and sage.

Somehow entertaining these fantasies, however far off the mark they may be, gives me a nice sense of being more present than I actually am in the lives of people I care about. It gives me a very real sense of connection that I sometimes miss in my far-flung home.

And then of course there are the bragging rights. Doing a quick scan of all these cities this morning, I felt like a proud parent whose child has gotten the top score in the class: of all of them, my city has the most sunshine, the lowest humidity, and the most wonderful wind. It's hot and breezy and, actually, perfect. All that's missing is that as-yet unpurchased sailboat. And loved ones to share it with. Donations, anyone?

Bathing Suits and Ballot Boxes

2007-07-03T10:46:00.000+03:00

The elections are coming.

Summer is in full swing, and people are abandoning the city in droves and heading to their summer homes on the brilliant white beaches of Ceşme. The weather is so fine, the atmosphere so lovely and relaxed down Ceşme way, it's almost enough to fool you into thinking that all is well and the world is a carefree place of sea, sand, sun and sandwiches.

But the elections are coming, just a few weeks now, and people are expected to turn out in record numbers. Perhaps with sand still clinging to their bare feet, and the scent of sea brine on the skin, but they will be there.

In this election the Turkish people will vote in a new parliament, which will in turn select a new president. A random survey of Turks I know produced feelings ranging from ambivalence to nonchalance to extreme concern and blackest pessimism over the current state of the country and probable outcome of the elections.

Turkey is between a rock and a hard place: like the U.S., it is effectively a two-party system (there are other parties, but they don't count for much). The most powerful party -- and, it must be said, the party that has actually been the most effective in getting things done in a long time -- also happens to be conservative and religious. Liberals fear these people are laying the groundwork for an Islamic state and are slowly and methodically lining up all their chess pieces to get the country to a definitive 'check mate' somewhere down the road.

On the other hand, no one loves the opposition party. The opposition presidential candidate -- well, calling him 'opposition' is a bit of a joke, because throughout his very long career in politics, the man's entire track record consists of opposition. All he has ever done is oppose. He has produced no initiatives, brought about no positive gain for the country...does anyone really want a mere naysayer with no goals and ideals of his own in the presidential office?

It's a pretty poor choice the people are left with. Interesting, too, because in this case it is actually the Islamic party representing progress (though who knows how far it will go). I suspect the religious side will win. On the one hand, great. They've done some good. I certainly appreciate the fact that Turkey's wildly escalating currency is finally a thing of past, and I don't have to keep track of all those zeros any more. On the other hand, it's just too dang hot to wear the hijab.

So let me raise my Conservative Party Cocktail -- ingredients: two parts booze, three parts tax (and that's supermarket price, not bar price) and a dash of disapprobation -- and drink to all things in moderation.

Fifteen Minute Walk

2007-06-27T11:08:00.000+03:00

Not a breath of wind, and at 9:30 a.m. it's already uncomfortable. The bay is still and glassy, the humidity coming off of it clinging to the skin and inundating clothing. A grungy brown layer of smog hovers overhead, trapped between the ranges of mountains on either side. It is so thick that I can scarcely make out the buildings on the far side of the water. Out on the waterfront, not a living creature moves. Even the seagulls are not airborne today -- they are out there on the bay, buoyant statues bobbing on the surface of a great, gray mirror. My limpid, dirty, sweating city is not at its finest today. After fifteen minutes, I abandon my exploratory foray and head back to the comfort of my cool, dark house and life-giving air-conditioner. A quick peramble, a swift diagnosis, a speedy retreat: me -- Groundhog of the Aegean? The thought makes me giggle. At home, I change clothes for the second time and slice some ice-cold watermelon. There will be other, better days.

Sweltering

2007-06-26T11:57:00.000+03:00

It's hot. Offensively hot. Sit-and-don't-move-a-muscle-and-still-feel-sweat-trickling-down-your-body hot. A heat wave marched in yesterday like a besieging army, and everyone is suffering. Temps reached a sweaty 41 C (105 F) in Izmir yesterday, where at least we have the benefit of the sea breeze to make us feel a little cooler. Inland, people are not so lucky. In the ancient city of Ephesus, about 90 km from Izmir and slightly inland, a whopping 60 C (140 F) was recorded. At a gas station yesterday, I saw a bewildered, tousle-feathered dove wandering in dazed circles, looking completely disoriented. Is he ill, I wondered? It's the heat, said the gas station man. Dogs and cats lie comatose in shade, suffering. The only relief that evening brings is the merciful disappearance of the sun -- otherwise, there is no relief, not even the usual cooling breeze; just hot air, and the mingled smells of diesel fumes and honeysuckle.

