Slowly-by-Slowly

Grabbing the lion’s mane: Goodbye Bodrum, hello open road…

Posted on October 9, 2011 by lizcameron

Image via Wikipedia

It was here, the day to leave Bodrum for points north. Ready for the road – our first long, international road trip as a couple – through the heat of the Aegean region of Anatolia. Ready for where the road would take us literally and figuratively as a couple.

Despite the fact that it was her day off, Kalinka stumbled out of her room – more like a nook than a room if you ask me – just to hug us goodbye. She was bright and sprightly despite her protestations about too much to drink the night before. I would go on a bender on my night off too, I thought, if I had her job. The little chorus ladies clucked in disapproval at the very thought of a lady drinking Rakı. I ignored them. The had 13th century sensibilities that didn’t always fit my life, although my old-fashioned Granny might have been on their side despite her Jerez sherry each evening. It reminded her, I think, of life in Southern Spain where she was raised. I think she reveled in that melancholy a bit. But this was not a melancholy moment.

As Karagöz catapulted himself up each of the marble stairs to the kitchen, he sawed out a characteristically odd tune – something along the lines of “spring free, gonna be, just we!” Hacivad followed a distance after, dragging a duffel bag of books up each stair with him – ka-lumph, ka-lumph, etc. Kenne and her maid, Khadijah were already up at the ironclad ironsides known as Mr. X’s Mercedes, supervising the placement of each of their trunks in the back of the car. Did you know, dear reader, that Karagöz shadow puppets travel with trunks that can squeeze through keyholes of cars into trunks in much the same way that a mouse can squeeze under a door? I did not, but was too sleepy to protest much.

Mr. X., enlivened at the thought of a responsibility to engage in as the firstborn caring for his younger brother’s send-off, puffed around the place looking for his low-cholesterol breakfast – a single dried fig, a few fresh walnuts, a quick glass of çay that he had prepared himself as it was Kalinka’s day off. Mrs. X. made a quick appearance with two-cheeked kisses and a subtle slip of the arm down my side to my waist, where she tweaked the tiny roll of fat there as she wished me good luck on my weight-loss journey. I gave her a tight squeeze and thanked her for her hospitality, my best inner self wishing for the future of our relationship to only go onwards and upwards.

As I slipped into the back of the Mercedes, M. and Mr. X. were laughing and joking in the best possible brotherly swing that soon launched into the singing of a Galatasaray chorus replete with the cim bom bom chorus and mentions of aslan – which had something to do with a lion but always made me think about the Chronicles of Narnia. The lion emblem of the futbol team swung back and forth from the mirror and I thought I saw it wink at me, but decided that my own personal madness needed to start and stop with my resident shadow puppets. I set myself to focusing on the movement of all the puppets, who were settling into the backseat in order to get the best possible view on the way to the marina where we were to pick up the car. Karagöz hung upside-down from the handle above the window, ancient Ottoman coins falling out of his pocket as we curved around and out of the gated compound in the peachy early morning light. Khadijah ran around collecting the coins, then passing them to the chorus of dancing ladies, who secreted them all away in the depths of my open-mouthed purse. Kenne sat next to Hacivad on the back of the seat, looking out of the back window. They were all talking a mile a minute and I couldn’t keep track of it all so I just gave in to the various voices in my head that they represented and watched the highway scene – early morning shops opening up as workers hung their wares in windows and many dolmuş taking workers into the inner city.

Simit - a savory bagel-like, pretzel-shaped pastry covered with sesame seeds - eaten often at tea, but for breakfast on the run today

As we reached the marina, Mr. X. took me and stationed me at the cafe – apparently car rental shops are no place for ladies. He was in too much of a rush to supervise/assist M.’s rental process to remember to order for me – but I was glad to try out my own nascent skills and managed to have three teas, three sesame-covered simits fresh from the oven and three glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice appear before the car negociations were complete. Looking back with the wisdom of the present day, I now understand the at-the-time imperceptible web of expectation related to “who knows best” and “favor-sharing” that goes on between families and friends. At the time, I thought Mr. X.’s behavior about the car rental suggested that he did not think M. could seal the deal himself. I felt a bit irked about it. I now know that the power of networks on price (not to mention the provision of perks) had more to do with his behavior. What it means, of course, is that there will be a time when we must do a favor for Mr. X.

After the mighty negociations were complete, the volume of voice was back down to a decent decibel and the waving of hands above the head had ceased, the two brothers walked arm in arm towards me in the cafe. Hacivad began to meditate on my shoulder, but I knew that something about the words he chose related to the moment “love is grabbing hold to the great Lion’s mane.” As I sipped my tea, taking care not to burn my fingers, I watched the exact walk of one mirrored in the other – there was no denying brotherhood between these two, despite their hair, height and way-of-life differences. Picturing myself flailing about while hanging onto some massive, Martian lion’s mane, I thought “there is an element of trust, of letting go, I suppose, in loving. In loving one an another and in loving the other’s family too.” Just as I began this high, best-self thinking, Karagöz screeched in with his thoughts on the matter – “lion’s mane, it’s the bane, of your existence, keep your distance, let’s be plain, you’re on the wane.”

