Empty Well -- Istanbul, Turkey

In Istanbul, I am surrounded by multitudes.  The metrobuses are filled with people plugged into ipods, creating their own worlds inside their heads and actively ignoring the arms that reach around, over, through. The few lucky rogues who’ve managed to find seats mask their triumph and guilt with blankness. They stare out the windows at nothing.

Unless there happens to be a pretty girl. Then nothing seems to lose its captivating appeal and a large percentage of the metrobus population suddenly switches between staring at nothing and staring at the pretty girl.

The non-touristic streets are filled with spry youths briskly carrying trays of tea to nearby businesses (everyone must always have access to tea in Turkey. I am quite certain this is part of the Constitution of 1982. If not, it is adhered with as much zeal to as if it were a part of the Constitution of 1982). I assume the chaps are so spritely because they constantly carry their trays up and down an average of 38 stair steps every delivery. Kebap places begin the process of mounting the day’s doner on their vertical rotisserie. Teenagers rush to school, elbows linked and blithely gossiping in the inaccessible language I’ve come to recognize as Turkish (merely because I can hardly understand a word). Men lean against doorframes, smoking idly and imperturbably flicking their butts to the ground when finished. I’ve learned to avoid airborne cigarettes by watching for wisps of smoke and walking directly behind the source. There isn’t the slightest compunction to finish fags in ashtrays, but there is the self-preservation instinct that prompts smokers to fling the burning butts far out from their feet. Women push strollers bearing bundled up, chubby-cheeked monsters I MEAN MUNCHKINS. Couples drink tea at cafes. Smoking.

Service men walk about with brooms and bins, sweeping up the remnants of yesterday.

Most of which are cigarette butts. 

The space around monuments is filled with throngs of three types of tourists.

The radically excited screaming, “Oh my god, oh my god, is this like, real Turkish Delight? Like, for real? I’m eating real Turkish Delight in Turkey?”

(I really oughtn’t judge this type. I am quite often in a similar state of ecstasy, so judgment on my part is patently hypocritical. I have behaved in such a manner when eating pizza in Naples, baklava in Istanbul and scones in Buckinghamshire. Yes. I had myself a euphoric freak-out session over scones, clotted cream and earl grey tea)

The terribly tired groaning, “You want me to climb up what? Do you realize just how far I’ve already walked today? I... can we just go sit in Starbucks and drink white chocolate mochas? Yes, I realize that the wall is thousands of years old and is of vast historical importance. So it will probably still be here when I finish my white chocolate mocha.”

The maddeningly aloof condescending, “Yes. I suppose it is a very old wall. It’s probably quite important, but I’m afraid I’m just not impressed by walls anymore. Pity, isn’t it? Alas, I’ve simply seen far too many monuments in my day. Seen one, seen ‘em all, you know? Why, it was only ten years ago that I walked along the Great Wall – that’s in China, by the way – and I’m grieved to say that it completely ruined me. I haven’t been impressed by much of anything since. Now, would you mind taking my picture? No, no -- wait until all the tourists get out of the way. I want the wall to be in the background.”

There are few things lonelier than being alone.

One is standing/sitting/lying next to a person you love who responds to love with nothing. Not anger. Not joy. Not affection. Nothing.

One is constantly being surrounded by people with whom you can’t connect.  You are the single stranger at a party of childhood friends. You are the only one who doesn’t laugh at the punch line of the funniest joke all night (although you give a half-hearted “I will not be left out!” chuckle). 

In a previous post, I begged the question, “Is it okay for a dress not to fit?”

Now I beg the question, “How long should I wear a dress that doesn’t fit?”

I want to spend my life exploring new cultures and considering new ideas, but when does exploration and consideration become unhealthy? When should I look at myself in the mirror and say, “Bourget, you could twirl the skirt and adjust the bodice all afternoon, but the tight waist is suffocating you and the restrictive sleeves are cutting off your circulation. It’s time to pry the damn thing off before you pass out on the dressing room floor. It’s time to try on something else.”

During the last three months, I have rarely been able to relate with people on artistic or emotional levels. I’ve connected through discussion of our differences, but I have not connected through discussion of our similarities.

I’m a firm believer in the importance of exploring differences. I question my worldview through clashing with people who are radically different and mature in my worldview through relating with people who are similar. For me, a balance of both is necessary to achieve healthy growth. It takes courage and tenacity to pursue what I love when those around me don’t see its importance.

I feel like the one person on a football team who's like, “Hey guys! I’m going to sit over here in the corner and work on a new script. Anyone care to join?”

These are the moments I ask myself, “Why? Why am I doing this? Is it because of pressure from my parents, my peers or the media? Or is it me? If this desire is firmly rooted in my heart, why is it painful to pursue it alone? Why am I so desperate for someone to take my hand and say, “Aimee, what you’re doing is wonderful. What you’re doing is worthwhile. What you’re doing inspires me.”

If this is what I really want to be doing, why do yearn for others who can inspire me? If I want to be doing it anyway, why am I so desperate for a role model? Why do I need a hero? 

In Istanbul, I have questioned, questioned, questioned, questioned...

And I’m drained. I feel completely depleted. Even the straighforward act of writing these simple little posts is exhausting.

I sit down on the orange couch in Beylikdüzü, the cream couch in Topkapī or an uncomfortable chair in one of my three cafés...and I stare at my screen like the people sitting in the metrobus stare out the windows.

There’s nothing left. My well is so empty.

I cross my legs. I sip my coffee. I re-cross my legs. I check my facebook.

I’m tired of writing, “I ate kebap for dinner and kebap was super awesome mouthwatering delicious.” I’m tired of writing, “I taught an English class this afternoon to some super awesome (but not mouthwatering delicious) students. I want to create something. Not just convey something.

My Turkish family works hard and relaxes harder. I write and they teach. I practice yoga and they clean. I paint and they play with Öykü. I read and they watch TV. I study and they sleep. I eat carrots dipped in tahini and they eat bread. Our paths do not cross. It’s difficult to keep myself accountable when surrounded by people who value vastly different things.

“Are you sure you guys don’t want to help me with this script? Aren’t you tired of football yet?”

Practicing yoga feels like a chore when I'm influenced on all sides by people who view it as a chore. I have to convince myself that, “Aimee... you like yoga. You do this for pleasure, remember?”

People often follow the path of least resistance within the culture of their community. Yoga and writing and running and biking and hiking and theatre meet so much resistance here. My spirit feels crushed and discouraged.

“You really don’t want to help me with this script...”

Cesim drove me to Beylikdüzü yesterday and made a comment in his broken (but improving) English.

“Everywhere is good if the... how do you call it? Peers. Everywhere is good if the peers are good. But if the peers are bad – everything is bad.”

My friends in Turkey are kindhearted. My friends in Turkey are generous. My friends in Turkey are  some of the friendliest friends I’ve ever had, but --

-- but what I love about myself is atrophying. This culture is cutting off my circulation and it’s getting difficult breathe.

“You’ll see,” Umit said over breakfast the other day. “You will cry when you’re at the airport. We have a kind of saying in Turkey... Once you have been in Istanbul, you will always want to come back.”

Perhaps I will. Perhaps I will cry at the airport and perhaps I will pine for the romantic chaos of Istanbul from the idyllic countryside of Devon.

But I don’t think so. I haven’t got enough water in my well for tears. Everything feels dry. It's time to take off the dress. It's time to restore the balance. I'm finished questioning my worldview for the moment. Now I'd like to work on maturing within it.