Tomorrow is supposed to be the peak of the wave. In this suffocating heat, my thoughts can't help turning to the end of the world...what will it look like? Is this how we will end -- incinerated? When the sun is burning holes in your skin and the heat is so intense it makes even your eyeballs ache, it is easy to imagine being cooked to death. Slowly; frogs in a pot. I imagine a time in some not-too-distant future when mankind will go underground, when we will be like the early Christians of Cappadocia, who escaped their enemies by retreating to deep, cool cave cities and networks of dark tunnels. Only we will be fleeing nature, not man... On the earth's surface, the heat will be deadly. Searing, violent storms will waste an already desertified landscape while we huddle below. And there in the depths, I can imagine the first generations of refugees languishing in the dark, their faces tilted skyward towards tiny windows of light, weeping for the beauty of a lost world...for the memories of cool streams and grass beneath their feet and trees and birdsong. They will pass these stories on, and perhaps their children will also feel a pang of longing. Eventually, dark, flickering cave life will be all that is and ever has been, and these cave children will be unable to conceive of anything else. Maybe then it won't be so bad; it is, after all, change and loss that pain us most.

Am I painting an unreasonably gloomy picture? Maybe. I do have a knack for seeing the dark side of things. But still...everything is cyclical -- life and death, the rise and fall of empires, the flourishing and decline of our natural world. Inevitably, the wheel turns. It is pure delusion to imagine we can stop the wheel through our own artifice, try in all the myriad ways we may to achieve immortality. It is a bittersweet truth, but one I can live with, because it seems somehow philosophically right. There is a kind of melancholy beauty in these circles of life, death, rebirth. We will end. Something else will begin.

The real pain and anger I feel comes when I look at the ways in which we needlessly accelerate the cycle. We have raped and otherwise taken for granted the mother who gave life to us. When I see factories erected in flagrant violation of emissions laws, or no emissions controls where there should be; when I see buses and trucks belching exhaust and witness the absolute, holy supremacy of the automobile; the insistence of the wealthy upon their own complete comfort at the expense of the poor and the planet; when I see people and countries focused on short-term wealth over the long-term livability of the Earth, and disposable goods produced with no thought as to how and where to dispose them, while the gasses generated during their production ceaselessly thicken our atmosphere; especially when I see all this as I stand sweating under an increasingly merciless sun, and think of how much better we could do if only we had the will to do it -- it puts a strange, unswallowable lump in my throat. These blistering days are more than just 'hot'; they are burning reminders of great folly and short-sightedness that are speeding the demise of our lovely blue home. A peaceful death in old age of natural causes is one thing; philosophically and emotionally it is relatively easy to come to terms with it. But a needless accidental death from overdose -- that's what we're doing, isn't it? Overdosing our world? -- is a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.

Having a Fit -- A Minor Awakening (Postscript to 'Beyond Help')

2007-06-16T23:33:00.000+03:00

Today was a breezy, sunny, beachy kind of Saturday. The obvious thing was to get out of town and hit the beach in Çeşme or Ilıca or Alıçatı. A phone call here, a phone call there, and I was on the ferry to Üçkuyular and then hanging out on the curb while I waited for friends Lisa and Janetta. Promptly at 10:00 they swooped up, I tumbled in, and we peeled off, headed down-peninsula to an up-and-coming 'boutique' town, a famous bazaar, and an endless white beach with jaw-dropping crystal-clear turquoise waters.

The bazaar was first. Shaded and calm, the earth's bounty quietly glowed on display tables. Artichokes that had flowered a vibrant purple, zucchini blossoms (stuffed and fried they are to die for), succulent lemony basil plants, strange curving cucumber-like things that I had never seen. With a bit of effort we managed not to buy, knowing we had a long hot day before us that would be death to the veggies.

Around the bend, the clothing bazaar began. I felt myself go a little distant, tune out from the general goings-on. My friends dug enthusiastically through piles of gauzy summer things. I joined in for a while, but didn't feel optimistic, grew bored, tuned out. I resisted efforts to get me to look at things. Buying in the bazaar is a crap shoot -- no mirrors, and you can't try things on or return anything (not for a refund, anyway) and given my previous experience even in stores where I had been able to try things on, I was generally pessimistic about the whole undertaking.

