Letters From Turkey: Denver > London > Izmir > Ercan > Istanbul

What I Would Like To Do With You On Valentine's Day

bobby_briggs — Wed, 4 Jun 2014 01:10:00 GMT

"To love someone is to see the face of God"
~Victor Hugo

Jungfrau, Interlaken, Switzerland 2013

I would like to celebrate eighty valentine's days with you after this one.
In fact, even before this one.
And this one will turn into the next, and soon into many.
Maybe even forty, if we're lucky. If it only ends up being fifteen or twenty, I'd still think I'm pretty lucky.

But I have not met you or heard from you yet.

I would like to not celebrate Valentine's Day at all with you on Valentine's Day. I would like to wake up in a room where the sun doesn't face me, and groan as I grudgingly awake for work, bleary eyed and sore.

I would like to wake up early and make you your first cup of coffee, which is the best of the day. And while you are still asleep, I would run with the dog who is oblivious to the complexity of human beings and their high standards. They forgive and are easily forgiven. We often remind ourselves of that when we fought the night before. That's what makes us both dog people.

I would not like to go out with you tonight. We both agreed early on that tonight is one of the worst nights to go out. Instead, I would like us to partake in the tradition of preparing the best lobster we can try for ourselves. And it gets steadily better over the years, especially when you cook it. You know how much I love shrimp and you like my chili cheese grits.

We'd make a fire, because February is too cold and slushy for us, and then we'd watch a movie that might be too sophisticated, but we'll feel smart watching it. You'll explain it to me and I'll nod quietly and listen, already formed in my own opinion. We'll disagree on what the ending means, and we can't bother to just let it slide. We secretly like coming off as a smart couple to our friends.

One day I'll surprise you with a hand painted pot of flowers instead of pesticide-sprayed red roses. And we'll smile at our humanitarian efforts. We'll plant those flowers in our garden and that pot will be there when we are old, faded and cracked. Rabbits and squirrels will make their home there.

Or frogs and lizards, if we build our house near a creek, just like when I was little. Barefoot and curious-minded. We'll listen to them on warm nights as we swing in our hammock beneath the stars and smile, sharing a quiet moment of contentment.

That's the kind of couple we will be.

But you know that clandestinely I wouldn't mind pesticide-sprayed roses every once in a while, the orange ones. Or yellow. Even though they're commercial, you know I can't help but admire them; that is how well you will know me.

I imagine you to be tall and comparatively pale, but with sun kissed cheeks that show off your sense of adventure. You will have dark hair and dark eyes, with toned shoulders that are good for rock climbing. Your vibrant amber eyes imitate the fire, balanced by your glass of whiskey, or tamarind juice, whatever you prefer.

In the winter, your cheeks are rosey when you exercise and are cold.

Or you will be tan and blond, with eyes that reflect the ocean you grew up down the street from.

Or your eyes are green and they match my own. Green is our favorite color.
_______________________________________________________________________

We'll meet coincidentally, you would be the only person I overhear speaking English on Florya beach. Drawn to some form of familiarity, I ask you where your from and how long you've been here.

You might be on vacation, or a business trip. But either way, you've decided to stay longer because that's what you do. You take in the culture with your wide angle lens, that's what you do.

Over a cup of salep, I'll decide I wouldn't mind knowing you in other countries as well.

I would like to meet you on the street, walking with a purpose. But you see, I get lost easily, and you have a kind face. You are poised and relaxed, not needing to be anywhere else. Though you are talented at blending in, you do your best to help me find my way and then blush when I point out, "you're not from around here either, are you?"

I would like to meet you among the Mendenhall Ice Caves in Alaska or on one of the flowered streets in Bonn, Germany. Or I would like to meet you while voluntouring in Myanmar.

But I also wouldn't mind meeting you in Colorado, when I'm visiting home, or on the streets of Charleston. You'd frequent the same coffee shop and we'd have a strange relationship where we guessed about each others' lives and discovered later how completely off target we were, but smile at the small things we noticed, like how you look at people when they cuss to the person they are on the phone with, or the way I flip my pen when I am trying to look concentrated, but actually know you are looking my direction.

You like your coffee black, of course (just like you refuse reading on an ereader), but then sometimes you feel cheeky and order yourself a large cha i latte (and you use "large" and "venti" interchangeably because you don't want to offend, but you aren't decidedly determined to learn about the difference either).

You'll be interested in my relationship with my best friends and how we've known each other for over a decade. I'll tell you about that one time we camped in Steamboat and climbed Hans Peak; I got very badly sunburned.

I'd show you where I grew up, my high school, and where I had my first kiss (if I can find it again). You'd show me tree you fell out of when you were four and where your sister crashed your car and we'll go see a movie at the cinema where you worked your first job. That's why you can't eat hot dogs these days.

We'll think about the Gunung Rinjan for our honeymoon.

We would backpack the Jomolhari Trek on our anniversary.

By the way, your lawyer friend married us somewhere near Seven Lakes Mountain (and you know which one I'm talking about). It was really a vacation for him too; everyone needs a break for Jakarta every once in a while.

We camp. All the time.

You insist on making the fire and we don't share the same style in roasting our marshmallows.

In the middle of the night, I'll wonder if I should sneak away. I sit up, thinking I'm quiet. But you'll know and lay your hand on the small of my back and, "is everything okay?" I'll say I was just having a bad dream, but that never really happens. And in that moment, in your unadulterated concern, I'll feel okay.

Moreover, I want a Valentine's Day with you one day. After we get off work, which on a day like today, it's just warm enough to ride our bikes, we'll talk about our days and take the dog out again. You and I, we don't mind walking, even when we are exhausted. We know it's Valentine's Day, but we're not grandiose. We also don't turn up our noses at it being a corporate holiday, what the greeting card companies made up. We will actually love today and we call our mothers to tell them how wonderful they've always been.

From the very first day, we've resolved to take in the little things, like making multi-grain pancakes from scratch on Saturday mornings with fresh strawberries. You will be really good at cooking bacon and I'll make sure the kids take their vitamins, even if they stuff them in marshmallows, which was your idea and now is the only thing that works now, thanks.

They'll be messy, but it's okay because it's a slow day.

When you're older, you'll look really really good in a trench coat. It's perfect for this time of year, bold against overcast, and becomes you and your wizened face.
__________________________________________________________________________

"I am ready for love, but not yet marriage. I am ready for friendship, but not yet love. I am ready for romance, but not yet for arguments and making up and patience and jealousy and compromise... and I wonder if when I kiss you now I will know if we will get to kiss one another forty Valentine's Days from now."

Maybe my romance with love is that, besides perhaps grief, it is the last original thing most people still believe in and we can hope for. No matter if one's heart is broken ten times over, or maybe they are bitter, deep down, they believe it's out there and hopeful the next time it won't slip their grasp. Those who can be indifferent can have their indifference. And those who are selfish with their love can have their way.

But for the one who cares about being good and the adventure that awaits ... to the one who agrees that love is the last original thing...

"all that lies between you and I is time, and time is a mist, and it is morning, and it is late winter, and the day and the season shall warm, and I will see you soon."

Letters From Turkey Part 5: Meeting Barish

bobby_briggs — Sun, 25 May 2014 01:08:00 GMT

I hope one day that I can tell my kids, “scary things happen to everyone” and hopefully emphasize how to recognize it when it happens and not feel powerless. I’ll enroll my kids in karate and debate and I’ll tell them everyday how smart and in control of their lives they are.

But they wouldn’t know this story, because it just happened, and I need to just write this down before I forget this actually actually happened. And I wouldn’t have ever told this story to them before, but then I would have already told my son or daughter that one time I had a 22 hour layover in Cyprus, on the Turkish side, and how I met that really weird taxi driver with weird pinky fingernails who maybe was good in the end, but moreover almost had the higher end in a potentially dangerous situation.

They would know that one. Just like I’ve already written about that nearly the second day I arrived. But it’s taken me about a month to write this blog post.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

I have been inIstanbul for almost month.

I had been in Istanbul for almost a month

I haven’t really met many people besides some [very studious] high schoolers and older working people who are self-proclaimed rich businessmen and the only thing they can really reply when I ask them how they are doing is, “I am busy.” I meet them at the airport or at theiroffices in the residential areas and it’s not a bad walk. At least I feel as if I am actually observing real Turkish culture, including watching the litter of homeless puppies grow as I walk through the park to Topkapi station. There is the same lady who sellspackets of tissues and everyday she wears a mustard yellow headscarf. In-between potential buyers passing heron the landing, I catch her looking over the edge to the pilaf vendor.

I was feeling lonely and hadn’t really madefriends, besides the family I hardly stayed with

I am here for three moths and days are filled with painful boredom most of the time. This flat feels stuffy and watching hours and hours of tv or cleaning day-old dishes is not my idea of experiencing Istanbul. I’ve given myself a lotof time to see the sights I want but I knew that too much downtime was also inevitable. Since my best friend,Julie, is coming next week, I want to save all the exciting things to do whenshe comes; I’d also obviously save money.

