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.”