Fortunately, I have persistent friends. A hint, a nudge, a prod, a foot-stomp, and there I was, slipping on a skirt it would never have occurred to me to try on. Fearful of the results. Blindly needing to rely on friends' judgment. Reassured by the fact that they seemed to be making a critical assessment...and finally, delighted when the verdict was positive. Amazingly, I left the bazaar with three new items of clothing.

The rest of the day was spent in a glow of well-being that persisted over grilled chicken salad, through a chocolatey profiterole swamp, onto the glowing white beach, and into the marvelous aquamarine water.

Floating on my back and contemplating my toes, rocked by the gentle waves, I couldn't help reflecting. Sometimes collaboration is good. Being helped is good. And sometimes, people can help you better than you can help yourself. Today, my inner grouch was quieted, for a time at least. I rode home in the back of the car drowsy and content, covered in sea salt and the happy feeling that in the grand scheme of things, other people might actually be the best thing you can ever do for yourself. I just hope I can remember that.

Beyond Help

2007-06-14T15:32:00.000+03:00

I am admittedly a bit of a rugged individualist. Okay, more than a bit. Truth is, deep down in the marrow of my bones I am simply not a collaborating, working-together-is-more-fun kind of person. I like to arm myself with the knowledge of how to do something, and then do it -- myself. Or arm someone else with the knowledge and let them do it -- themselves. Maybe it's because my experiences in trying to get things done as a group have often been negative. There are sacrifices of efficiency, dilutions of purpose. And only rarely have much-ballyhooed benefits like 'additional perspective', 'sum of whole being greater than the parts' etc. actually made an appearance. This doesn't mean I'm right, of course. The world is full of people, we are social animals, and logically, cooperation seems like a no-brainer. Still, it's hard to fight one's own nature. And mine, like it or not, seems to be 'go it alone.' I wish I could work with people better, actually...if nothing else I think it might bring a bit more savor and richness to the tapestry of my life. But like I said, ideals are one thing; changing your basic nature is another.

It's not easy to find a good job in Turkey -- or any job, for that matter. Simply the fact of having a job is something most Turks are thankful for, and it has been my experience that people don't often indulge themselves in asking the all-American question, 'Am I happy?' Happiness is a luxury most people cannot yet afford. Although unemployment is high, it could be a lot higher were it not for all the boutiques, supermarkets, gas stations, photocopy shops, etc. alleviating the situation by employing dozens of service staff waiting to meet the customer's every possible need. At restaurants, and at most shops, staff typically outnumber patrons. Said service staff lurk like lions on the veldt, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting customers and 'assist' them the moment the tips of their noses darken the doorstep. Don't even think about making a photocopy YOURSELF, putting gas in your OWN CAR, hunting for clothes or makeup or even shopping for wine at the supermarket ("Try this one! It's great with red meat!") ON YOUR OWN in this town, pardner. Why do it alone, when there are lots of friendly, desperately helpful, bored people standing around waiting to do it with you?

Let it be known that as a rule I hate shopping, particularly clothes shopping, and particularly clothes shopping in a country where the women my age are all half my size, both vertically and horizontally. Petite and willowy -- precisely what I am not. Pants are the worst of the morale killers. I have been assured that the sizes here are the same as in Europe, so presumably if you wear a size 38 in Germany, size 38 in Turkey is just what the doctor ordered. If this is true, then God help me, I must have gained at least 10 kilos somewhere along the way without noticing it. Many are the humiliations I have suffered trying on sizes I thought would fit, only to find I couldn't get them over my knees. Psychologically this is rather bruising, and the reason why I am down two to about three pairs of threadbare pants and eagerly awaiting my next trip Statesward.

