Stirring the pot: Hacivad quotes Rumi, Karagöz fills me in on “Turkish love rats”

Posted on August 5, 2011 by lizcameron

Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi - the Sufi Poet and wise man (vs. Karagöz the wiseass)

It is four in the morning. Hacivad jumped on my shoulder as I snuck out of the bedroom in my now-famous demure, white cotton nightgown to take a breather on the patio. I can’t stop thinking about the postings from American ladies who were engaged or married to Turkish men (see yesterday’s post, here).

Speaking to nobody in particular, I mutter “I don’t see any of these negative traits in my boyfriend – maybe they will emerge? Our conflicts seem to be more about communication styles and etiquette differences, certainly not about religion or family. Should I worry about whether he will become domineering? Whether his family will suddenly step in with expectations I cannot imagine now? Will things change if we have children?” I stare at the moon, a détente of sorts sets in. Me, the moon. Time ticks. The moon, me. Time ticks.

Moonlight on the Aegean

There is a tapping at my left ear – and I remember that Hacivad has taken up residency there. With mysticism swirling about his tiny voice in this early morning hour, he proclaims with a serene-ness only reserved for people who meditate “The great Mevlana Rumi says ‘The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you; Don’t go back to sleep.’ and I think you should listen to him…but not the way you think. Take this rumination along its full course. By the way, that was clever wasn’t it – Rumi – rumination, get it?”

Karagöz plunges down into the night from the rafters over the patio – startling me, but not Hacivad, who is well acquainted with his antics. Wiggle-waggling his pointer finger in my face as he hangs off of my hair, his feet dangerously close to my nostrils, Karagöz takes a know-it-all stance, saying: “YOU, my friend, don’t need Rumi-rumination- you need to know ALL ABOUT Turkish love rats, you must stir this pot, and learn! Remember the link you saw yesterday on the computer, just before you shut it off and went to get your groceries?” I remember wondering about that term, “Turkish love rat,” dismissing it as a porn site, perhaps.

There is a rustling on the windowsill where the rest of the Karagöz shadow puppet troupe reside, snoring, mumbling, grumbling and waxy movements lead to the dim view of two puppets rising up to speak. In the pre-dawn blueness, I cannot see, but hear Kenne and Khadijah in the background, they sigh, but agree “she should know about them, those love rats, yes she should.” I realize that I am seriously not in the know about something. What was it that I saw on this website? I need to go to the Internet cafe, first thing in the morning, I think, this is killing me, all of this ruminating.

Hacivad strokes my left ear and calls me close, saying “you do not need to stop ruminating, this is the way you process things, you should reframe it as Rumi-rumination. As the Mevlana himself said, ‘do not believe in an absurdity no matter who says it.’ Let this guide you.” With these words, I let myself spin into sleepiness, and waited for morning.

Sitting with my milky tea the next morning on the patio, I asked my boyfriend about the term “Turkish love rat.” “I have no idea – where did you hear this thing?” he said, looking at me quizzically, distracted as he watered the pomegranate tree. “I saw it on the Internet…” I said, with eyebrows raised, a wan, apologetic smile on my somewhat embarrassed face. “All you need to know about Turkey that is important, you can find out from me. And we can learn the rest together. Show me, later today, in the cafe.” I settled the unsettling term back into its spot on the back burner that is the hotel stove of my many melting pots mind on any given day.

“Speaking of fire,” Hacivad piped up, “the Mevlana Rumi always said ‘most people guard against going into the fire, and so end up in it.’ You should be careful about going here, to this fire of Turkish love rats. Trust what you see, trust what you feel – listen not to fools, like Karagöz, or those Internet idiots.” I cannot twist myself away from Hacivad’s wise words. As soon as I hit the Internet cafe bench, “Turkish love rats” is halfway typed into Google. Once again, as with yesterday, I am horrified and saddened at what I see.

