The Lights Flicked On and Off -- Istanbul, Turkey

I’m starting this post from Cesim’s flat. It’s only just after one o’clock and I’m already feeling mostly brain dead. I’m sagging into my seat and supporting my legs on the chair across from me, but my gaze still flickers over to the floral couch on the other side of the room. If the poor piece of furniture had any sort of consciousness, it would feel both affronted and complimented by my lingering, licentious gaze.

Yes. I do only want you for your cushions.

It’s Tuesday. Cathy left for Grand Junction at five o’clock on Saturday morning, and I’ve felt like a sad, lost puppy since five minutes after five o’clock on Saturday morning. I bear-hugged my friend goodbye (it feels amazing not to have to worry about all that kissing nonsense) and morosely watched Myrtle’s feeble doors rattle shut. I stood dumbly by, watching Myrtle’s light flash 3, 2, 1, L, and then returned to our mostly empty room and crawled into my corner chair.

The lights flicked on and off.

I sat. I looked at Cathy’s empty desk.

The lights flicked on and off.

I sat. I looked at the stand where her suitcase had rested the night before.

The lights flicked on and off.

I sat. I reached for my laptop and tried to write. But nothing came. There are those moments when you find yourself desperate to communicate something, anything, everything, but something, anything, everything feels trapped inside a wall of ice. You look through and try to make out the details, but all you see are rough, undefined shapes that flit about. You reach out to touch it, but your fingers just go numb.

The lights flicked on and off.

This is what I asked for. This is the life I’m creating. Beautiful people come into my life and beautiful people leave my life. I need to cherish them while they’re here and... and... well, just try not to feel too sad when they leave.

Showing Istanbul to Cathy was a defining moment in my distinguished career as a vagabond/nomad/hobo (take your pick). It was the first time I ever felt even remotely comfortable and confident being a guide. Traveling by myself is one thing – if I screw up, generally speaking, no one suffers but me. As I don’t mind a little suffering now and then (a few trials here and there make good stories), the stakes aren’t high. But traveling as a team adds the pressure of, “will my partner be okay? Is she having a good time? What if I lose the both of us into the chaotic urban jungle of Istanbul forever and we are forced to live off of yogurt and pilav for the rest of our days?”

The seagull who has claimed ownership of the Spectra Hotel

The last week with Cathy helped me to face this insecurity in the most loving and supportive environment I could have hoped for. 

Thursday and Friday were quiet days when compared to the rest of our full, exciting week. 
We lazed about the breakfast room until late Thursday morning (when most tourists were finally rolling out of their rigid beds, clamoring into Myrtle and groggily stumbling in for breakfast) and returned to 402 to pack our bags for the day. As my lesson with Dilara had been rescheduled for that afternoon, I packed “Catch Phrase” into my crumpler sack, made sure my travel card was in my pocket and checked my iPod for podcasts.

Even though it’s part of the same city, commuting to Asia on a regular basis can be a royal pain.

Cathy decided to spend the day exploring the streets around her hotel and bargaining for Turkish lamps in the bazaar.  I hugged her goodbye and wished her good luck before boarding the tram for the metrobus for Asia.

I hope she’s able to have a satisfying day, I watched my resourceful friend walk towards the entrance of the intimidating, ancient shopping area. I’m sure she’ll be fine.

The lesson with Dilara went swimmingly and “Catch Phrase” was a brilliant success. 

We played for about an hour, tackled eleven pages of English homework (I spotted several mistakes made by her Turkish English teachers), had a quick yoga lesson and sat down for a late lunch of lamb stew, pilav, salad and yogurt. While waiting for Dilara’s mother to return me to the metrobus so I could sojourn back to Europe and Cathy, I taught the artistic pre-teen the basic rules for drawing a face.

“The head has this sort of shape,” I drew a rough oval-ish egg on the page. “And I know it doesn’t seem like it, but the eyes are halfway down. And you should be able to draw five of them across the face. Erase the two on the outside and the one in the middle, and keep the two eyes that are left. The ears start at –“

I listened to “RadioLab” as I leaned against the side of the metrobus on the way back. It was just about rush hour and I was standing face to armpit with a Turkish fellow who was lost in the world of his iPod.

That’s one good thing about the cold. It diminishes the rotten fruit smell of armpits and makes metrobuses slightly more tolerable.

Dilara's brother can't seem to have his picture taken enough. I'm more than happy to oblige, but when he trots over to grab my camera afterwards, I'm less than happy to hand over my precious Nikon. Which always results in unpleasantness.

I returned to the hotel just before six to a slightly flustered roommate and three hugely overstuffed bags.

“Did you get everything to fit?” I asked, cautiously side-stepping the carry-on that had doubled in size and looked ready to explode.