Enter helpful shop assistant into the already dismal equation. It is the variable which inevitably turns my merely discouraged mood into a downright murderous one. I walk in the door, and my path is immediately blocked by a smiling, impossibly willowy salesgirl with a wicked 'you WILL be helped' gleam in her eye. Is she welcoming me or barring my further progress into the store? I'm already dreading this task and anticipating its futility, and this is definitely, definitely not helping. She says something to me that, in my instant transformation to Shopping Grinch, I either cannot or will not understand. Eyes down, I charge left in a swift swooping maneuver, hoping to get around her. She is too quick for me, moves and again blocks my way. Does she have basketball training? The way she's sticking with me as I dodge left, then right, I could easily believe she was a candidate for the Turkish national team. I pause. I look her in the eyes. Trying to remain civil, I tell her in very clear Turkish 'I just want to look around a bit.' Which to me is another way of saying "please leave me alone until I need you." But in Turkey, I am beginning to suspect it has a different meaning. I think that sales assistants occupying those oh-so-hard-to-come-by jobs must be under tremendous pressure to help, and if they are not dogging your footsteps throughout every moment of your shopping experience, they (and perhaps their bosses) might feel that they haven't really been doing their job. You just want to look? Wonderful! I'll just look with you! Grr... Rationally, I can understand why it is the way it is; I can even empathize. Emotionally, I can't help it -- it still drives me up the wall. The thing is, I don't feel there is anything whatsoever these helpful people can do for me that I can't do for myself -- except perhaps highlight the fact that I am beyond help, and intrude upon my personal space, which I am rapidly realizing is a lot bigger than most Turks'. (Note: A colleague of mine reported that on a recent shopping trip she gave in and let the sales assistants 'help' her. She has my kind of all-American, athletic physique, and therefore a snowball's chance in Izmir of finding something that fits. The expedition ended, reportedly, with the salespeople finally bursting into gales of laughter at the ridiculousness of Turkish-woman clothes on American-woman body. To her credit, my friend was able to laugh along...something I might have had trouble with. Chalk it up to her Irish heritage and my German?)

So I'm pawing through a pile of Capri pants, determined this time to avoid the mortification of trying on 'my size' only to find out that the thigh section actually doesn't even fit over my kneecap (or my big toe). I'm going two sizes up this time, minimum. And there beside me, standing so close I can identify her brand of shower gel and what she had for lunch, is my helpful salesgirl, insisting that I step aside and let her find me my size. Frustration is running high. Number one, I don't know my size; and her repeated inquiries on this point are making me crazy. Probably they don't even sell my size here...I'll have to go to one of those 'büyük beden' (large sizes) shops I've seen around the neighborhood. (They cater to Turkish women over a certain age who seem to undergo this miraculous overnight transition from goddess to shapeless lump with breasts that dangle below the waistband. I still don't understand at what magical point that happens.) Number two, she's forcing me to speak in a language that I'm clearly not fluent in or comfortable with, and despite this continues to speak to me and get frustrated with me when I'm not able to communicate well with her -- adding to the already uncomfortable situation. Number three, if I did know my size, where's the point or efficiency in my standing back and letting her do exactly the same work I'm already doing -- i.e., sifting through a pile until I find what I'm looking for. And I'm even being a model customer -- not even disheveling the nicely folded piles! I smile as sweetly as possible and continue on my mission. At last finding the object of my quest (a size umpteen), I triumphantly grab it and make a beeline to the changing room...

Only to be ambushed by disappointment. There are no mirrors. No mirrors!!!! Except the public one outside the changing cabins, of course. Oh, how I loathe this kind of changing room, designed expressly to give helpful salespeople something to do. No one buys without consulting mirror, mirror on the wall... therefore it's a given that helpless victims will wander out in search of the mirror, only to be pounced upon and offered unsolicited advice. I know, I'm being far too testy about these things. Get over it already, I hear you saying. Would that I were so evolved, but no can do. Part of it is that I don't care to have some stranger peeping at me in something that could look absolutely ridiculous before I know how ridiculous it looks. Forewarned is forearmed. Another part of it, I guess, is that I really do feel quite capable of looking in the mirror and seeing for myself whether something looks good, without resorting to the two cents of a 'sales professional'. And so, determined to do this alone, I gingerly pull the curtain an inch aside and scope out the landscape. The coast seems to be clear; no predatory salespeople in sight, no one currently ogling self in mirror. I inch the curtain a bit further open. Just as one leg has nearly made it out of the dressing room, I spot my salesgirl galloping towards me with all the fervour of a raging bull. The leg does a quick retreat, whisk goes the curtain. I stand there, sweat beading on the brow, breathing heavily. I wait. It occurs to me that this is ridiculous and an utter waste of time. Still, I will not parade myself in front of this salesgirl in my possibly too-tight rear-end-emphasizing pants so she can try not to laugh and ask me if I want a bigger size. Anyway, what's the point? She might tell me it doesn't fit (which I can see for myself). In this case she'll offer another size which very likely doesn't exist, and even if it does, still won't fit, because it's about the proportions, not the size per se. (If I were to find a pair of pants with thighs big enough, the waist would be a cavern.) Alternatively she'll lie and assure me that it does look good, which will be transparent, too. Stubbornly, I continue to lurk behind my curtain. I will not be gawked at.