A “Turkish love rat,” I learn from just the search results – and there are many – is a local guy who takes advantage of women from other countries taking a vacation – basically a bait and switch situation that involves the provision of flattering flirtations, sex and marriage promises in exchange for cell phones, sneakers and just plain old money. These men, I learn if my sources are to be trusted, are all over the place in resort areas. I reassure myself that THIS is NOT the man sitting next to me, the man I traveled thousands of miles with to see his country of birth – not, as he tells me, his “home” country, as he now feels that is the U.S.

“OK, I know about this,” I think, reassuring myself with a deep breath, “this is like the movie How Stella Got Her Groove Back, where she meets the handsome guy on vacation in Jamaica and they get into a relationship.” I read sad stories about even sadder women and their laments of losing money and loved ones over Turkish love rats – see, for example this woman’s story. I also learn that there are entire websites devoted to “outing” love rats, such as this one, where all manner of foul language, ill-intentions and horrible stories are abundant.

Many years later, I can laugh at other, related terms collected by the hysterically funny and on-point writer Jack Scott in his “Perking the Pansies” blog where he has an Expat Glossary – including “VOMITs (Victims of Men in Turkey): vintage desperate ex-housewives with a few lira to spare who shamelessly chase younger Turkish men. Predictably, such relationships rarely last once the money runs out.” and his friend Carole’s precious “‘MADs’ (My Ahmet’s Different) for those delusional VOMITs who think that their Turkish man is somehow different from the rest because “he really loves me”.” I will also read with great delight, the commentary over at Turkish Travel Blog on Turkish men – why your holiday romance is doomed, but will take heed of her note on needing to compromise – neither party can keep 100% of their own culture. Although clear in wording and in an academic sense, this is harder to do than one might think. Take, for example, my challenge with the tea-making.

Pulled back from my contemplative love rat reverie from hell, my boyfriend exclaims “WHAT are you reading about?” craning his neck around the overheating desktop computer over into my space within the Internet cafe. “Are you really, truly looking up that rat thing? Why are you doing this?” Stammering and confused, all I can get out is “well, I really don’t know, I mean, yes, it is the love rat thing, I guess, um, I was curious?” His tone less hushed now, my boyfriend is getting serious. “Do you think this about me? Really, is that it? Look, I may not have a doctoral degree as you do, and your family may not like that, and I know they are over the whole is-he-a-citizen-thing, because I am, but do you think SOMETHING LIKE THIS about me?”

I am taken aback at the hurt in his eyes. Hacivad just turns to me from his spot on top of the computer screen, and with a tsk-tsk sound, repeats his latest Rumi quote to me “most people guard against going into the fire, and so end up in it. Looks like you are in it now” I hear the soft, pingy-plonky sound of hands, then feet on plastic. It is, needless to say, Karagöz, who is once again flinging himself across the top of the computer screen onto my head, doing multiple somersaults. He is quite talented, I realize, as he whoops out “Ah-ha, hah! All-allah! You’ve hit the jackpot, it’s fireworks time! You know just how to press his button, don’t you, an you didn’t even know it.” “Can we get out of here,” I say, blushing, “can we just talk about this?”

My boyfriend walks ahead of me, more rainstorm upset than thundering mad. I have hurt his feelings. “My mother taught me to respect women,” he says, hand high in the air, voice louder than I would like, “she taught me to get away from ‘macho’ at all costs. I honor her, I honor you. If you don’t know this about me, then what can I do?” With what can only be described as a pleading tone, I say “I know this, don’t you know that?” Brow furrowed, my boyfriend says, “if you did, why are you looking at these things on the Internet?” What can I say, I am curious? I don’t really think this about him, or do I? I am so confused. Hacivad just says, with true inner peace oozing out of his ears “just wait, just be calm, just think, apologize even if you do not think you are wrong, tell him you love him.”