I felt cooped up in the flat all day, mostdays; I felt really restless a lot of the time

I want to be like Julia from Austria whom I met the night before. She tells me on the double decker bus from Belikduzu aboutthe time she lived in NYC for six months being a for a German lady, or when she sold hald-rolled cigarettes on the streets in Mexico City. She had dreads, she dated exotic men. She currently works in a grocery store as well as tutors immigrant children in German. Listening to her story and made me wonder what the hell Ihad been doing. (This, I realize later, is a huge lie, because actually when I reflect on my life, though it’s been massively focused on academia, has been quite adventurous.) The point it that, I didn’t want to flyaway from Istanbul feeling like I hadn’t seen anything really or made marvelously interesting people I’d be pen pals with for the rest of my lifeyet. Another past volunteer, Elena from Romania, tells me to not put things off because soon enough it will be mylast week and I’ll frantically be running around Istanbul for photos and videos.

I’m solo-traveling so I better get used to living under other peoples’ roofs and doing things alone. I’ve probably read about three books at this point, many games of solitaire, and despite not having internet, I have gotten a lot of writing done. But this, and all that I am truly thankful for, my spirit feels squelched. There are no fruits or vegetables to cook and I guess I would have been the only one eating them so there’s no needto buy them. Moreover I am feeling defiant because after comments on “the waysthings are.” Women do dishes. Women clean. Women cook.

I ignore this as a cultural and language difference because I do understand that Turkey is a bit less progressive. But I do offer up the warning that complacently relying on that will get one slapped in the western world. While looking over these comments, I can’t help but sigh when dishes are left out and a “why you don’t cook?” welcomes me when I come home.

I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

One day I said, “fuck it,” I’m going outside, even if its just a walk down a busy street

I decide that a walk around Sultanahmet sounds reasonable. Actually it sounded exactly what I needed after being cooped up in that flat all the time and Sultanahmet makes sense. It’s free, it’s close, there are lots of people . . . and there’s free wi-fi, according to myLet’sGo! Europe 2012.

But I also said that I’d take baby steps and go somewhere public and easy

I walk down Vatan to Askaray station and the big open square there. I may be getting a few looks but it feels more wonderful to be out on my own, deciding what I’m going to do, and not relying on anyone todo it. I I buy my first simit by myself around the Grand Bazaar, a sesame covered ring of bread.

“Ah, food” I think to myself, as I savor this ring of carbs.

And the vendorgreets me with a, “salem”

I properly marvel Sultanahment with its stony grayish blue exterior, and observe the monuments on the hippodrome: the serpent’s column, the obalisk, and the German fountain. The area is a bit thinned out by now soit’s nice to not be surrounded by Bosporus cruise flyers. I buy chestnuts and a roasted corn froma vendor outside the gate to the Blue Mosque. The vendor is really friendly and tells me he has family in Germany, but he doesn’t press. It’s nice to make conversation with someone. I tell him I’m from Canada. Actually I tell everyone I’m from Canada. Instead of confronting American stereotypes, I usually get a confused look; what’s in Canada?

Juxtaposed to Hagia Sophia, the two landmarks impress the sky with their minarets and seagulls circling above.

The Blue Mosque is there, and it was open late at night, since it’s an active mosque (and once again it was free and I was traveling low-budget)

I find that it isopen and there are not many people around because it’s 8:30 at night so maybe this is a good and unique time to see this monument. Maybe there is something I missed earlier when I came. I walk inside and there’s a mosaic of history I decide to read since what else was I doing for the rest of thenight? I’m a fabulously wildly sexy and intelligent twenty-something traveling all over the world. Hoorah!

Within the courtyard of the Blue Mosque, I read the historical panels and being reminded of my introduction to Islam before my trip to Egypt, read something about the Quoran and Allah being the one true God. I reflect back on conversations with friends about how Islam and Christianity overlap. Look at me, tying together my travel experiences. Another hoorah for me.

And then it’s like the universe hit me and there was a man gesturing for me to take his picture with the Blue Mosque behind. I washalf-expecting another person to jump in the frame but he is alone and I think that is cool because if you can travel alone, it must really mean something. Maybe he’s another fabulous world-traveling carefree wanderlust.

There was a man also there who asked me totake a picture of him and doing what I would want anyone to do for me, I willingly obliged because I wanted to be nice

He is nice and we chat. He murmurs something at first about the beauty of the building as he upwardly gazes and I think that he probably doesn’t know what else to say right now. I don’t feel immediately comfortable but I ignore that. Talking with Julia, I realized how many experiences I was missing by not being as carefree. If there is one guy who is chatting with me, I think I should at least try with this one. Remember… baby steps

We started chatting

He tells me his nameis Barish and he is on holiday but only for four days. He dresses sharp, like he’s here for business. He wears a light black jacket with a casual blue button down tucked into a pair of ironed jeans. He also sports those pointy shoes all European men seem to be obsessed with. My mind wanders to images of bloated and tanned Venetian men popping out of their matching salmon colored pants and sweater,holding a cigarette in one hand, and a leash attached to miniature toy dogs inthe other.

I think I tell him my name but it didn’t matter because he already started talking over me. So I repeated my name (I still think hewasn’t listening). I’m trying tobe all “Yes Man” and ask him where he’s from and all that shit. He is from Cyprus and he loves Istanbul. At first I am alarmed, but reason that I can’t project my Cyprus experience on to all its inhabitants.I mention the Cyprus story.

(I still don’t thinkhe’s listening).

I give Cyprusanother chance. He’s probably as chatty and anyone should be if they don’t want to be annoying but still been gaged in the other’s company but I’m not as talkative because all I think about are the roasted chestnuts still warm in my purse and when I’ll get to eatthem. So I casually ask if he hadseen the inside of the Blue Mosque yet and he said no. I guess I suggested with my kindness and gestures that, okay let me show you this part of Istanbul I have seen already but would be delighted to take you there.

He was dressed pretty business casual and hadan equivocal demeanor and he told me he was from Cyprus and on vacation

We go to theentrance. I’m wearing my leggings underneath my jorts but I still have to wear a skirt thing, as well as the headscarf. The guys who give it tome are very easy-going though and they help me and I don’t care because I had just met a new friend. After days of boredom and regret, the universe delivered and what it was a new friend who doesn’t seem sketch and likes to travel as well.

I take more pictures of him inside the Blue Mosque. We talk about why it’s even called that. He, again, exclaims about how the beauty of the building. He asks if I want to grab a drink and Ithink yeah okay because I am here in Istanbul and I really need to take initiative and meet people and do things while I’m here. I don’t want to leave feeling like I wasted my time. Besides, Barish seems cool.

He said his name was Barish and after a bit, he asked if I wanted to grab a drink. It was normal: You met people, you went for drinks. Itwas all okay back then as well and I had figured I was already in a really touristy part of town

I text my host andlet him know that I am meeting a friend for drinks and he replies, “ok.”

That’s damn rightit’s okay.

We decide to go downto the Galata area and I’m feeling quite fine about that, and now I’m in a bubbly mood. The universe is on my side. I knew that if I let the universe take my bag and camera away from me inthe beginning, the universe would smile down and deliver in the end.

We talk about what he does and he teaches me some Turkish. I pretend to let him teach me even though I already know I’m not going to remember much of it and I already know a bit already. After about 15 minutes of walking down the tram tracks on cobblestone streets to the Golden Horn, we head in the direction of the Galata Bridge and fluttering restaurants underneath. Like clockwork, vendors pour out and begus with a “pardon” for us to enter their restaurant. Barish fits in to the Turkish crowd but with my red hair and green eyes, I have little chance of that. We walk through and there are many people dining and I’m excited to catch a great view of the bridges at night. We cross to the other side and finally settle on one, crowded with fifty-something asians (most likely from the same tour group) andgrab a table upstairs. Though it’sa restauruant, the dark lighting and club-like lighting makes it feel more likea lounge. Thank God, the 100 asians are here to kill that atmosphere.

We went to a restaurant near Galata Bridge and it was pretty crowded at the time with other tourists. We had a window seat and could see the bridge glow at night

After some more polite conversation, I’m so relieved that I’ve made a friend.

We order and we mull over food but actually I’m not in the mood for that and I’m glad he’s indecisive. I think again about the roasted chestnuts I shoved in my purse. With my purse laying next to me on the booth, their warmth reminds me of my empty stomach.

Then the asians leave and then it’s just us.

He is still nice and polite and we’ve had our drinks delivered by now. He tells me he likes this music and wants to dance and I think, “ugh, here we go.” I don’t want to be rude to the friend I just made. I mean, dancing is a pretty normal human thing. Tribes in Africa do it all the time! I don’t want to squelch what spark of friendship I was able to make, after a whole month. So I do the dance I always do when I’m with friends and just have fun. I’m so thankful for the fearlessness my friends and I gave each other to just be ourselves in public, and not tirelessly calculate how many looks we can get or how many numbers we can giveout (more of this later). I think of my friend Julie and how she dances at bars which is just her by herself but everyone can’t help but be drawn to her because she’s just having her own fun. And no one messes with it.

But Barish did.

I don't like it when a man, I don't feel comfortable and attracted to pulls me close. Touch is still a really intimate thing for me. And to be honest, I wasn’t in the mood to dance in an empty room in my sneakers and rain jacket. So to change the conversation and distract us from the awkwardness of me pulling away, I ask him if there are any typical Cyprus dances he could show me. He proceeds to extend his arms and do a move that resembles something like a epileptic seagull, especially awkward looking with his tucked in buttondown. I pretend to laugh but suddenly, Barish goes from sporty businessman-like to squaking seagull man. I sit down because this is just stupid and at least I can put that table between us again; my excuse is that I just want to finish my drink. I say I should get home because the metro stops going at midnight and so I want to make sure I’m on it before then.