A minute later, another foray is attempted. A peek, an all-clear, a swift curtain tug, a leg...and a half...and again the raging bull routine, the quick scurry of retreat and the whisk of the curtain. A sigh. There must be easier ways to shop. Finally I hit on the brilliant idea of sending the Boyfriend out as a decoy. The ruse is successful -- he manages to distract her for the 20 seconds I need to sidestep in front of the mirror, do a full pivot, and decide in the negative before lunging back into the cabin. Despite having gone up two sizes, the thighs and rear are still wetsuit tight. Another sigh. I leave empty-handed, salesgirl giving me a look that says (justifiably) 'weirdo' .

* * *

It's hard when you're weird about stuff like this and you wish you'd just get over it and chill, but you can't. It would be nice to think we can be whoever we want to be. But I guess there are aspects of our personalities that are more difficult to control than we might believe.

***

Another time after I had had my bag stolen with my favorite makeup items in it, I decided to hit the local cosmetics joint and get some new lipstick. Again the tragi-comedy. I say 'just looking' (read: 'go away'), they acknowledge the comment, then proceed to follow me so closely that a couple of times they actually step on my shoes. This time it really feels like lions in the veldt -- me the glassy-eyed gazelle -- because there are three of them triangulating around me. One ringleader, two wing-people. Is this really necessary? My inner curmudgeon starts getting its dander up...what do they think, I'm going to steal something? That I'm blind? I'm trying to look at the lipsticks but the 'helper' has mastered the knack of positioning self between me and the items I want to look at, so I'm not terribly successful. Finally, exhausted and suffering neck cramps from trying to see over her shoulder, I am forced to figure out how to tell her what I'm looking for -- in Turkish. Good for the language practice, I force myself to think, mentally smiling between mentally gritted teeth. She proceeds to select the same lipsticks that the unassisted me would have chosen. She then, in an act I am incapable of understanding, demonstrates these on her own skin. It's killing me. Not only do I have to go through an intermediary that I don't need, but I have to watch the colors being tested on someone with a decidedly Mediterranean complexion, whereas mine is decidedly not. This routine continues for a while, with me finally somehow achieving the small victory of getting her to put it on my skin. Still, my 'flustration' is rising at having to gesture wildly over the salesperson barrier to indicate the location of the ones I want to look at, or worse, struggle to remember how to say things like 'copper cream' in Turkish. But the writing is on the wall: there is no way this is going to happen sans intermediary. In the end, just to get out of there, I buy one. It's sort of OK, but I probably wouldn't have bought it had I been left to my own devices. I leave feeling annoyed and like a class A idiot because I have let a salesperson get the better of me, and my purchase is as much out of guilt (after all, she has invested so much of her time demonstrating the things) as anything else.

***

Clearly, my work is cut out for me. First, I've got to get my silly notions about independence and do-it-yourselferism out of my head. It ain't gonna happen, not in this country anyway. Second, when helped, I've got to figure out a way to bind and gag my inner grouch, convince myself that hey, this could be fun, and then roll with it. They really do mean well, I know that -- it's just a culture thing. And if they want to laugh at the ridiculousness of Turkish pants on an American behind, why can't I just laugh with them? Shouldn't be so hard. Should it?

Working on it, one day at a time...

A Summer Dance

2007-06-01T14:08:00.001+03:00

Over here, summer is making tentative inroads into spring. It performs a lazy kind of cha-cha, two steps forward, one back; one day you're certain summer has taken up permanent residence, but the next day spring, with its short-tempered chilly gusts and flitting clouds, charges in and retakes its throne. Still, summer's army makes its inexorable advance...toes fight free from closed-toe foot boxes and begin to make more frequent and less furtive appearances in sandals; long-sleeves almost imperceptibly creep up, giving way to three-quarter; three-quarters to T's, and one day the eye comes to rest on the pile of silky, sleeveless tanks waiting breathlessly to be taken for a spin in the soft, sunshiny air.