We drive home in silence, avoiding our usual ride through the piney forest to hear the chorus of crickets therein. Karagöz lets the silence sit until it is deathly uncomfortable, but I know he is there. Suddenly, he pipes up with unfettered glee, saying “well, good for you, you have not only stirred the pot, you have boiled it over too. You are learning well from this jester-me! Wreak havoc, and you will see! Get it done, do like me, get the fight done, soon – you’ll see, better that way, no need to plea.”

Hacivad rolls his eyes and pushes his nemesis-friend out of the window onto the side of the road along with a porcupine. All of Karagöz’ waxy-paper self plants itself squarely into the prickles of the porcupine and he curses us with a shaken fist as we drive away. As usual, I know he’ll be back in no time – this is the way with my backseat driving shadow puppets, they are prone to instant reincarnation on a constant basis. It feels good to see him trashed in the meantime, though.

Taking my pinky finger in his hands, as that is all he can hold, Hacivad delivers his last words of the night “take heed, young lady, wait for the morn. All will be well with perspective, and remember what Rumi said on conflict and war: ‘Move beyond any attachment to names. Every war and every conflict between human beings has happened because of some disagreement about names. It’s such an unnecessary foolishness, because just beyond the arguing there’s a long table of companionship, set and waiting for us to sit down.’ So, my student, sit down in the morning, you are waiting for that. Get rid of this unnecessary foolishness of yours, and follow what is important, time together.”

This time, I stick close to the words Hacivad has offered, and in an uncharacteristic move for a courtroom-trained social work debater all-too-prone to interrupting, I offer my apology. “My love, I am SO sorry to upset you,” I say quietly, “It was not my intention, I think I am just wrestling to understand everything here – here in Turkey that is.” Met with stony silence, my words fall like pebbles going too fast into a brick wall. It will take me a couple of years to learn to let hurt or anger alone, and wait until morning. It will take me more than that to learn to admit when I have really crossed a line, albeit a stupid one. Eight years later, I’m still not batting a thousand, but we’re getting closer every day.

The moon trails us as we pull into the driveway and there is no breeze. It will be a long night. The shadow puppets sleep with one eye open, waiting for the morning discussion. I don’t sleep, with two eyes open.

Posted in Cross-cultural learning moments, Visits from the Karagöz puppets | Tagged , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Hacivad snorts, Karagöz revels: On reviewing idiotic Internet posts on Turkish-American marriage/partner relationships

Posted on August 4, 2011 by lizcameron

Don’t buy into all you see on the Internet

It’s a windy, hot morning on the island again, and I am risking sitting on the patio in my demure cotton nightgown again, despite yesterday’s mishaps with Ahmet’s visit.  It is only 7 a.m., I think, he can’t “just stop by” that early.  My boyfriend is off on the beach early this morning to see what treasures the Aegean Sea churned up in the somewhat wavy and windy night.  He woke me just at dawn to let me know he was heading down to the water to see what he can conjure out of the soft sands.  “All the best specimens show up on days like these!” he tells me, with the glee that only an ocean-lover can muster without difficulty.

So, I am on my own with my laptop on the patio enjoying some once-brewed tea, yes, with milk.  His face twists up into confused, disgusted horror that turns to laughter whenever he sees the milk in my tea.  It has become a beloved ritual of ours, this joking about milky tea.  I am giggling to myself about this – alone on the patio here in Turkey – typing away on my laptop about it all.  It all seems so foreign and I am drinking up the experience of being different, trying on a different culture for a bit.  I had brought my laptop to finish some consulting work I was doing, but my feverish fluster of data analysis and write-up of my evaluation report are done.  Now, I’m just writing for my travel blog (the bulk of which became fodder for this slowly-by-slowly writing).

If Ahmet shows up, I’m not sure what I’ll do, but for now, I am not going to worry about it.  This is sacred writing time.  “Yes, mademoiselle,” Hacivad intones, his eyes peeking out over his very studious-looking glasses, ” focus on the life of the mind, always the best choice.”  I am glad to have his approval – although I am sure he is just a figment of my imagination in perhaps a culture-shock-induced bit of cross-cultural temporary psychosis (sorry, the social worker in me must diagnose).