Lie.

I’ve got a lesson at eight o’clock in the morning.

Lie.

But he assures me we can just walk down Galata bridge and take in more of the sights, then the tram station is right there and I can get on that station. And I figure that’s a good compromise. I let him change my mind.

And this, I’ve realized is the first mistake. Never let anyone change your mind in an uneasy situation. I wish my parents and society had taught me that. Instead, I’ve been taught to be kind and welcoming and interesting and sexy and beautiful andforgiving and smart. Because, they also told me, uneasy situations happen to other people.

After everyone had left, he wanted to start dancing and I didn’t want to be rude but I also started to feel uneasy. I decided that I didn’t want to be rude because he had been nice. We did for a bit but he wanted to dance in a way that I didn’t want to. So after a bit, I sat back at the table and tried to tell him that I had to go. But once again I didn’t want to be rude

We get the check andlike always, I reach for my wallet and offer to pay my half, though I know asis the usual Turkish (and male) custom, that Barish will pay. And he does.

It comes to about 40 lira for everything, which is pretty good for Galata bridge so 20 lira for my share wouldn’t have killed me anyway but still I give him a very polite, “Thank you” as I am taught to do. I’ve also been told to never refuse a gift, especially in Turkey. The times I have before with students,they almost seem a bit offended, so I’ve been more accustomed to dutifully accepting.

When he pays, it comes to about 40 lira

Outside the restaurant, we walk to the upper part of the bridge. At this point, it’s probably about 11:15 or 11:30 and I know it’s getting late. But I’m fine because I remember that we are close to the tram station and it’s on the way down the bridge. There are still people around, though by now they are mostly fisherman, about a percent of the number usually occupying the bridge during the day.

He puts his arm around me.

No no no.

Alarm bells ring. But it’s just his arm around me.

We leave the restaurant and keep walking. At that point, he started to get a little more touchy with me

I decide that fearless Robyn is going to nip this thing in the bud and tell him straight-upwhat I think. After all, no woman got what she wanted without saying anything. Well that’s not entirely true but right now I’ll take my chances.

“Hey, so, let’stalk.”

“okay” he says sounding a bit confused. My upfront-ness catches him off guard.

We are still standing on the bridge, a very neutral spot for an honest conversation, unless he decides to throw me over. In which chase, I am very happy that I am wearing my rain jacket, tennis shoes,and leggings.

“I’m definitely just looking for friends and don’t want anything else. Do you think that we could just do that? And you are here for a couple more days so it’d be cool if we could hang out later.”

Lie.

Being nice. Stop being a martyr, Robyn.

“So I will be honest with you. I think you are cute andI think we could have some fun. We could go to my hotel and talk more and have some sex and then we can take a taxi to your home. Tomorrow maybe we can do some more.”

Wow, he actually said that.

Because it’s my first time in Istanbul, a part of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt (STILL I can't believe in retrospect I am still being too nice). Maybe he has a kind heart and has absolutely no game with women because his mother dropped him on his head when he was little and he has suffered from years of tormented feral-childlike social capabilities.

“Oh… no.” I said. “That’s not what I want and not what I want to do. Let’s just be friends, yeah?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the fishermen casting glances our way, like either they could be concerned or curious. If the former, I can thank my lucky stars there are extra eyes around just incase.

Barish looks disappointed. Oh no! Don’t go friend! I was so happy to meet you.

“Okay no sex. We can do other things.”

Other things? Umm…. “I mean I don’t want to do anything except be friends”

“Well let’s walk some more and we can talk and think about it.”

“Yeah okay we can walk some more. But I don’t think your hotel is a good idea. And I’m not going to have sex with you. I don’t want that. I just wantfriends.” I say this reverting to my shorter sentence form for English lessons. Undoubtedly, shorter sentences are easier for understanding, apart from yelling that I wasn’t going to have sex with him maybe.

“Okay let’s walk”

“Okay…”

I let him change my mind again.

His puts his arm around me again. The glittering lights floating on the Bosporus turn into siren lights and I pull away saying I have to text my host. We keep walking and toward the end of Galata bridge are stairs down to the dock area, where on the other side were nice posh restaurants, but on our side were dirt roads and abandoned buildings. But, still it’s on the way to the tram station… kind of. We are walking and I can’t remember ifI tried to keep up small conversation because I didn’t want it to keep being awkward and in the meantime, my eyes are wide open because I’m hoping this way opens up into a larger area, in fact, I’m sure it does.

I feel tipsy from the drinks, and I remember my time in Cyprus, clutching my bags close to me and regretting getting in the front seat of that taxi. I remember texting my friends and my sisters. I remember that feeling and I remember the immediate disappointment in myself that I hadn’t been wiser. I remember that I didn’t want to ever feel that way again.

“You know,” I said all of a sudden, looking over my shoulder to see if I could still see the fishermen. “I think I’m just going to gohome. I’m starting to feel sick.”

He looks at me astonished, like I had just smashed a glass oil lamp at his feet, a look I willalways remember.

I repeat myself, standing alone with him with late-hour shop owners looking on.

“What happened?” He says with an angry tone.

I simply turn around and head for the station, I still know where it is and it is not worth being polite to go down this dangerous road when I don’t know what’s on the other side.

He follows after me like this meet-up is still happening and he can change my mind. Because he had changed my mind before. Because I had let him.

“Where the hell was this hotel he was talking about anyway?” I think to myself.

“What happened?” He repeats.

“I just want to go home now.”

He tells me that everything was going well and still the nice girl who was always taught to salvage other peoples’ feelings assures him that I am just feeling sick and want to go home. Besides I have that lesson early in the morning.

He repeats the plans he had with me for the rest of the night. The plans he made to himself without consultation or encouragement and the plans I am walking away from now. I tell him again that I don’t want to do that. Then he says:

“But you’re not alady. So it is okay.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

I don’t have time to respond to that comment but it’s haunted me for the rest of my time here and implicated every other interaction I’ve had with men in this godforsaken city. Little did I know that the expectation of promiscuity would follow just like Barish was at this moment.

I’m not a lady. Did that mean that I wasn’t a virgin and if that were true, when did that EVER come up in our conversation for him to make that conclusion that it’s completely fine to violate me.

“This is not right” he says as he finishes his cigarette and I start up the stairs. “People will not think this looks right, you walking out of here withme.”

Another torment.

Another way to shame me into who I was, a western woman, even though I didn’t want to do anything and I wasn’t doing anything. He reminds me, people already look down on me. I’m not Turkish so therefore I’m not a “lady.”

Again, I wrestle with that later because my aim now is to climb these stairs back to the road and get on Karakoy tram station. But the tram has stopped running. It is midnight.

Maybe he feels bad because he catches up to me and asks how I’ll get home and I tell him I’ll getin a taxi, relieved that the fishermen are back in view. I don’t care what they think as I surfaced onto the bridge, if I scream, hopefully they’d do something about it.

“You have money for taxi?”

“I’ll just go to anATM.” I am short with him now and could care less about salvaging any kind of friendship I was so intent on making.

“Okay” he tells me and beckons me to follow him again. “I’ll take you to the taxi.”

As we’re on the main road, I figure maybe there is a bit of grace I could recover from this night and so I oblige (I need to stop doing this). But as I watch to many taxis going by I ask him where we are going.

“ATM”

I give him a look and say that I’ll just get an ATM at my destination. Earlier, I had stashed fifty lira in the zip compartment in my purse, when I was distractedly thinking of my warm chestnuts and Barish mentioned dancing. I’m not sure how the universe struck me with that idea, but it did and now I know why.

But he tells me Iowe him money anyway, as his nods his head in the direction of where the restaurant was.

“I owe you money?” Bewildered.

“Yes.” And he tells me it’s for the drinks and for wasting his time.

“Fine, how much?” Fuck off.

My tone is astonishment and intentional disgust.

“120 lira.”

I stop dead in mytracks.

“120 lira. Are you fucking kidding me?”

Not that any amount would have been okay to make someone pay after-the-fact in an instance of angry and uncomfortable situation, but if he had something around 20 lira, I would have at least resolved that was a fair compromise to absolving any obligation I apparently should have to him forthe night.

But I wasted his time. And I should pay for that.

I stare at him,taxis and cars still whizzing past. Other people, shadows, few and far between crossing the streets on their way home and all I can do is look at him in disgust, gaze blackened by the night. But throw a punch? No, because girls don’t do that. In fact, girls just walk away. They don’t say anything. They don’t do anything when men grab their asses at metros and they only sigh walk away when men rub their genitals on them on crowded busses. Certainly women don’t have anything to offer except looking straight ahead and ignoring it when men scan them up and down and walk purposely into them while snickering in their ear as they walk past. And trying to not respond with a cough when they blow smoke in your face just to get a reaction, like mustering a sense of control over our composure.

Paralyzed by that inability, I muster up a, “that’s fucking ridiculous” and shooting up my left hand as I cautiously cradled my purse in my right.