The brothers stuck to Turkish for most of our breakfast – having the type of brotherly interaction that clearly brought joy and left all difficult moments they might have ever had aside. I let the rising sun wash over me, swept the sesame seeds from the simit onto the floor for the waiting birds hovering nearby, and focused on implanting the scene around me into my brain for good. After a hearty hug and two-side kiss, I was packaged up into the front seat of the car before Mr. X. turned his attention to packing a gift for my family in the backseat – a series of shrink-wrapped packets of kuruyemiş (dried fruit and nut items) from the finest store in the bazaar. Thinking of my Dad’s enjoyment of the pistachios crunched into the vacuum-sealed packs made me happy, as did the thought of those dried sultanas in my mom’s wintry fruitcakes.

We followed Mr. X. out of Bodrum town in our put-put alternative to the grand Mercedes, and waved a hearty goodbye as he returned to the beach and we wound our way up into the foothills. If this was grabbbing onto the lion’s mane of life and love with M., I was up for it.

Last night in Bodrum: Fish cheeks, rakı and coffee (slowly-by-slowly.com)
Last night in Bodrum Part II: Dodging Breeze snakes and coffee bullets (slowly-by-slowly.com)
After the storm: Karagöz puppets gone wild (slowly-by-slowly.com)
Tea at breakfast: Sweltering in my smile with Hacivad and Karagöz (slowly-by-slowly.com)
Of peştemal, patlican and the perfect Turkish junk food (with home-style recipe) (slowly-by-slowly.com)

Posted in Cross-cultural learning moments, Turkish Food!, Visits from the Karagöz puppets | Tagged Anatolia, Bodrum, food, Karagöz and Hacivat, navigating, Rakı, Rumi, Turkish | 2 Comments

Rumi’s guidance for road trips

Posted on October 6, 2011 by lizcameron

Waking up center of the night, I rose up to quell the humm of the ever-present air conditioner over the door. Uncharacteristically awake, I couldn’t help but notice the sneak-around-movement of the tiny chorus of dancing ladies. They had exited their purse, and were carefully folding up all of my clothes and spiriting them away in the bag I was too tired to pack once escaping the terrace-by-the-Aegeaninvestigation à la Mrs. X. Touched by their caring, I sent them a mental blessing before quietly sliding the balcony door open to let in the relatively cool night air. The shock of the warm velvet air against the prickly burr of nighttime-hours-on air conditioned plasticity was a bit jarring as I slid back into the somewhat crackly-crisp white bed linens.

Staring at the ever-so-slightly waving palm fronds, I tried to lose myself to sleep. Flip flopping around, I began to remember every bedroom I had ever lived in during my lifetime – and all of the potential sheep I had counted as a ruse to color myself sleepy by numbers. Just as I settled into the indellible vision of a full moon outside of my sister’s bedroom window as a child, a moon that seemed to accentuate the neonish blue of early morning and the chips of paint on the white trim of the screened-in window, Hacivad Bey made his presence known, very, quietly. Hacivad Bey is a very learned sort, and while he often gets into tussles with the stoop-backed and wise-cracking Karagöz, he is also a devotee of the Mevlana Rumi – whose wisdom seems to know no bounds.

“It has, M’lady,” he whispers, with the utmost care not to wake M., “it has been quite a trip, and you will be glad to move on for now. Learn what you can from this experience when you are ready to revisit it again, be easy on those around you and remember the importance of forgiveness – as much as you can. Your new road trip with M. begins tomorrow, focus on the learning there.” Turning to pull something from his waistband, Hacivad released a scroll of parchment that lit up a warm, neon blue from the early dawn light. The smudging sound of his dry-skinned waxy paper fingers on that thick parchment soothed me into feeling a bit sleepy…as I started to drift off, I listened to Hacivad recite these words:

“Rise up nimbly and go on your strange journey to the ocean of meanings. The stream knows it can’t stay on the mountain. Leave and don’t look away from the sun as you go, in whose light you’re sometimes crescent, sometimes full.”

Last night in Bodrum Part II: Dodging Breeze snakes and coffee bullets (slowly-by-slowly.com)
Last night in Bodrum: Fish cheeks, rakı and coffee (slowly-by-slowly.com)

Posted in Cross-cultural learning moments, Visits from the Karagöz puppets | Tagged Aegean, Aegean Sea, Air conditioning, Bodrum, family, Karagöz and Hacivat, Rumi | 8 Comments

Last night in Bodrum Part II: Dodging Breeze snakes and coffee bullets

Posted on October 5, 2011 by lizcameron

A captivatingly thick and sweet bullet of Turkish coffee

Snakes of warm breeze slid around me, curiously disconnected from one another. I felt them swoosh up and down my arms, my palms flat on the table in front of me as if about to play a child’s slapping hand game. My demitasse coffee cup was upside-down on the saucer it belonged to. A smudge of muddiness marred the perfect flip-over, but I ignored it. My coffee bullet was wending its way through my bloodstream. Mrs. X. spoke the same words again…“Now,” Mrs. X. said, “I’ll tell you what I know, you tell me what you know.” She was referring to my boyfriend, M., her husband’s brother. We were to leave Bodrum tomorrow after a couple of weeks that ranged from relaxing and interesting to trying and confusing.