Hacivad settles in to read his morning selection of Rumi’s work.  He is leaning against the hand-thrown pottery vase made by my boyfriend’s aunt, which is full of tiny star-shaped fuschia-purple wildflowers that are fooling the bees into thinking they are still attached to the ground.  I busy myself writing a journal entry about whether I could see myself here for retirement or even if I could see myself with my boyfriend in the long term.  I am liking the idea, I like what I see here, the way he interacts with people, the way he is open to talking about how our experiences differ, they way he is a partner even in the tough moments when we are learning.  He has broached the topic of the future – but when I told him I would love to live in Turkey for a while, he made it clear that he prefers life in the States, but waxes romantic about retiring together on Bozcaada for part of the year.  He seems so sure in our relationship, too sure, I think, after just a few months, is this really real?  Was it a mistake to come here?  But look at where I am, and look at how great he is, this cannot be a mistake, I assure myself.

Karagöz opens one eye from his early morning slumber after many jester-like antics all night long at the entrance to the gecko’s lair inside the bedroom ceiling.  All night spinning, he was.  “You are blithering-blathering in confusion in love, you are.  Just go with the flow, lady, go with the oodles-woodles of love talk and thought and just ‘be here  now’ like my ol’ buddy Ram Das.  Flipping over from one side of the daybed to the other, the wrinkly hand-spun cotton sheets all askew, he continues “write about something interesting! Hee Hee!”  As if narcoleptic, Karagöz is out again after delivering his dictate, like a light on a prison ward, boom, off.

View to the Aegean

“Good riddance in the most peaceful wishing of manners,” Hacivad remarks with a mid-morning yawn, “focus on what is important, just get to know each other.”  I get back to typing away with a fury, and before long, my boyfriend is back, his hands full of tiny vials (they look like the crack vials I used to see in the Bronx outside of the criminal court) that contain microscopic specimens.  Excitedly, he tells me all about the unexpected species of Indian Ocean sea life that have shown up here, at the Aegean’s bridge with the Dardanelles Strait.  Plastering what I hope is an interested smile on my face, I nod and try to make out what he is talking about in between the scientific terminology, carefully turning important words over in my head to remember them.

Our simple island breakfast, with new pebble treasures from the beach

The talk continues during our breakfast, where I switch to black, non-milky tea, with fresh whole wheat bread, what is left of the fragrant tomatoes from yesterday and fresh, feta-like cheese called beyaz peynir.  This is my first indication, learning this word, that there is some connection between South Asian Indian languages and Turkish.  I am reminded of my favorite spinach and cheese dish, saag peynir.  There is so much more to know about this country, I think, I have only scratched the surface – and here I thought I was SO prepared, with all of my academic readings.  Karagöz awakens with a start “I will always awaken to applaud you when you realize how ridiculous you are!” he proclaims just before dropping back to sleep like a rock through water to the bottom of a pond.

We head into town, with a somewhat relaxed driving effort – our hands trailing the breeze out the window as we wind up the hill past the shipwreck that has been at this corner of Ayazma Plaj for years.  We sidle by the Greek Orthodox baptismal font, now almost bereft given that most of the Greek-descended Turks have left this cross-cultural island.  Before heading to the farmer’s market just outside town, we make a pit stop in the one Internet cafe on the island.  I email my folks, to let them know that I am alive and post on the previous day’s explorations through the flowering thyme fields of the island.  Revisiting my questioning this morning, I google “Turkish-American marriage.”  Within moments, I regret doing so.  The first link results in my jaw dropping, I have found some of the most racist, nationalistic, threatening and just plain ignorant commentary from a group of women on inter-marriage between Christians and Muslims (see the dialogue here, if you can stand it).

Although I am so shocked that I can barely un-glue myself from this page, I recognize these folks as outliers and move to the next link, which is somewhat better, but includes questions posted by women engaged to or married to Turkish men.