The universe stops a taxi for me right away and the street is empty for a good second for me to run across, not leaving anything I cared about anymore behind. Barish grabs my arm and I can feel a bit of the strength he is using to pull me back onto the corner. Again, I am thankful for my rain jacket which yields little grip for Barish and I wriggle free which a whip of my arm. Heart racing, with my sneakers and jorts withleggings and my rain jacket, and still with that fifty lira I hid away. Though there were many moments before I should have considered it, this was the moment that alerted me to run away and forcasted a dark ending had I stayed arguing over the 120 lira.

Out of the corner of my eye as I duck into the back seat of the taxi on the passenger side, I see Barish turning and walking away while throwing a dismissive gesture. That was the last image I have of Barish and I count my lucky stars that I would never see his face again and no longer be tormented by his comments on my sexuality.

Still tipsy but completely coherent about what had just happened in the span of about five or ten minutes, I slump my head on the window, watching the sirens on the water fade back into Bosporus forms dancing on the water, but no longer do they offer me exhilaration of being in an exotic city. The taxi driver takes me away and I arrive in about five minutes back to the stuffy flat.

Pulling out the fifty lira that I wholeheartedly treasure as part of my secure escape, I give the taxi driver a, “cok tesekkur ederim” with a woeful yet grateful tone. The cost is about 11 lira but he givesme 40 change, maybe sensing my distress after running away from a man and sympathetic to my cause.

Shaken and letting what happened settle into my mind, I make the walk down the road near the old wall stronghold to the flat I had begun to despise, but maybe I am safe there. Maybe this is why Turkish women cook and clean and stay indoors.

I hate that flat.

I hate Barish.

And I will NEVER FUCKING GO TO CYPRUS (again).

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The other night a new friend (whom I completely trust and am enamored by his soulful intellect) asked me what disturbs me the most. After a good minute and unabashed honesty, my reply to him was, “men.” I further explain that this is the theme of uncomfortable situations in my life and most likely promulgated by not being around men very much in my life from only sisters and divorced parents, to having mostly girl friends. Of course, this is contrasted by being heterosexual but the point is that, there haven’t been many men I have learned are completely trustworthy and good-hearted and the fear is that if they are, well they expect me to be a docile creature, domestically inclined, and never having any sort of opinion to be welcomed in intelligible conversation.

I choose to share this story because in the adventure of traveling, surely cultural differences and scary situations would be inevitable. But it brings me back to many-a-conversation among peers and colleagues about women around the world, women at parties, women who wear short skirts, women at home, etc. And this wasone of the first instances when, being alone, I trespassed onto be part of women-around-the-world as I was a western woman, whom in discussions with others who have had experiences like mine in this city, conclude that we areperceived as existing for men to gain experience.

I told my hosts about what happened and they exclaim this would never happen to a Turkish woman. Their solution was to say Ihave a Turkish boyfriend.

“Why?” I ask.

“If you say this, then they will know that your boyfriend is part of their culture and if you violate another man’s [women], it is very serious in our culture.”

I I tell Julie and she suggests I should wear a headscarf.

Would I relent and do this in order to walk around feeling some semblance of safety?

Should I not go anywhere with anyone I don’t know?

How would anyone ever meet anyone?

Should I make clear what my intentions are?

Did that.

Should I stop meeting men at strange places at night?

But It was a public place at 8:30pm.

Should I tell my hosts where I’m going?

I did that.

Should I stop wearing miniskirts?

Wait, I never didthat.

Ever since I met Barish, that answer of what disturbs me most, has been all-the-more true. In fact, as soon as Hamza asked me that question, my mind flashed to walking down that dirt road next to Galata Bridge with fishermen onlookers. The feeling of that fear as he put his arm around me. That fear that regurgitates every time scan me up and down and blow smoke in my face. That fear that repossesses me at times when men sit next to me on the tram and lightly rest their leg on mine, and the need to pull away. The anxiety that welcomes every corner when, alone, men strike up a conversation and want to know what I’m doing inIstanbul and who I’m staying with. This feeling that can overwhelm me when speaking in English, men approach and from behind at the Sirinevler station, feels me up, and all I can do is silently walk away, because now he’s taken a phone call and walking the other direction. A crouching annoyance that reminds me every morning when I decide what to wear, that maybe jeans, though it's scorchingly hot, is a better idea. This fear,that unfortunately dissolves when I walk up and down Isteklal and hear manymore English speakers scattered throughout other languages that thank god, aren’t tainted by surrounding Turkish expectations. Unfortunately, I relax a little when I am immersed in my own culture.

When I traveled, I desperately wanted to connect with people on the little things and everything else, we’d learn from each other. We could equally laugh at dogs who desperately lay in fountains on hotdays or giggle at how insanely and unnecessarily crowded the highways are. Instead, I’m left realizing even more just how vulnerable one woman can be in this city and how lonely it really can be when, people just as that.

I want to confide inthe man that told me “Turkey is too dangerous” but then I remember how he probably wouldn’t offer me any consolation. Instead he, like Barish, ask me to do things I’m not sure Ishould do, but at least I wanted his affection for a long time. But perhaps he and Barish are looking for the same kind of girl.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

After about a month, that feeling hasn’t fully left. I haven’t been able to fully isolate it from the rest of my time in Istanbul, a sit is the capstone of a catalog of uneasy experiences with men. As I’ve shared this story with others, they tell me how lucky I am to have gotten away, to have jumped in a taxi when I did and to have trusted my instinct instead of sacrificing it for the sake of salvaging someone else’s feelings.

Some of them weren’tas lucky.

And maybe it will change and I can take back some of that power that was easily snuffed out oncein Cyprus and again on the Galata Bridge, but often I still find myself silently walking away, like we are taught to do, like we are expected to. Hopefully the universe can change thatfor me too.

Letters From Turkey Part 4: "Turkey is too dangerous"

bobby_briggs — Sat, 17 May 2014 01:07:00 GMT

“What are somethings you’d want the rest of the people to know about Turkey and about its people?”

“That we are not Arabia. We are normal.”

Gul tells me this as she takes me back to the Acibadem station on the Asian side of the city. Her name means “Rose” and her disposition tells me there's no more appropriate name for this lady. Her daughter and I I just belted Celine Dion for some online karoke game with, is my student.

Her words are not mine and I won’t argue if it’s culturally inept. The significance of that statement, however, is pretty straightforward.

Before I arrived toTurkey countless advice was given to me, most of which included something along the lines of, “be careful.” BBC news articles ominously forecasted a cultural shift in upcoming elections. International news satellited the outrage of banning social media, which unavoidably wields public influence. Prime Minister Erdogan proclaimed the power of the Turkish Republic and strikes responding to the death of a teenager during a riot were other forefront topics in international media.

Blogs I read of the girl who was in Turkey before me really cautioned me as well. No doubt I would have to tip toe my way around my hosts’ apartment. They’d be speaking Turkish and I might come off as that lazy rude American with too much hair. Men will bother me on the street while scraggly stray cats fight over fish bones amidst dusty streets. Scents of roasted apples and cinnamon will drift the aisles of the Grand Bazaar and loud battering over spices will echo against Ottoman domes with over a hundred different-colored tiles. Men would preposition my host on the street to trade my hand in marriage for a camel (I know that sounds extreme but someone actually said that happened more than once to their sister). Though tourist season is starting soon, I’d be eyed over as an English-speaker. Thinking about it, I could already feel their dizzy Mediterranean eyes all over me.

Brown like Turkish coffee.

No, I do not want to buy a Turkish carpet. No, I do not want to visit your restaurant. No,I don’t think you own a hotel and are offering me a special deal. No, I don’t want to buy that obviously fake Louis Vuitton. No, I’m not lost. No, I don’t think you’re giving me a special price. No, I will not come back again soon.

On public transport,sweaty men would surround me with thick Mario Bros.-like mustaches. I’d lose my luggage, typical, and chaotic Istanbul life would swallow me up for three months.

It all sounds pretty novel.

I’ve been in Turkey for about three weeks now and though I’ve confronted some casual uncomfortabilities, like when I thought eating croutons for breakfast on my first day was just me experiencing “culture”, I can say that the biggest sentiment I can share for this city is . . . pleasantly surprised.

I take the metrobus and tram nearly every day. A one-legged man who sells drinks on the bridge by the graveyard at Edirnikapialways seems to have people around him and he makes them smile. He doesn’t seem hopeless and he has a trustworthy laugh and one of these days I will buy something from him.

It is always crowded so you can imagine what it’s like during rush hour * ahem * rush hours, which is from about 5pm to 9pm. The only time I get stares is when I chat with my hosts on the phone in English, and the looks don’t even linger.

Turkish men are even quite handsome with their style and thick and geled hair with mysterious eyes above jaw lines with clean stubble. They almost always smell good and just like me, avoid eye-contact with everyone else by engaging apps on their phones. A lady with a headscarf laughs with me and we sit down a sigh in unison. People are kind with their gestures. I unfortunately make it obvious that I’m not from here, like when I backed away from the metrobus gate after I scanned my card; I thought the beep meant my card was invalid. So I appreciate when the gentleman assures me with the soft wave of his hand and a kind nod that I may scoot over after the lady next to me gets off at the station; he knows it the metrobus to Belikduzu won’t get anymore crowded than when it was when I got on, and he cantell from my calculated movements that I don’t know that.

Another man takes the 1.5 lira from my hand to pay the driver for me as I scramble onto the minibus from the Belikduzu station while frantically asking my host on the phone where to go from there. One man without words, offers me a seat on the bus before he goes for it. But you see, that was my third day inIstanbul and I hadn’t thought I deserved it yet.