The sea is calmer these days, the wind gentler; the angry wild whitecaps that crashed over the breakwater weeks ago seem to have spent their fury. Am I imagining things, or do even the seagulls scold each other in more dulcet tones these days? My tiny tomato plant seedlings are doubling in size nearly daily, prompting Jack-and-the-Beanstalk fantasies. They stretch their tender leaves out off the ledge of my (unhappily) east-facing balcony, soaking up every last drop of sunlight before it vanishes over the top of the building at midday. It is a mellow time -- before the heavy, sweating months of July and August, but beyond the chill of winter and spring. White gauze curtains sway drowsily in an afternoon breeze while birds twitter in the pomegranate tree of the garden below. Street animals doze in shaded doorways. Their faces are not yet overtaken by the look of suffering they will acquire some months from now, and if one is prone to anthropomorphizing, one might be inclined to believe that they are thinking 'This is the good life. Sigh...With all this fur, August is gonna be a killer.'

In the open air market and on pushcarts on shady street corners, where vendors perched on tiny stools sip tea and wait, ruby-red cherries have begun to make an appearance. The melons are arriving, too...not yet the dripping, unbelievable sugary sweet they will be a month or two from now, but still good, and eagerly purchased and consumed after months of winter privation. Lemons are cheap and abundant. We bought a sackful, and I made fresh lemonade. I sit on the balcony at our tiny table, sipping the sweet-tart brew, listening to the man in the streets below hawking his wares (Simit! Gevrek! Boyoz!) and tapping away at my aging laptop. The serenity is lovely, makes one overcome with drowsiness. More breeze, more birdsong, the casual sounds of carpets being beaten out on balconies across the way, the clatter of teacups from the apartment downstairs, the distant horn of the ferry about to depart. Uykum geldi, they say in Turkish. My sleep has come.

Sweating for Democracy

2007-05-17T21:07:00.000+03:00

Suddenly summer arrived out of nowhere, on a cantaloupe breeze and a wave of sweaty lethargy. Long-sleeved shirts and sweaters beat a swift retreat into the dark recesses of the wardrobe; out pranced t-shirts, tanks, capris, sandals, sunscreen, electric fans. The gently caressing sunbeams, so sought-after only a week before, callously turned traitor, launching an aggressive full-frontal attack. The shade we had shunned through the not-so-long winter months became our sudden salvation.

It was on such a sweltering Sunday that over a million Turks gathered in Izmir's Alsancak district to defend democracy and the separation of religion and politics. Being in principal a supporter of both of these ideas, and admittedly hungry for a spectacle and something to write home about, I glopped on the sunblock, shelled out a fiver for a pretty little Turkish flag (it is a pretty flag -- no wonder they like to wave it) and made my way to the Bostanlı ferry which would take me across the bay. In the streets of Bostanlı, individual dots of red and white slowly trickled towards a common center of gravity, the ferry station. The terminal was a sea of red and white. People of every size, shape, age and gender had wrapped themselves in flags and red and white hats. Did I wear red and white? Actually, no. I wore a navy blue t-shirt and carried a red and white Turkish flag...a subconscious plug for my own kind of nationalism, I wonder? Levent, more environmentalist than nationalist, wore green. Whatever. Perhaps I exaggerate the symbolism.

The terminal was jam-packed, and the ferries were departing every 10 minutes (instead of the usual 30), low in the water and overloaded with flag-waving patriots. There was a festive feel in the air, more like people on their way to a backyard summer barbecue than to a rally born out of deep concerns about the country's future. It was difficult, indeed, to remember that this was serious business, and not get too caught up in the carnival aspect.

Turkey is in a difficult spot these days. The current ruling party, headed by Prime Minister Erdoğan, is religiously conservative, and there has been much outrage amongst the more 'progressive' Turks that Erdoğan's wife wears a headscarf. Atatürk, the founder of the modern Turkish republic and adamant secularist, was a self-professed hater of religion and its influence on people and progress. He would probably have done the proverbial grave-roll if he knew what was going on in the upper echelons of government these days. But Erdoğan in his role of PM has in fact accomplished some positive things for Turkey -- perhaps more than any recent PM -- and has helped bring an unaccustomed level of stability and prosperity to the country. However, he has also made some attempts to push his religious agenda, including attempts to restrict alcohol sales and consumption and lifting the ban on headscarves for government employees. These moves, combined with Erdoğan's shadowy past in political Islam, have alarmed the secular populace and aroused suspicions that this is but the tip of the iceberg -- that Erdoğan and his AK Party have much more in mind.