Khadijah shook her wax-papery head with all the grace that a Karagöz dancing puppet can, their loose limbs akimbo on a stick. “Here we go, the old ‘we’re all women argument,” she sighed, “usually I would buy right into that, but now, I feel the breeze snakes. You’ve got to watch for the breeze snakes. What does she want to know – or is her world that small?” The bullet of hot coffee had cleared my rakı fogginess – and I had to respond to Mrs. X., not to mention Hacivad, Karagöz, and all the other puppets waiting for my response.

“Does it really have to be about secrets?” I coughed the words, and they stumbled out of my mouth in between the breeze snakes. My mouth did not want to cooperate. The puppets all put their chins in the palms of their hand, waiting for more. “I mean,” I gulped, feeling the coffee grinds left in my teeth, “I mean why?” Leaning in, the breeze snakes transported Mrs. X.’s Turkish coffee espresso breath towards me faster than the gleam of her chemically whitened teeth through the dark night.

“You know, don’t you,” she spooned the words towards me softly, “you know he doesn’t want to have children?” Only Karagöz let out a little tiny whoop before covering his mouth again to see what would happen next. Delivering what she thought was new information, she lurched back into her armchair quickly, and watched for my response along with the chorus of dancing ladies, hands covering mouths in shock. I knew what they did not know, namely, we had already had the “what about children?” talk. I knew that M. loved kids, but felt so strongly about zero population growth that he did not feel good about having his own biological children. I didn’t know how I felt about that yet and it would be a while before I did. Did she want to hurt my feelings? Did she want to warn me? Did she think I would not already know? Would I ever understand her motivations? Probably not. I settled on her thoughts about wanting me to know.

I had grown up around my mother’s strong commitment to the zero population growth movement, thus the adoption of my sister, I suppose (or was it vice versa?). I was mixed on the idea myself, and although it was way to early in the relationship to be deciding about whether to have children together or not, I could already tell that the notion of zero population growth was not going to go down well in this family in Turkey. I felt the breeze snakes sliding back, as if in a tide, behind Mrs. X., as if ready to strike.

Taking the straightforward Yankee approach, I blurted out “Yes, I know about all of those views of his, we talk about it.” I didn’t know what else to do. Before I could get the words out of my mouth in their entirety, I felt the hurtling swath of breeze snakes hit me full force – “but it is your right to have children! This is not fair to you! I hate that he does this, it is wrong, what is wrong with him?” I could see that Mrs. X. and M. resided on different planets and that it would just always be that way. One oppositional and non-traditional to the extreme (even without wanting to be, sometimes) and one caught in the gerbil wheel of a wealthy lady’s expected life (wanting to be and something told me also not wanting to be).

Hacivad stepped forward to jump up on my shoulder, a friend in the storm of breeze snake tides. “M’lady, you just need to stay cool, calm and collected, you are facing a moment of cross-cultural conflict – your reality just cannot be computed in her reality. Kids are wanted – expected – she will not understand. Just let it be and focus on what is important.” Drawing on his zen-like calm, I channeled some inner wise woman with my final comment – some kind of wise woman that knows inside this woman in front of me, surrounded by breeze snakes, had her own crosses to bear. “I suppose we all have strange or difficult things to deal with in the men we choose, don’t we, Mrs. X.?”

Before she could answer, I felt the warm bounce breeze that surrounds M. swagger over my way. M. had broken free from the clutch of middle-aged male observers looking over the balcony at their sons, dancing with arms akimbo in the air. Swashbuckling up to me, M. galumphed into the seat next to me, throwing his arm around me. Only I knew that he had promised to leave me alone with Mrs. X. as little as possible after the obesity comments at what I referred to as “cement beach.” Watching the breeze snakes slither away, Mrs. X. touched the top of my coffee cup in defeat. “It is ready to read,” she said with the empty, deflated voice of a tired middle ager at midnight. I felt equally so.

Taking the cup into her right hand – the left one unduly occupied by a Marlboro cigarette covered in bright pink Chanel lipstick – she craned her neck to the side and peered into the bottom of the tiny cup. “I see mountains and a goat,” she said with question marks abounding “you will have many difficult mountains to climb, but the goat climbs them easily.” Laughing – she stood and bent over to kiss me on the forehead before walking to join her husband in watching their son dancing below.

Hacivad turned to me at the same time as M. with dually quizzical airs. “It sounds like the closest you will get to a blessing to me,” Hacivad whispered. M. just kissed me on the cheek and said “it’ll be good to get back on the road together.”