Now, I feel okay smirking and inciting a cloud of giggles amongst a crowd at Avcilar station as we watch others cram themselves onto a bus, with faces miserably pressed up against the windows. They look like they are on the highway to hell and we’re all waiting for the next one.

Misplaced Syrians sell packets of tissues on corners and a girl who plays the accordion tries her luck on a crowded bus, awkwardly weaving between uncomfortable people and throwing up a bronze bent cup in their faces, though she doesn’t mean to, but she can’t really help it. I don’t give her money. Though I like the flower in her hair and I admire her confidence, I only have my debit card and making even the slightest movement might just topple everyone over behind me. Somehow she fearlessly squeezes her way to the front of the bus and has managed to collect a few liras.

I meet with eager students, from teenagers to adults, and they are excited to have someone to practice English with because it seems [to me] they view English as opportunity for their future. They speak of dreams of going to Paris and London. They tell me they would love to visit New York City and I feel snobby telling them that I have a sister who lives there. I assure them it’s not that special and actually a very dirty city. They dream of being historians and going into international law. They like Game of Thrones. They like The Walking Dead. They sing a lot of songs I don’t know . . but they also sing (and would love tosee in concert) Justin Timberlake. I tell them I know him. I should still tell them I was joking.

I catch them drinking. They beg me not to tell.

Some of them are secretly dating and they let me know that. I am privy to their secrets.

Clubbing in Taksim is just like anywhere. There are those blonde girls dancing by themselves because everyone is too intimidated to talk to them or they just look a little too silly. Couples hang all over each other and say a few words to the other in-between songs. It is incredibly loud but with the drinks you order, they give you a plate of fruit. On Saturday nights, the street is crowded with locals and tourists coming for the nightlife on Taksim. A trolley with a band playing live music goes up and down main street.

And then I ask my students about Twitter and politics and Obama, and I am happy to be in the company of those who are informed and have an opinion they’d like to share. Back home, having an opinion was a shameful thing, especially for women, and discussing forefront issues meant you are a difficult person. But here, these students tell me their dreams for the future, the future of their country. I am moved by their desperation to portray a sense of normalcy as well as having the perspective of hope, having been in the shadows of every other developed country who actually can’t see very far from the top,like how high they are.

So far, I’ve sailed to Bukuyada, I’ve scaled the Yedikule walls, and I’ve traversed Sultanhament. I’ve viewed theBosporus and eaten fish out of a bucket. I’ve taken an overnight bus with a local company to Pammukkale. I did these all on my own and I’d do it again. I still have over two months here and I can’t wait to see what else I’ll discover. Thankfully, I have the privilege to be in the company of locals who know the ins and outs. More importantly, I never feel unsafe. Istanbul is blossoming and how privileged am I to be here see it in season?

I once asked someone if they would visit me and their prompt reply was that Turkey was too dangerous. I’m pretty confident this person wouldn’t even visit it me if it were the land of milk and honey but either way, the point is that Istanbul is a welcoming city with welcoming people. I have never felt like Idid in Cyprus. The danger here is equal to what someone would find in any other city, lurking in dark corners at uneven times of the day.

I still might be the only person wearing sandals on the metrobus but I will be okay with that. I will traverse this city, and I will do it with a smile, looking everyone in the eye. I will buy a fish from the fisherman with the kind eyes and I will be assured that the simit vendor isn’t trying to rip me off. If you can find your way you’ll see that Istanbul, rich with history, wants some recognition and I think its about time it got some.

Letters From Turkey Part 1

bobby_briggs — Wed, 14 May 2014 13:50:41 GMT

(Abridged version)

“Yah.. I’ve got a funny feeling about my bag…” I had texted my sister at 1:00 am as I lay awake in that crummy Cyprus hotel with bad pistachios.

“What? Why?”

After missing my first flight from London to Istanbul (yeah that’s right) because London Luton DOES NOT fly to Istanbul, I frantically bought the cheapest one I could find… which left in 12 hours. After a night of breaking a deplorable amount of social norms, I saunter up to the check-in counter at London Stansted.

Pegasus lady looks confused. MY ticket shows two layovers, Izmir and Ercan but hers only shows Izmir. She assures me with an extra sticker that my bag will arrive and somehow that’s not totally comforting. I double-check that it will arrive. She looks annoyed.

The next 56 hours were a whirlwind of immense travel woes. Why exactly I ended up in Nicosia for 22 hours and why I went Izmir > Ercan and then Ercan > Istanbul I will never really make sense of. And after a chaotic week hopping around England and finishing on a rather dishelmed note, the arrival to Ercan was much less than exhilarating.

But determined, I figured I’d take advantage of my inadvertent layover and maybe explore Cyrus during the day. Little did I know that the Cyprus my cousin used to party at every summer was actually separated from the Cyprus I flew into.

A taxi driver, whom I ended up dipping out on a fare on the next day, explains this to me in half-hearted gestures at the airport café over a cup of çay. There is a Greek side and a Turkish side. Something about a war or fighting. Something about having two last names and identification cards so it’s hard for him to travel. Something about beer or “bira.” Something about gambling.

He offers to take me to a hotel, since it’s about midnight and I accept since he is a taxi driver. He ended up being very creepy and invited me to his home, which is why I dipped out on paying him the next day when he arrived to take me back to the airport; I got another taxi an hour earlier.

Regardless, I finally arrived in Istanbul only to discover that indeed my bag had NOT come and Pegasus lady’s sticker solution has left me high-and-dry.

Oh, and I left my DSLR camera on the plane… forever gone in the no-mans-land of lost airport materials. Here’s to a lot of baklava comfort eating, which I will completely excuse my self of!

Letter From Turkey Part 2: The Universe and I

bobby_briggs — Sun, 4 May 2014 01:03:00 GMT

“Yah.. I’ve got a funny feeling about my bag…” I had textedmy sister at 1:00 am as I lay awake in that crummy Cyprus hotel with bad pistachios.

“What? Why?”

As I checked in for the flight to Istanbul from London * ahem * I mean London to Izmir to Ercan toIstanbul, the check-in lady looked puzzled. Why didn’t I just book a direct flight? Look, lady, I don’t know, that’s just the itinerary it gave me for that price. She ghosts a confused look behind her thickly knit eyebrows. According to my ticket, Ercan isn’t listed as a destination, only Izmir and Istanbul. After discussing the situation with three people while my sprouting anxieties and I are plainly being ignored, her coworker assures her that she can simply put a note on the sticker and add it as a note so those handling the luggage know. I’m no expert (and check-in lady has made that clear), but attaching a note doesn’t totally imply a promising solution.

“Um… Should I recheck my bag anywhere? Because I totally can. That wouldn’t be a problem.” God I sound obvious.

“No it will arrive.”

“So it will arrive in Istanbul? I just want to double-check.”

“Yes.”

She looks annoyed.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

So here I am on the Asia side of Turkey, Sabiha Gokcen.

I am expecting to bring 24 years of experiences and items freshly acquired after reading countless travel blogs, including but not limited to:space bags; one large gray quick-drying towel; two universal travel adapters;black diamond headlamp; and a hostel sheet. I made damn sure to bring my laptop with external hard-drive, just in case, and my kindle pre-loaded with books to keep me busy for a year. Many of those travel blogs, books on the subject, and friends from afar seriously warned of the consequence of over-packing. Dutifully, I liberate myself from that cute dress I would have undoubtedly worn only once as well as that super philosophical book that would have probably given me the most insight to life and universal consciousness,but not for the 6” x 8” x 1” it would have cost me.

I did a little jig, though I was hardly relentless back home before my trip. The fact that I’ve collected what I most definitely need (so they say), and rid myself of what I would have wanted, must make me a martyr and therefore more spiritually prepared than the average person, right?

And it’s gotten me pretty far. At least right now, I can say I have actually mastered theLondon Underground. I ate mushy peas, I know what a flat white is, I can arrange a train ticket for myself and not get on the wrong train before I meet an old (or new) friend, I can hold my own in a big city. I can plan a trip. I can spontaneously meet new people in a little town in Switzerland and eat at the local Thai restaurant,then hit the Irish pub after to grab a beer with the guys from the skydiving company. I can make my own way.

Despite the rough episode in Cyprus, where I twiddled my thumbs while I floated into a potentially dangerous situation, I casually laugh at myself, “Hey! At least I got to see a little of Cyprus… for free!” And really, part of the adventure is realizing the realities of it,right? Maybe that’s not the most appropriate reaction and doesn’t emphasize the importance of being aware but hey, I’m in Turkey now and that’s all I care about.

… So where the hell is my bag?

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

I double-check the baggage claim monitor. Walk back to carousel 1. Check the monitor. Walk to carousel 1. If I ever didn’t mind looking like a dumb tourist, it was now, and it was here at this airport without everything I planned on arriving with me.

I don’t see anyone else from my flight and that German couple is long gone… probably off somewhere with their stupid luggage and speaking stupid German to each other.

Now, standing at Sabiha Gokcen, I remember check-in lady and I am annoyed.

Suddenly, that inventory of travel essentials and mere 24 years lacking of experiences I felt comfortable standing on the shoulders of, have left me feeling once again like a little girl in this large and quickly-emptying baggage claim terminal. My shaky time in Cyprus and the resonance of vulnerability flood my memory.