The first one is not so bad, but not so good either:

“I am marring a Turkish man. He is from Adana and is a traditional Turkish man in a lot of ways. He follows the engagement and marriage traditions. But is not a demanding man. Meaning he is not controlling over me. I am an American woman. He is very westernized. And I am just wondering some of the differences there might be in our marriages compared to an American marriage? What is it like being married to a Turkish man? And if we moved to the US what are some of the difficulties he may have with jobs, friends, and just a difference in overall cultures and life in general?”

The second post includes this question:

“Will I have the freedom to “override” his viewpoint, if I find it completely unreasonable?” and this one “Are Turkish men typically dominant and controlling?”

The third advises these two based on her own experiences – expect lots of time with family, get clear on the whether to have children issue, be prepared for him not to use sunscreen and ends on a light note: ” Try to get him to get his mothers recipes – and have him cook for you. He’ll appreciate your efforts in trying to cook, but I swear he’ll still do it better. It’s a wonderful thing.”

Keying into this last bit with some hope for the human race and the Americans in particular, I tug my boyfriend’s shoulder, showing him the results.  We laugh until we have tears in our eyes.  How can people be so black and white, I think, surely if they are looking for answers on the Internet, this is not a good sign for the relationship?

After our laughing, we sit for tea in the Çinaraltı (“chih-nahr-ahl-tuh”) Café, under the Çinar, a.k.a. sycamore tree.  “What you need to know about me,” my boyfriend says, “is that while I am loyal to my family and I love them, I want my own life.  I grew up listening to the extended family argue during our weekly Sunday lunches…I am more of an independent type, and that, as you may guess, is a big part of why I landed in the States in the first place.”

While this conversation leads to a deep place that we needed to go, Karagöz is a constant presence for the rest of the day.  He has taken up residence around the top of my ear, hanging by his feet so that he is yelling right into my ear in between sit-ups – like some sort of deranged, jester Marine soldier.  Some of his chorus of sing-song-y questions includes “You’re not so sure – it’s a blur – are his intentions pure?” Hacivad, sitting in the lotus pose on my left shoulder does not deign to look at Karagöz, but responds with “you idiot, Karagöz, this guy is a U.S. citizen, he is head over heels in love, don’t stir the pot – we should block those insane web postings that are clouding her mind.  We should get Khadijah to fix some black-arts potion to erase the memory of those from her confused head.  Karagöz cackles and sings “he loves you for sure, will it last, is he stuck in the past, is he the last? Will he fast?”  Hacivad finally succumbs to his frustration and stands up – drawing an impossibly large bullhorn from his shirt pocket akin to clowns spilling out of a tiny VW bug, he tells me in no uncertain terms “what you need is patience – for Karagöz, for yourself, for this relationship…just let it unfold.  Remember the words of Rumi on patience: From cane reeds, sugar.
From a worm’s cocoon, silk.  Be patient if you can, and from sour grapes will come something sweet.”

Taking his advice in hand, I pluck Karagöz from my right ear, and place him on a floating sycamore leaf – sending him off into the breeze as if on a magic carpet for the night.  I am done thinking for today.  Time to let everything settle in.  This isn’t the last of this topic, I am sure.  The Karagöz shadow puppet troupe howls with laughter from their collective spot on the window sill.  “You’ve got that right,” they chorus with guffaws that will surely wake the neighbors.

Sycamore leaves (Image by Liz Cameron)

Posted in Cross-cultural learning moments, Visits from the Karagöz puppets | Tagged , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Just dropping by: Caught in the white cotton nightgown with juicy peaches and once-boiled tea

Posted on August 3, 2011 by lizcameron

Fresh peaches on the Bozcaada patio

It is 10 a.m. and the sun is beating down on the waxy leaves of the pomegranate bush outside – I can almost see the heat waves emanating from the leaves themselves. I thought that only happened from inanimate objects…like rocks.  It is really hot here, and this Yankee New England rose is wilting before noon.