Ahmed Necdet Sezer is Turkey's acting president. A secular kind of guy, a jurist and a former professor of constitutional law, Sezer is relatively well-liked by the 'liberal establishment' -- but he is nearing the end of his 7-year term. The election of a new president was scheduled to go forward last April, but all manner of havoc has broken loose since then, and as yet no president has been elected. In Turkey the president is largely a figurehead (like the Queen of England), yet is still invested with considerable power, both legal and symbolic. In fact, as a representative of the national identity, the president is more significant than the PM. But interestingly, although the president is effectively a representative of the people as a body, it is not the people who elect him, but the Parliament. Currently the Parliament is dominated by AKP members; therefore the eventual election of an AKP candidate to the presidency seemed inevitable. When it began to be whispered about that Erdoğan would be the AKP's presidential candidate, there was uproar in the country. Indignation, fear and anger were expressed: how could a conservative man with roots in political Islam and a wife in a headscarf possibly be allowed to become the symbol of the secular, westward-leaning Turkey that Atatürk and his followers fought so hard to establish? Impossible. There was enormous outcry, a massive protest rally in Ankara, and finally after much hullabaloo Erdoğan announced that he was bowing to popular pressure and would not run for president after all. The AKP then proffered their second- choice candidate, Abdullah Gül. He proved to be a somewhat more acceptable choice, but still suspect with his own history of forays into political Islam. Nonetheless, election day came and Mr. Gül was the AKP's man. The petulant opposition party's members of Parliament, however, boycotted the elections -- resulting in a lack of the necessary quorum, and hence a stalemate. No new president was elected. Another try produced the same result. There was unhappiness on the part of the people about the accuracy of their parliamentary representation -- after all, MPs serve a five-year term, and we find ourselves currently at the end of that term. How effectively did MPs elected five years ago represent the Turkey of today? In the end, the way the stalemate was resolved gave the people more than they bargained for: the Parliament not only voted to move up the date of the parliamentary elections from November to July (if the people were so convinced that the current Parliament did not represent their interests, this was the only sensible thing to do), but it also passed a constitutional amendment whereby the people will now elect the president directly.

There is more to the story. During the uproar over Erdoğan's potential candidacy, the commander of the Turkish armed forces warned the AKP that what they were doing (i.e., subtlely pushing their religious agenda) was a potential threat to democracy and secularism. This remark was interpreted by some, particularly in the foreign press, as a threat that the military would intervene should the elected candidate prove too Islamic for its taste.
Despite the young age of the Turkish republic (84 years old this year), there is a rather long history of military meddling politics. Several times when a ruling party has been deemed a 'threat to democracy' (as interpreted by the military) they have been removed militarily. This gives rise to mixed feelings of the Turkish people about the military -- on the one hand, they love and revere it as the saviour of secularism and democracy. On the other hand, a government selected by the military may be secular, but it's certainly not democratic, and there is growing frustration among many at the feeling that there is no middle ground between military authoritarianism and religious extremism. What they want, simply -- or not so simply, as it seems -- is democracy and secularism. The question is, in a country like Turkey, is it possible to have both?

This was the gnawing, troubling crux of the problem that drew over a million Turks (and at least one American) out into the jackhammer noonday sun last Sunday. We pushed, we sweated, we tried not to poke each other's eyes out with our flag poles. There were wonderful sights -- an old wizened drummer, drumming away while girls wrapped in flags danced provocatively in circles to the beat. Little children in floppy sunhats and flags-cum-shirts. People brandishing witty placards (which took me a long time to understand...getting political puns in Turkish is no easy feat). Scores of boats bobbing just offshore, packed with people in their red and white, observing the spectacle. A giant stage on which presenters, in booming voices, recited the speeches of Atatürk. Patriotic songs. I couldn't see any of it, jammed as I was into the seething mob. It was a challenge not to be gorged by a flag pole, or have your toes trodden on, or be pushed under the heaving, pushing masses. At some points, it was nearly impossible to move, and your nose was assailed with the scent of shampoo and perfume and sweat and sunblock. The sun grew more merciless, my temper frayed; I stopped caring about democracy, and only wanted to flee to a cool and empty place. After much pushing and grunting, and one frantic moment where my flag slipped to the ground and was promptly trodden on by at least six pairs of feet as my hands frantically scrabbled and pulled at the cloth and tried not to tear it, we finally emerged from the rabble, ducked into a cool underground bar, and discussed the meaning of democracy over icy half-liters of beer. A woman in a grunge-rock bar in Turkey, swilling beer. That, my friends, is one victory for the secularists.