I’m not the first person to arrive at their final destination bagless and even at this moment, I am assured that I will get it back somehow. But all I want is to breathe that sigh of relief that I’ll get to unpack and settle. I would have soon got to read and write and eat baklava and drink all the Turkish coffee I want. I’d get to take pictures and do yoga and reflect on my past while envisioning my future. That one-week of nomad-ing aroundEngland and Cyprus proved to be less-thrilling-more-stressful than I anticipated.

I walk from carousel1 to check the baggage claim monitor one last time. With my tail between my legs, I saunter over to the Pegasusservice desk and let them know of the situation while I text my host already waiting for me in Taksim.

“Bag problems,sorry.”

He calls and it isthe first time I actually hear his voice, which is different than I imagined but then I guess I didn’t really know what I imagined. He sounds foreign.

Duh.

“Hello, Robyn. How are you?”

I tell him where I’mat and apologize for the late hour. It’s already about 10 pm, and I have arrived about two days later than originally expected anyway.

He is kind and he assures me that he will wait and it’s no problem; it has happened to him before. I let that comfort me.

The lady looks up from the computer. Although our conversation is in broken English and my first attempt at explaining things with gestures I never knew I had in my made up version of sign language, I know she can at least understand me from my frantic interlude and lack of luggage.

“Do you have a bag ticket?” I can only assume she means either the sticker on my boarding pass or that thing they strapped to my camera bag….

…

…..

…….

………

fuck.

(If you know me you might have guessed it. It is with a humble heart that I admit this to the world: This girl left her camera on the plane. I’m used to forgetting things, but this time it broke my heart.)

FUCK.

Sadly forgotten under seat 26A on flight PC 519, my Canon Rebel EOS T2i, which really was my little buddy, and recently purchased macro and wide-angle lens adapters, are gone and I know most likely forever. There goes my probability of being a national geographic photographic prodigy. There goes my ability to share stunning photos of the adventure everyone will want to go on. There goes my plan to take pictures of the souvenirs-I-would-have-bought-but-won’t-becauseI’m-not-ready-for-that-stage of-life-but-still-like-to-imagine-that-I-didplan. There go the videos I shot in Oxford and Cyprus and Birmingham and Colorado. There go my pictures of the Great Hall from Harry Potter. There goes my uppity nomad life.

If the universewanted to teach me a lesson on materialism, that was it.

So I manage to scribble a claim for my bag with Pegasus and through watering eyes, hint at the prospect of getting my camera back. I already know it doesn’t look good, no matter how much they pretend to try and care about my things. They call and, “they said they can’t find it.” Although I know that plane is probably in the middle of take-off and on its way to London Stansted. I know where my camera is, but I also know at this moment that it’s lost in the ethereal no-man’s-land of airport lost property. I know the only thing to do is admit defeat and try more later. For now, my host is waiting for me in Taksim. Maybe he’ll know what to do.

And I have all the important things, I know my dad would remind me that. I’ve got a cell phone, my wallet, and my passports. I’ve got all my fingers and toes and clothes on my back. I’ve got connections and if I really wanted to, I could get right back on a plane and isolate myself in an English-speaking cocoon somewhere in the BritishCommonwealth.

So, with only my carry-on, I finally exit Sabiha Gokcen and enter very oh so very unfamiliarIstanbul.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

I recognize “Havatas”across the street as the shuttle I have been instructed to take. It will go directly to Taksim, and that’s where Umit has been waiting for about an hour already. Armed with gestures and my purse, I point to a bus and ask, “Taksim? Is there room?” A bunch of people seem to be waiting at the bottom and I don’t know why.

The guy mumbles something and avoids eye-contact, I think because he knows I’m speaking English and he doesn’t know English and doesn’t want to make the inability to communicate even more obvious for both of us. I think I should be the one embarrassed, this isn’t my country after all.

But whatever he said, only thing I can do is figure it out for myself and I’m going to have to get used to that. I walk onto the bus, take a seat. No problem. Okay I got this.

“Ok on bus. No bag…” I text my host.

“ok. Waiting for you.”

A girl takes a seat next to me. I am glad it is a girl because I’ve been told to be careful while I am here BECAUSE I’m a girl. Whether that is true or not, now is nota good time for me to confront preconceived notions. She looks stylish, maybe she’s not from here? I know that’s a generalization too.

I read online that it is 12 Turkish lira and I pull out my card, 5 Turkish lira I got as change for the non-creepy taxi driver who took me back to the airport the next day,and a 10 Euro note a coworker gave me.

“Buy yourself a cup of coffee or something. My treat.” Jaylene told me as she handed me the note on my last Friday at the library. It had been at her housein Colorado for years and she thought she might never use it. I casually slipped it in my back pocket. 10 Euro isn’t much but when it’s been tucked away and preciously guarded for a long time, you know you can’t show enough appreciation. I fantasized using it for a glass of Kolsch in Cologne or maybe for sorbet at Soleilis in Arles.

A man comes around the shuttle for payment but no one is handing him cards. I’m officially 7 lira short and my heart sinks a little more. In half-hearted gestures I make sounds to the girl next to me while pointing at my card. I think she says no and the man comes around and I make the same sounds and gestures. I feel like an idiot. I think he says no and points outside.

“ATM”

The girl next to me is holding a 50 Turkish lira note. I have a good feeling that she felt sorry for me and was about to offer to pay for me.

But instead, the man points to the 10 Euro and I skeptically hand it to him. He gives me 5 Euro back.

“Airport” he says and continues to the back of the bus to collect the other passengers’ money.

I breathe a sigh of relief and plop my head on the window. Jaylene, if you are reading this, know that that 10 Euro note helped this lonely girl get into a big city and it is now back in circulation.

The shuttle ride is about an hour and I feel guilty that my host has been waiting for a very longtime. My first sights of Istanbul are just as mysterious and exotic as I thought they’d be. Maybe because it’s already about 10:30,but the sea of enchanting lights and reflections floating on the Bosporus are exactly provide the refreshment I needed to start my adventure. I am going to be here for a while and I am going to like it.

I am glad the girl next to me didn’t pay for me because it was a long ride and I didn’t want to feel obligated to awkwardly smile at her every time she wanted to look out the window. Taksim is the last stop.

“I think I’m here” I text my host.

I see a man outside the window, casually leaning against the stonewall. Even though I’m not sure of his face, I think that’s my host, Umit.

I wave. He waves back. I don’t know how he saw me or could be sure it was me. I get off the bus and actually I am thankful that I don’t have to wait for my bag so I go straight to him.

“Hello. I made it.” I sigh.

“Hello, Robyn. It’s nice to meet you finally.” I want to hug him because after the last couple days, I wanted to hug anyone that was at least kind of familiar tome. Instead I extend my hand and Umit gives me what I come to learn later as a customary Turkish greeting which is a two-cheek touch. Is that even the best way to illustrate it? You know… what they do in France and Italy and stuff. That first greeting with Umit came naturally, but now I can never be sure when to use this and when not to. The rest of the time it’s been kind of intermittent.

In Colorado, there is no face touching, just hand shaking and an occasional hug for the appropriate times. We’re all too freaked out about touching in America I think. Maybe it’s the stranger-danger culture we live in but I can tell it has made me a less-affectionate person.

Nevertheless, I’ve relieved to finally meet my host, whom I will be with now for three months. Taksim, I learn, is a pretty central(and touristic) area in Istanbul but we will be driving to his home in Belikduzu, which is pretty far outside the city on the west side. As we talk about my bag as well as my shit time in Cyprus, we walk fast crossing busy streets and alongside open cafes. I keep pace with him because he knows the city and if he’s walking fast and I don’t want to get smashed by a car. Being a pedestrian, I had read, is quite the experience here in Istanbul.

And it’s something that I will be doing because I’m here for quite a while. Though I’m without my bag, but will hopefully get it soon, I’m here to experience Turkey and I remind myself that. The last thing I’ll do is exclaim that wow the universe is really teaching me something because it’s only been one day that I’ve been without my bag and camera and it is only really the first day on my adventure. But so far, things are very different and it’s a wake-up call that things will be different. Time will tell what the universe has in store for me.

Letters From Turkey Part 3: Robyn the [Fabulous] Adventurer

bobby_briggs — Wed, 30 Apr 2014 01:05:00 GMT

As Ümit and I approach the apartment in Beylikdüzü,it is on the edge of western edge of the city with a hundred tall apartment buildings and tiny parks, basketball courts, and shops scatteredin-between. Despite the immensely tall buildings, Beylikdüzü feels like a mix between a small village and a ghost town, an oasis of quiet life within tall buildings away from the even taller[and noisier] city. The one-hourdrive from Taksim already opened my eyes to Istanbul traffic, even at 11 pm.

Ümit tells me there are about 17 million people living in Istanbul, including the 3 million Syrian refugees. We stop at an intersection and heoffers up a one-lira coin to a Syrian girl who had just half-heartedly brushed the headlights of his car with the sleeve of her sweater and reluctantly proceeded to glare with tired eyes outside his window.

I’m quick to pointout that you don’t see that in Colorado, though I’ve seen fearless buskers in intersections countless times before in other countries. This crazy city also hasn’t stopped everyone from wanting a car. They aren’t ratty three-wheeled cabs with people pouring out of them like I saw allover Cairo or 20-year-old Hondas. InNew York City people would sacrifice having a car to live within themercilessly dense jungle.