I am still in my white, cotton nightgown that my stepmother kindly bought for me back at Lord & Taylor in Boston just one month ago.  The demure oyster blue and white as white can be seersucker robe is nowhere in sight.  I can’t even fathom even three quarter length sleeves in this hair-dryer heat, to quote Jack at Perking the Pansies (a fabulous blog about two gay expats from the UK living in Bodrum, Turkey).  It is 2004, and we are sitting on Bozcaada, in my boyfriend’s family’s summer home.  It is a rustic spot way off the beaten path.  We are facing the northern Aegean sea and I am feeling pretty damned lucky to be there.

We are sitting in the breezy spot between the fifty year-old pines, the tallest around, enjoying fresh peaches.  It’s the kind of thing you do when you are in love and there is nothing else to do but listen to the breeze, feel the sun, eat juicy peaches and commune with one another in your nightgown or pajamas.  My boyfriend is cutting and peeling them, feeding them to me one by one.  We don’t even need to remark on how much we are enjoying the silence of crickets in the grassy field next door, the sound of eucalyptus branches scratching the skin of the roof ever so slightly in what breeze makes it that far along.  Along the frame of the screened window to the bedroom, the entire troupe of Karagoz shadow puppets are looking a bit wilted in the heat.  Some are snoring, some are sweating bits of their waxy exterior before they move into the shadow as the sun passes along their ledge.

Looking out to the Aegean, my boyfriend instinctively licks his fingers, glazed with fresh peach juice like a sunrise, and remarks how his friend Ahmet (name changed) who lives on the island always says there is no place like this particular spot between the pines on the island.  As I ask for guidance on how that sentiment would be worded in Turkish, I hear the soft crunch of pine needles and a hoot of laughter, it is Ahmet himself who finishes the sentence, picking up where my boyfriend left off.  Karagoz awakens and jumps to attention, singing ” uh, oh, spaghetti-os, whatever that means.”

“Crap,” I think, the blushing onset of panic rising up my neck to my cheeks, “I am stuck.”  I am sitting in the middle of the garden in my reserved, long white cotton nightgown that is not only somewhat transparent in a few spots where errant peach juice has landed, but does not hide well the fact that I have no bra on.  Karagöz screeches out from the nightstand with an ‘I-told-you-so’ sound to his voice “shoulda bought that bullet bra, woulda come in handy just about now, eh?”  He cackles and commences spinning around.  I always wonder how a flat, wax paper puppet can spin so well.

I will him a grumpy brain wave, saying”It’s a nightgown, for goodness sake, and while I may be a Yankee, I am not puritanical when it comes to surviving the heat.  Bras be damned.”   Khadijah and Kenne, two other shadow puppets, are on my shoulders, shaking their fists at Karagöz and rooting for me, as he is on their last nerve.  They do, however, hasten to tell me to hurry up and get into the house in case any of the neighbors are about.  Karagöz grins, remarking “even THEY know you are at risk of being an ugly American right now, take heed!”

Meanwhile, the etiquette instinct part of my brain is freaking out.  That part of my brain is hardwired from the classes my Granny made me take during the summer months in hopes I would be a debutante like my mother (despite the fact that she hated every moment of it).  The etiquette portio of the brain is signaling me to stand up, to greet Ahmet with a firm, respectful handshake and to ignore the fact that I am standing on the patio in my nightgown.  Some other part of my brain, perhaps the trying-to-be-Turkish part, feels that I will be too exposed.   As my brain short-circuits, I curse myself for not wearing the damned robe.  All of this preparation for an auntie who might be shocked at the wrong nightgown – I didn’t prepare for guests who just walk in, unannounced.  This will be the first of many incidents of “just dropping by” which I come to learn is totally normal and accepted in Turkey.  I still haven’t gotten used to it as I write this, eight years later.

