Turkish Family -- Istanbul, Turkey

I’m starting this post from the living room. Again. The place is the same, but the time is different. Umit types on his laptop on the other end of the L-shaped couch. I can’t tell for certain (I’m an observer, not an eavesdropper), but I’m guessing he’s either researching plane tickets to Canada or planning activities for his English program. Seher’s mother sits on a cushion to my left, relaxing against the wall and watching a Turkish talent show. It’s good and unusual to see her relax. A version of “twinkle, twinkle little star” plays from Öykü’s room further down the hall and to the right. I’m sure Seher is busy somewhere. Seher is always busy. She is either teaching English to her middle-school students, taking care of Öykü, preparing meals, taking care of Öykü, cleaning up after meals, taking care of Öykü, vacuuming, taking care of Öykü, doing laundry, taking care of...

Seher never rests. Ever. I don’t know how she has the energy to keep moving the way she does. I’m endlessly impressed by her stamina and my resolution to remain a single lady is affirmed by the knowledge that I am not physically capable of that kind of endurance.

Kids.

I love kids, but kids are hard.

Thursday was Thanksgiving and my first night in Istanbul. I made a silly joke about spending my morning with an Indian in Naples and my evening with a Turkish family in Istanbul. Where there would be no turkey.  It was my first day out of the Schengen Area in 86 days and my first time in an Islamic country since Morocco.

On the way home from the airport, we stopped to pick up Seher, Urkuh, Seher’s mother and Madeline (the sparkling Canadian volunteer who thoroughly embraced her “ehs” and “boats”). We all squeezed into the pint-sized car and rumbled home.

Seher is beautiful, Umit is warm, Seher’s mother (Ayse) is the sort of woman who fills a room with good smells and good feelings, Öykü has the biggest eyes, chubbiest cheeks and most riveting smile, and Madeline is bursting with positive energy and helpful advice.

This is going to be another good one. Oh, yes.

I was disappointed to discover that Internet connection within the flat is limited, but ecstatic to learn that a gorgeous café is a short stroll down the road. Yes. Please and thank-you. I’m so excited about the prospect of making a café mine again. This will be my Istanbul Main Street Bagels.

The first day in the city was spent chatting with Madeline about her travels and asking for advice on teaching English through this particular program. She gave me loads of helpful suggestions as we walked and as we sipped salep at the café.

Salep. I think I like you almost as much as Oregon Chai. You are made or orchid tuber flour, hot milk, cinnamon, vanilla and sugar. 

Salep. You are extraordinarily delicious. I could drink you all day.

The negative aspect of this new café is that the staff doesn’t close the doors. Ever. Not while customers are inside, anyway. Madeline and I shivered in our seats for as long as we could stand before speed walking back to the flat to meet Seher and her friend for dinner. Rice, lentils, potatoes, soup and chai waited for us. The other workawayer finished packing her bags for Canada and I sat down to dinner with the family.

Madeline made a final Turkish coffee for us and I stood in the kitchen with her while she brewed. To make Turkish coffee, you add one spoonful of coffee (ground a specific way), half a spoonful of sugar and one shot of water for each person. Vigorously mix three components over medium heat and then step back. Do not mix again. Watch and wait patiently until the edges of the pot start to simmer and foam and fluster. Then remove from heat and put a dollop of foam into each glass. Then fill halfway. Then fill to the brim and serve with Turkish sweets.

After we’d arranged the tray and carried it into the living room, we passed around the coffee and I impatiently brought my cup to my lips first. Turkish coffee is strong, has great texture, superb flavor, and I was excited to drink it. I took a sip, expecting velvety, rich –

“ACH!” I slammed the coffee onto the table. Everyone watched my face curiously as it contorted into a myriad of horrified, bewildered and pained expressions.

What... what...?

“SALT!” I finally managed to sputter. I swiveled towards the confused Madeline, “You used salt instead of sugar!”

“No!”

“Yes!” I frantically bit into a chocolate hazelnut candy. “SO SALTY.”

Seher started laughing. Madeline started laughing. Seher’s friend explained the situation to Ayse (who doesn't speak English), and they both joined in the laughter.

“Now I have to tell you a cultural story,” Seher’s soft voice interrupted the final giggles. “Before a man marries a woman in Turkey, they have a dinner so the man’s family can meet her. She makes her best coffee -- really good -- for the rest of the family, but she pours in salt, pepper – everything really bad – for her future husband. He has to drink the salty coffee without saying anything.”

“Madeline, did you just propose to all of us?” I asked the culpable Canadian.

She had a witty response to my adolescent question, but I don’t remember what it was.

Madeline made us proper Turkish coffee afterwards, but even though I watched her spoon the sugar into the water and grounds, I still waited until Ayse had taken a sip of hers before tasting mine. 

Turkish coffee is significantly better with sugar.