We find a parking spot in Beylikdüzü, and it’s not as far as I imagined it would be. Ümit lives on the eighth floor of his building; the elevators feel like they are from the 70’s with raised plastic buttons and a folding door with a broken rubber seal so light peeks in-between floors. Each floor holds four apartments and at least you can trust your neighbors, I think to myself, because each door is littered with shoes and strollers and everything else oneonly uses to traverse the exhausting layered grids of the city.

“The first thing toknow about entering a Turkish house is you must take your shoes off here,” Umitis really excited to tell me this as he points to a raised ledge immediately in front of the door.

Ohh . . . Wooowwww .. .

I marvel over some ancient Ottoman superstition. Ifyou don’t take your shoes off, you’ll carry in the grudges of cruel ancient sultans and your home will be plagued with tension.

So I carefully unlace the grey Reboks I’ve been wearing for about 3 days straight now, andinside we place ours cupboard already overflowing with sneakers and slippers. Ümit talks in a slow whisper; Öykü is sleeping and from what I read, she is a pretty sensitive baby.

Maybe that’s a Turkish thing. Also I can’t even help youtry and figure out how to pronouce her name because it contains sounds you can’t illustrate on paper.

Slightly to the leftis the living room with three big couches and a tv with a dining table. To the right is a long kitchen with a smaller breakfast table and large counter. I am not completely sure what exactly I expected but I amglad to are so much bigger than I imagined and I take a seat at the wooden table in the corner unloading my, well, one bag. Umit offers me soup and tea, which sounded incredibly refreshing. And they were.

çorba- chorba

I like soup so I’llremember that one.

çay – chai

But everyone knows that.

At this time, itsabout midnight and Ümit goes to wake up Seher. She comes out as I am taking a spoonful while glancing at myself a mirror on the wall. God, I look like a greasy underslept mess.

Seher comes out, having just woken up, with a tracksuit and wrist brace and she is petite and kind. Ümit tells me earlier that sometimes late hours the hours when he comes home from a lesson.

Ümit takes some soup as well, a simple tomato soup with pasta that Seher made. We quickly chat over other volunteers and briefly the program. During this time and time speaking withÜmit in the car on the way, I have gotten some insight on the “nomad” culture and it worries me. I am not worried about traveling, but I am worried aboutbeing a nomad simply because the lifestyle may be incongruent with my personality.

They show me towhere I’ll sleep when I am in Beylikdüzü. I can help myself to whatever to eat and Seher will be back around 1 p.m.

That first night, Iwoke up at 2:45, and again at 5 to the call to prayer. Well actually, I woke up to a dog howling at the call to prayer.

I wonder if this isgoing to happen every night.

My mind hopelessly wanders to my time in England and how I already miss it. I wonder if I’ll make it back and maybeI can make a life for myself there. I miss getting to see my family and friends and I miss having the knowledge that I could have probably just moved there and figured things out; I could have worked at York in Birmingham while searching for jobs in nearby English cities. I could have visited the family I don’t really know that much about. Maybe we would become like a family and I’ll regret not coming sooner. Maybe they and new friends would become my new familiarity.

Instead I just made alayover trip out of it. I desperately wanted change and didn’t know where tostart.

I know that I’llnever get back to sleep if I keep blaming myself.

Then I think about my camera and bag and how upset with myself I am. Seher will help me with my bag, so I mentally put that aside. But my camera, well . . .

“Your mind is asieve.”

My dad told me this whenI visited my family in Australia two years earlier.

He is absolutely right about that one and if you know me, you can only despairingly agree. I think about the kindle I lost in Venice, or the phone I leftin the bed in Avignon, the iPod I casually left alone at the Los Angeles airport, the shuffle iPod I misplaced in Winter Park, the other kindle I lostat the library (but found three months later), the other phone I lost at work (and filed an insurance claim on but ended up finding it underneath my desk twoweeks later) countless sets of keys, books, headphones, tupperware, and water bottles.

I wonder what happened. I had a long streak of responsibility and frugalness going on, but then… those times also correlated with the overwhelming feeling of fear in my life.

The fear for thefuture = me desperately holding on to things. And as I’m typing this now, I think I’ll ponder that for awhile.

I was one of thosekids parents had to tie balloons onto the wrists of, because I loved them somuch but would cry when I carelessly let go in a second and hopelessly watch itdrift into the sky until it was a tiny freckle.

My heart races. Maybe there’s a chance I’ll see mycamera again.

But no matter howhigh I jumped or sadly I petitioned my parents, those balloons only floated away.

The next time I wakeup is at a healthy 10:00 a.m.

Finally having had a night without sleeping in my contacts, I settle back into a routine I had athome. I make the bed and learnedto do that my time visiting in Peru. I look presentable because you never know what’s going to happen and walkdown the hall to wash my face. Ihear voices down the hall. I remember that Ümit and Seher are gone for the morning working so I know right away… Öykü is coming. Without my contacts I poke my head outand ask if this is the one and only Öykü.

I don’t have my contacts in but she is smiling as she holds Melik’s hand.

Definitely acutie.

“Abla,” Melik tells Öykü as she points at me. "Abla" I learn means big sister. They waddle off to the kitchen while I finish getting ready. I have officially disarmed myself of all hygienic and cosmetic comforts, or at least downsized to a few small items and I wonder how long I will be okay with that. Goodbye to my Body Shop Tea Tree facial cleanser kit, hello bar soap. Goodbye lotion, hello less-dry Turkey Inshallah

In the kitchen, I try to introduce myself to the older Turkish women while Öykü shyly watches onfrom her highchair. Melik is the babysitter and Ayşe (aisha) is Seher’s mother. We awkwardly pass by each other in the kitchen; they know their way around and I do not so I’m like Öykü, shyly observing. In the end, I just end up pointing to things and saying their names in English for about five minutes. The women smile and nod.

“Chair.”

“Tea.”

“Water.”

“Sink.”

“Cheese.”

“Pan.”

“Baby.”

“Croutons.”

We have nothing totalk about and later I am thankful sometimes for the language barrier because awkward silences are immediately acceptable; at least I look engaged. As I point to the pan of oiled piecesof bread, Melik gets the idea, or makes a face that she does, and puts the croutons in a bowl for me: Amountain of freshly fried bite-sized pieces.

She puts the bowl onthe table, next to Öykü, who shares my confused sentiments. Oh, okay, I suppose I’m eating this for breakfast. When in Rome I guess.

Melik then gets outthe tray of small square dishes of tahini, cheese, olives, honey, and cherry jam I understand Ayşe made. I learn this style of small square dishes as Turkish Breakfast.

Okay so I dip the croutons in this stuff . . . okay. This is weird but naïve me once again relishes being in Turkey and doing all things Turkish. And I'm going to be fabulous at it by the end. I dip the greasy croutons in the cherry jam, cheese, and tahini, which I was really excited for but tastes more like a weird peanut butter.

Öykü watches me whilechewing a grape on one side of her mouth. I slowly eat while making faces at her, because these croutons are not fun to eat. öykü still eyes me with curious suspicion. At least we have each other’s languageless company at thetable while the women endlessly talk away in Turkish.

I haven’t even consumed a dent in the mountain of oiled croutons when I relent. Maybe I’m still not hungry from thestress of travel but I definitely cannot eat a handful of croutons everyday for breakfast. I make a gesture toMelik, who had taken a place next to us, that I don’t want anymore. She also looks a little relieved thatI’m finished.

Turkish people don’teat croutons for breakfast (and I know that now).

A couple days laterI ask Ümit why you must take your shoes off beforeyou enter a Turkish household.

“Because shoes getdirty.”

“Oh.”

Letters From Turkey Part 1: Colorado > London > Izmir > Ercan > Istanbul (unabridged)

bobby_briggs — Sat, 12 Apr 2014 00:59:00 GMT

Okay here I go, here it begins.

Breathe.

Today marks exactly one week since I have been in Turkey… and approximately eleven more to go. I am not dreading it and it has been less lonely. I can still text my friends, I am still tuned into the viral world with my facebook, and I still read the news in my hometown. So maybe in that sense, I’m not really traveling, but at least in the beginning, the luxury of familiarity gives me more courage to fearlessly pop out of the flat armed with one Turkish lira to buy “ekmek” when I have no fucking clue clue where I am going.

When I arrived, I had not yet woken from my hellish venture from London to Izmir to Ercan to Istanbul; that was easily the worst 40 hours of my life (or at least seemingly challenging capitulated in the context of the cold unknown). And now perhaps, as things have calmed, long multi-syllabic words are looking familiar, and I’m making sense of East and West, I’m assembling some sense of routine.

Maybe just maybe.

But first, I at least have to tell how I got here.

I didn’t leave Colorado feeling defiant, I know that. Two years ago, I would have left with a

metaphorical middle finger in everyone’s face. But after a couple years of finally being honest and being okay with that, even if it didn’t agree with “everyone else”’s dogma, I can accept my inadequacies and see it more clearly. I’m okay with not liking everyone I meet and daintily smiling and nodding at every. Single. Stupid. Word. I’m okay with not being the demure young woman every man would feel affirmed to put a ring on. I’m okay with being okay with it.