The blue and white seersucker robe I was pining for in my near-naked moment

Feigning an excuse in English that Ahmet will not understand anyway, I twist the fabric of my nightgown in my hand, holding it away from my body, hoping he will not notice that I am in a nightgown and have no bra on.  “Maybe it looks a bit like a kaftan?” I wonder silently, with a wan smile, “What do I have to be ashamed of?  I am in my home, and I should not be ashamed of my body. ”  “Oh honey,” Kenne says, you have so much to learn about this country.”  In the split second it takes me to dash away from the patio, my mind is reeling with questions.  Is this disrespectful in Turkish culture?  Am I going to be seen as a harlot or some such?  Does he know we are not married?  Does it matter? Why does it matter to me?  I don’t care that we are not married.  Should I care that anyone else does?  Should I not care in America, but care in Turkey?  Why do people always “just show up? I think this is so rude…I don’t think I can get used to this.  I am not sure about this Turkey business, I don’t know if I can do this.  Why can’t I?  I have to, if this is the guy for me.  Oh dear.”

Ignoring Karagöz , I quickly place Khadijah and Kenne on the marble-topped bureau as I enter the bedroom and frantically toss on a tunic and long cotton pants.  I put on shoes as well, just to be safe.  Then I wrap my messy hair up in a lavender scarf with white embroidery, turban style.  My boyfriend always refers to this as a “mihraje moment,” using what I think is the Turkish word for the Maharajahs, or ruling elite of ancient India.  I know he will think I am trying to “do” some form of Turkish dressing for etiquette’s sake, but my hair is really an oily mess at the moment – I was trying out olive oil as conditioner as I was out, and it backfired.  All in all, I’m feeling pretty much a wreck.

Then things get interesting.  My boyfriend calls out to me – “canım” – he says, meaning “dear.”

Example of Liz in a "mihraje" turban

He is using a sweet tone that smacks of guilt -and just then he has switched to English – “will you, um, will you make some tea for us?”  His voice cracks a bit and he turns his head as if to say – “sorry. Sorry to ask you this, I am not sure I feel right about this either, but I am sort of in a bind here.”  I realize that he feels he cannot leave his guest to make the tea – and serving tea is a requisite – I have gathered that by now, along with the fact that tea is indeed the beverage of choice although all we hear about in the states is Turkish coffee.  Khadijah motions me over “he wants you to make the tea, you know, you have to serve it.”

Of course, I answer in the affirmative, not wanting the bubble of curious resentment and odd feeling to show in front of our guest.  “Didn’t it say in my guidebook never to embarrass your husband or contradict him?” I wonder.  Kenne scoffs at the book “any woman should know that they should be serving the tea to their husband, no doubt.”   Khadijah says, “we have to do what we have to do – nightgown, olive oil, bra or not and I suppose that is a good rule for anywhere, not just Turkey.  And not just wives to husbands, pitching in when people just stop by.”  “Why Khadijah, I thought you were a 14th century Ottoman era servant – this is sounding pretty much like a feminist humanist to me.”  Khadijah winks at me and motions me along to the kitchen.

Entering the kitchen, with three puppets nestled in my turban at various angles, I realize that I am supposed to make tea the Turkish way – involving double-boiling, and lots of hot water with the potential to burn me in between teapot transfers.  Turkish tea-making involves two teapots.  I reach into the recesses of my Yankee toolkit, and squarely grab for that age-old item, the stiff upper lip.  Well, here I am, in someone else’s kitchen, the lady of the house for the time being, and it is my time to make tea.  “Not a big deal,” I whisper, I have made tea all my life. It’s just that this time, I’ll make it the American way -with a teabag.”  Khadija, Kenne and Karagöz all faint simultaneously.  Hacivad shows up on the back of the stove and explains that this is not acceptable behavior, even though I am an American, the tea MUST be double boiled.  I recall my mother’s insistence that tea be made “properly” with water at the full boil.  Taking stock of the situation, I realize that I have only seen my boyfriend make the tea a couple of times, and I had better not try this.  I suppose I surrendered to the teaching-old-dogs-new-tricks phenomenon, but I find myself just heating the water up to boiling and pouring the water into a cup with leaves, then straining it out.  “I wonder if they will be able to tell the difference.”  My three puppet friends are still knocked out cold, although Hacivad is fanning them with a napkin he has taken from the table.  He is intent in his efforts to revive the trio.