“I think so,” my friend knelt on top of the bloated suitcase and struggled heroically to zip it shut “I couldn’t take the red pepper or the olives or my almonds, but all the lamps fit and the carpets are good.”

“That’s amazing,” the distended suitcases seemed less enthused about the situation and Cathy seemed utterly exhausted, but I was blown away by this packing feat.

Maybe if I learned how to pack better I wouldn’t always have to be getting rid of my things.

The rest of the night was spent eating a simple dinner near the spice bazaar and positively gigantic puddings near the hotel. Finally, feeling nearly as stuffed as Cathy’s luggage, we tottered back to the hotel.

We were both too full to sleep. As we tossed and the suitcases glared at us from their respective corners, seeming to say, “serves you right.”

I took Cathy on an excursion to Ortakoy Friday morning. It’s one of my favorite parts of the city and I wanted her to see experience its super hip vibe before she left. Unfortunately, Ortakoy was definitely still sleeping at 8:30 and there wasn’t much to be seen except for a few fishermen and a raggedy old man feeding the pigeons. 

We drank tea and coffee in a Mado, wandered around the empty streets for half an hour, and then caught the 32 bus, the T1 tram, and the M1 metro to Cesim’s flat for a traditional Turkish breakfast.

Cathy was greeted warmly by my extended Turkish family (Umit’s mother, father and sister) and she offered them a gift of maple syrup. She had originally intended to bring American whiskey as a culturally specific thank-you, but I told her that not all Turkish people drink alcohol (Islam forbids it), but that all Turkish people like sweets.

We sat on the floor and passed around the dishes. Umit translated back and forth between Cathy and Umit’s mother and father, and Cathy did her best to speak slowly and use body language.

“She asks how many children you have,” Umit translated his mother's question. 

“I have two daughters,” Cathy replied amiably.

Umit turned to the elderly woman and said something in Turkish. His mother proudly slapped her chest said something in Turkish.

“She has nine children. Six boys and three girls,” Umit translated his mother's declaration.

“Congratulations!” Cathy replied amiably.

Umit said something in Turkish. Umit’s mother looked pleased. Umit’s father said something in Turkish.

“He says that they missed you,” Umit turned to me. “You are like their daughter.”

“Oh, ummm...” I wasn’t sure what to say. “I missed them too.”

After breakfast, we returned to the hotel and Cathy showed me a few interesting streets leading down from the hotel. We saw the most gorgeous felted hats in a shop window, so we poked around for a bit and Cathy purchased two.

Her suitcases will not be happy... 

I really wanted my friend to get a chance to ride the gondola up to Piere Loti and drink a Turkish coffee whilst looking at the vast expanse of Istanbul, so we journeyed back to Topkapī to meet with Cihan (who had agreed to accompany us). Unfortunately, Cihan got trapped in traffic and arrived forty minutes late. As I had to teach an English class at the airport that evening and was now running late, I unhappily abandoned Cathy to my young friend and went to prepare my things.

The lesson was wonderful and I returned to Hotel Spectra in high spirits, looking forward to hearing about how Cathy enjoyed her first Turkish coffee and the gondola ride. I enthusiastically opened the door, but slowed down when I saw the tired face that greeted me.

“How was it?” I queried nervously, twiddling my thumbs and ducking my head.

“Oh, it was cold,” confessed Cathy. “And we had to wait twenty-five minutes for the gondola and there was no place to drink coffee inside. So we just came back down. Cihan put me on a bus to get back and I only got a little lost.”

She must have accurately read my horrified expression (I’m really bad at hiding those) because she immediately followed with a consoling,

“You know, sometimes these things just happen.”

I rushed over and gave her a hug from behind as she finished the email she was writing to her family.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Sometimes these things just happen,” she repeated and returned my hug. “Well, I think I’ll go to bed,” she closed her laptop and crawled under the covers.

She’s right. I can’t control the traffic and I can’t control the weather... they both have a tendency to just “happen”. But I’m sad the two of them happened so hard on her last day.

I stayed up late that night, replaying the funny moments, the exhilarating moments, the triumphant moments, the awed moments, the tasty moments and the cold moments of my dear friend’s weeklong visit to Istanbul.

Cathy left the Spectra Hotel at five o’clock on Saturday morning, and I’ve felt like a sad, lost puppy since five minutes after five o’clock on Saturday morning.

“You have no idea how wonderful this has been for me,” I felt strangely vulnerable during the powerful goodbye bear hug.

I wish I had better words. For someone who has so much to be grateful for, I really ought to be able to say “thank-you” more eloquently. No... not eloquently. Fully. Meaningfully. In the past eight months, I’ve said thank-you in English, French, German, Italian and Turkish, but I continually fall far short of expressing the gratitude I feel. I hope people like Cathy understand how deeply they have touched my life and how much their care has meant.