Instead, I accept feeling completely unprepared and freaked out. I accept that this idea is most likely not going to propel my career or love life. I accept that I’m not going to do yoga every morning and come back all Eat. Pray. Love. Can I claim that feeling this way must inevitably mean that I’m actually more prepared than “everyone else”? Secretly, I want it to, but honestly, those who dazedly accept every Single. Stupid. Word, might just muster more courage (albeit superficial) than I in this situation and that’s what I think makes life unfair.

I arrived in Istanbul at 8:30 pm from frankly, the worst travel experience of my life, and as I approach the immigration line for “all other passports,” I assure myself that unlike most, I did think this step through.

“Did you buy a visa for Turkey?”

“No. I’m just going to buy one there. I don’t think you can buy one before.”

“You can and you should have.” My dad says with his unfathomable travel experience. This humbling instruction comes via phone on the road back from Oxford with my Uncle Martin. In so many ways I still a little girl, but I guess we all are.

At that moment, I had rather dwell on my romantic day before in London or maybe emailing York for work in a teahouse, moments I had thought about for so many months before and ended up being just as incredible as I imagined. Moments like that, however, only last as long as your grandparents warn you and one must pause in-between to map out the practical things, like travel visas.

So in the immigration line, envious of the blonde-hair blue-eyed German couple in front of me who have someone to traverse a whole new world with, I slowly inch closer.

I approach the desk, not elated because remember I’m still freaked out and just spent an unnecessary amount of time and money in sketchy Cyprus. And I know this guy is going to ask if I have a visa. But you see, I am likewise explaining to him, I didn’t print it off. I pull up the confirmation email on my phone and thank God it is enough.

Four hours earlier, I ripped off a taxi driver in Cyprus.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

I can really only tell a few people why exactly I ended up in Nicosia for 22 hours and why I went Izmir > Ercan and then Ercan > Istanbul I will never really make sense of. Either way, my arrival to Ercan was much less than exhilarating. I landed at 10:05 p.m.. At 11:30, I cried in the bathroom.

Maybe a part of me planned three months in Istanbul for an excuse to spend a week in England. That part of me was the little girl crying in the bathroom. At least I had my books with me. I had my notebook. I had my phone. And I had about 20 more goddamned hours to go in that tiny lobby.

But this is what being a nomad means, right? So in Fergie fashion, I put on my big-girl pants. I accept my choice and wash it down like a big pill with a deep breath. (When I’m older and have a garden where I plant tulip bulbs, I’ll reminisce and tell my children, if I ever tell this story, Ercan probably symbolized my full departure).

The café, adjacent to the bathroom, at least offered some shelter from the cold unknown. And at airports, no one really cares if you are breaking social norms like not ordering anything, wearing pajamas, sleeping, drinking. A man, in kind gestures, offers an outlet at his table for me to charge my phone. Even though I’m already charging my phone at my own outlet, I accept this invitation as a polite expression to a weary lonesome traveler. And over broken English, Hussein, who is balding at the back of his head like other Turks in the café, explains to me the difference between Greek-side Cyprus and Turkey-side Cyprus.

Something about a war or fighting. Something about having two identification cards. Something about having two different last names and so it’s hard for him to travel. Something about beer or “bira.” Something about gambling.

I did, however, understand the part where he gestures that he knows the owner of the café, who had sent over to us some Turkish tea. As the waitress places it down, at least she has a trustworthy smile and I relax a little.

Then something about how he can take me to a hotel since I will be here for so long and would be uncomfortable sleeping. He drives a taxi so he can take me.

“Okay” I say. At least I can count on that word being translatable. Maybe I can discover Cyprus a little

before my flight. After all, this is where my cousin Steve came to party for multiple summers when he was younger. Maybe I’ll find my own blond-hair blue-eyed companion.

Tired, I nod and smile as taxi driver motions to hills out the window. Something about a flag. Something about petrol. Whatever. He offers me "bira" at the petrol station. Whatever, I guess he's being nice but gawd am I tired.

The next hour I felt myself walking into a 20/20 episode.

Perhaps the idea was lost in translation but I did NOT want to tour Cyprus at 1:00 in the morning. I did NOT feel comfortable leaving my stuff in the car. I did NOT want to walk up and down the streets noting that Greek side had a McDonald’s and Turkey side didn’t. I did NOT like feeling powerless not knowing the language as taxi driver speaks to creepy restaurant workers.

“Friends” he says and tilts his head in their direction.

That reminds me... “Make sure I text you in 30 mins... On Alert” I text my sister.

I am relieved as we make our way back; I mentally facepalm. What the hell, Robyn. You are supposed to be aware and have enough common sense in your pocket to at least get you to Turkey. You are supposed to be the cool one who was adventurous and figured things out. You're a rebel. You're experienced. You're Pepper Anne. Things like this don't happen to you. I don’t give a shit about blonde-hair or blue-eyes at this point, any other companion would have been nice for backup at this point. I am hugging my bag close and I am intentionally obvious with my calculating body-language.

NO I do NOT want to see where people play cards now. I am tired. Can I go to hotel now? “Okay.”

He offers for me to stay at his place. He assures me it’s okay because he doesn’t have a family.

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck.

“No. Hotel now.”

I pull out my phone and text my best friends the same message. The rest of the ride is silent but it’s not an awkward silence because awkward silences suggest an air of acquaintanceship and this man was forever a stranger to me.

I frantically shake Hussein’s hand at the check-in desk as he offers to take me to the airport the next day. Thank God there is another human being here who has informed me of breakfast and check-out time, in English.

“Okay, 7:00. See you then, thanks.” I wince. But after all, I really didn't want to cheat him out of his money. I'm nice like that. I deserve a gold star.

I collapse on the bed and I am thankful. I could care less that the 120 Turkish Lira didn’t guarantee me a rust-free shower or hot water or a coffee maker. All I cared about at that moment was being far away from the taxi driver and away from any semblance of a suspicious situation.

I skip the free breakfast. I decide I would rather sleep and be alone with my English thoughts. Though I’ve got a while of adventure ahead of me, right now I would rather be comfortable in my own

pale skin. . . alone.

But earlier, I get a call from the old phone afforded to me for the night. The time is about 7:00 and I am still asleep. As soon as it rings, it’s like I had already been awake and was expecting a

call. I defiantly answer in English. Maybe if I talk loud and fast enough, they will leave me alone for five more hours.

“Hello? You have a taxi here waiting for you.”

“No my flight is later. My flight is at 7 P.M.”

“Yes, 7:00?”

I’m running through my head if I could have possibly overslept and made it to 7:00 p.m. There is no way I could fuck things up that bad.

“NO, 7 P.M. In

12 hours. At night. 7 at NIGHT.”

“Oh in NIGHT!”

“Yes.”

“Okay” and I hear him say something in Turkish to someone that could have only been the taxi driver. At this moment I thankful that Hussein’s English is indeed broken because I am not coming downstairs. But he will arrive 12 hours later. I guess I will be gone by then.

Five hours later, I get my own taxi to Ercan. I sit in the back seat this time and relish being out when the sun is up so that I can actually see people and places. I don’t know this taxi driver and he hasn’t offered me anything I haven’t asked for. I ask him to drive me around a bit so that I can at least say that I’ve seen a bit of Cyprus but I’m still too shaky to go outside. Turkey-side is not as aesthetically pleasing as I imagine the Greek-side after all. So I ask to go to Ercan. I can handle waiting four hours in Ercan’s tiny lobby now.

So to that taxi driver whom I cheated out of a fare, here’s the thing:

I’m sorry. I’ve never not paid before. Although I can say I’ve been cheated many times by taxi drivers, I understand that it kind of happens to everyone. I appreciate if driving me around was a genuine and honest gesture of introducing me to the island. I’m sure it is lovely... when you want to be there and I didn't mean to shit on it so bad. And it really sucks that we couldn’t communicate as probably both of us wanted. Because of that, things got weird real fast for me. You have weird pinky fingernails and you could very well have put something in my drink. Maybe you’ve done this before and are an altruistic welcoming person. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so careless. Either way, it was liberating to ditch you, to be honest. And I don't me that in the teenagery angsty way. I wish that there were no

language barriers to prevent me expressing that to you but since I didn’t really have that option, I bounced out and I don’t really feel bad about it.

So I guess I’m not totally 100% sorry. For me, that was a good reminder that I need to be on my guard and not be stupid on my adventures. And if feeling comfortable and safe means that I’m not very nice and cheat you out of a taxi fare, then that’s okay with me. Also that hotel you took me too had really bad pistachios.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

So weary and relieved, I am happy that the email confirmation for my visa is enough to get me through to Istanbul… Soon I will meet my hosts and drink salep and eat lots of kebabs and baklava and I can

forget about the taxi driver. We will laugh about it and I'll be assured to visit Cyprus again. The next time I do will be on my own terms.

The German couple disappears. i guess they weren't on my flight. They walk off confidently, ready for Istanbul, ready to face it together. I am happy for them.

I scan the screens for baggage claim. PC 519 Carousel 1.

Okay here I go, here it begins.

Breathe.

I had entered the immigration lines in due time, but no oneelse from my flight seemed to be around…

I meander for a good couple minutes…

… Carousel 1 has a couple bags still on its belt. I wait for my Hi-Tec backpack…

I scan the pile of unclaimed bags in the corner of the baggage claim lobby…

…

no bag…

Okay ... here it begins...

Breathe.