Teabags will not cut the mustard in Turkey - thanks to reusable photo from Anders Andemak at Flikr

I take some comfort in setting up the perfectly round, rimmed plastic red tray that my boyfriend’s aunt uses for teatime. It is sun-whitened but tried and true.  On it, I place the traditional Turkish tea delivery mechanisms  – tulip-shaped clear glasses that are maybe an eighth the size of the mugs I choose for tea at home.  Placing each one on three delicate tea glass saucers, I search for the small, aluminum spoons that accompany the glass items.  Each spoon has tulips somewhat indelicately stamped onto it.  I can see that they are the hardware store version of spoons, not a finely hewn set.  I imagine the machine that was created to do the stamping in some fabrika in Anatolia.  I see that the tulip image is a clinging remnant of the Ottoman empire’s fascination with that flower and it’s shape.  A mini part of history that I would not have caught without reading up on some of the Sultans. “This is no time for waxing poetic about the Sultans!” Hacivad cries, “you must get on with serving the tea – I hope you will follow the tradition!”

Having no idea what that tradition is, I add a bowl of paper-thin slices of lemon onto the tray next to the rectangular sugar lumps that I used to feed the horses with my Grandmother, Verna.   My hands go through the motions as I remember the feeling of the coarse tongue of the horse on my hand where the sugar is.  I pour the once-boiled tea into the glasses.  Before long, I realize that the red plastic tray island is fully inhabited.  Silencing the ladies who are now sitting up, holding their heads and alternately cluck-clucking, tut-tutting and poo-pooing with an alacrity that belies their displeasure at the once-boiledness of the tea, I make my way out of the kitchen as the door bangs shut behind me in the breeze.  I enter an unknown territory.

Karagöz alights my shoulder with his usual twirling, “you’re gonna fall, you’re gonna spill.”  My hands start to shake as I descend the two stone steps to the breezy spot as the ladies hold their breath from atop my turban. The black tea sloshes up to the rim of the tulip-shaped glass on the left, but limits itself from going farther.   I wonder how Ahmet is perceiving all of this.  I know that my husband’s guest is liberal and has devoted himself to his girl’s education, but I also note that my husband’s friend is being studied at not looking at me.  It has been explained to me that this is a sign of his friend showing him respect.

In the village streets, traditional men will not look at or talk to a wife and her husband for this reason.  It has taken me a while to understand why my good-spirited “iyi akşamlars” (good evenings) are not responded to in the village, but I am getting the picture.  This village existence is so very different from my experience in Istanbul with my husband’s family and friends – much less my own Cantabrigian streets.  I remember that Ahmet did, however, greet me warmly when we arrived on the island, inquiring about my family though he does not know them and they are thousands of miles away, asking how I liked the island, and other pleasantries.  As with the country as a whole, there is still somewhat of a schizophrenic schism between old ways and new ways, west and east.

I serve the tea, and within moments, I can tell they know the difference – Ahmet is pronouncing it very light tea indeed, and I can hear “Amerikan” in there with the laughter.  I am caught in my duplicitous effort.  Karagöz and my boyfriend simultaneously say “Busted! You only brewed it once!”  My boyfriend calls me over, thanks me, and tells me he’ll commence teaching me the right way to do it for next time.  I am happy at the light touch he offers to fix the moment – but not so happy at the idea of being the tea girl.  I smile and plan to bring the issue up later.  For now, it has to wait.  At least I didn’t serve it with milk in front of guests.

 

Posted in Cross-cultural learning moments, Visits from the Karagöz puppets | Tagged , , , , , , , | 16 Comments