I’m starting this post from the large living room/dining
room of my new Turkish family. The cream walls are bare except for six small
mirrors breaking up the bare by the door broken up by twelve smaller windows. A
classic walnut table with six soft lavender chairs takes up the first part of
the room and a luxurious lavender L shaped couch appropriates the second. The
window behind me is hung with whimsical gauzy curtains and helps illuminate the
brightly colored baby toys resting by a shaggy rug the color of the cream
walls.
I’m in Istanbul.
My last few days in Napoli, Italy were quiet, contemplative,
cold. Even though I haven’t done a moment of real “work” since my volunteer
situation with the alpacas culminated on October 28th, I felt shattered.
Why? Why am I so
tired? I forced the wheels of my lethargic brain to creak to a sullen
start. This last month, I have eaten and
walked and slept and talked and imbibed many a bottle of wine. These are the
activities that usually refresh and restore. The stuff idyllic vacations are
made of.
But I just feel
drained. The constant stimulation of meeting new people and presenting the best
Aimee has sucked my energy. The constant stimulation of packing my bags and
finding new places on new streets reading signs in different languages has made
me crave some sort of stability. I need a rest. I also need to work. People are
generous and seem to enjoy being generous with me, but I need to become
independent enough to take care of myself. Being dependent limits my choices
and makes me feel like a child. A child mature enough to know she should take
care of herself, but who is unable to do so.
Leonardo told me that the “real life” is about making
choices. Upon hearing this, I defensively and firmly insisted that I could make
loads of choices within the life I lead. I choose where to stay, which
inexpensive cheese to buy, which one museum
I can afford during my trip to that particular city in which I’ve chosen to stay... etc, etc.
“Okay. Any life is real as long as you are making choices.”
Lives are shaped by limitations and the choices we make
therein. No limitations is like creating a piece of art where you have infinite
choices of color, canvas, brushes and oils. It would be like taking a
photograph without a frame and a lens that captures every minute detail of
life. The ability to focus is what makes our perspective unique and what
ultimately makes us artists.
We are all artists. Why?
Because we’re limited. We choose blue and not yellow. We
choose the ten-inch frame and not the fourteen. We choose to paint hands and
not noses, these and not those (bet you thought “thoses).
We choose our limitations.
I’m beginning to understand that a different limitation
might be healthier for my relationships and me. I need to stay in places for
longer and I need to be more specific about the volunteer work in which I
engage.
Hence, my new limitations will be:
·
I will only volunteer at places where I can
teach English, study art or practice/teach yoga consistently.
·
I will only travel if I can afford to buy myself
a cup of coffee and not feel guilty about it. If I can’t buy myself a cup of coffee, I need
to reevaluate what I’m doing (this is about the idea, not the caffeine. I swear
upon the Italian mocha I love so much).
·
I will only travel if I can afford to stay
healthy. Fantasizing about plane tickets has caused me to sacrifice my health
upon many occasions (frostbite in Ireland, raging psoriasis in France) and I
would like to be gentler with myself. I can allow myself luxuries like
moisturizer. If I need to spend money on quality boots to keep my feet warm,
that’s okay. If I need to buy the expensive toothpaste to keep my enamel from
decaying any further, that’s dandy.
·
I will direct myself in ways that will lead to
being a paid traveling yogi. So that
I can buy a cup of coffee for myself and for
my host.
These limitations will give me more direction and purpose.
The colors and strokes I use within this frame will create a piece of art that
honestly and lovingly reveals the life I long to lead.
I want to be an
independent beginner. That would combine the best of both worlds.
Back to Napoli...
Walking through Naples, I encounter fewer tourists, and the
few tourists I encounter I generally enjoy more than those who ogled Rome. They’re
a tinge more considerate with their umbrellas and aren’t as loud. Or perhaps
Neapolitans are louder than Romans and drown out the tourist chatter of, “Oh.
My. God. This pizza is like, so f*cking
good. And like, it’s totally authentic, you know? Look at all the Italians.
Only Italians eating here. Right? Did you know this is like, where, you know –
pizza was born? Wicked.”
 |
| More Italian street art. |
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| Raman told me that Italians imagine this island as the silhouette of a woman. I squinted and told him that it looked more like a crocodile. Raman asked where my sense of romance was. I said, "all I can see are hips. There's no head." "Yes, and that is what's romantic to Italians." "Fair play." |
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| Italian parking |
Walking through Naples, I pass endless lines of pizza places
selling their freshly cooked, cheesy specialties for a euro. I pass cafés with
glass displays bursting with luscious pastries and fried meats and vegetables.
I love and hate that I can’t eat any of them. I hate it because they look and
smell divine and I want them in my mouth. I love it because if I started eating
them, I would eat nothing else and leave Naples with extra baggage that has
nothing to do with the weight of my carry-on. I pass Bangladeshis selling
roasted chestnuts, scarves, umbrellas and Neapolitan paraphernalia. Limoncello beckons and spicy red peppers hang
alluringly in doorways, calling to mind images of mistletoe at Christmas.
Walking through Naples, I see young people. Young people
smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking expensive cappuccinos (adolescents seem
to frequent the exorbitant cafés). Young people walking hand in hand down Via
Toledo, girls dragging boys into one of the frequently occurring shoe shops and
boys dragging girls into the more frequently occurring lingerie stores. Boys
pressing girls against brick walls, wet lips against wet lips, legs entwined,
all manner of subtlety thrown to the wind. Lovers curl and kiss on fountains
and by the sea. A lady lover in a trim peacoat chases a gentleman lover with
angry words on the walk by the hazy Mediterranean.
Walking through Naples, I feel the cold seeping through my
red coat, infiltrating the threads of my grey sweater and laughing at the
flimsy defense of my smartwool undershirt. “It gets cold in Naples for two
weeks a year,” Antonio had told me. “That is how we know it is Christmas. You
came at the bad time.” Everyone wears scarves and hats to protect themselves
from the wind and the cold. They are as
decked out in their winter garb as American Christmas trees are with their
gaudy ornaments. Hands are thrust into pockets and chins are tucked into
collars.
 |
| Yes. That is hail. |
Walking through Naples, my feet are finally warm.
Timberland, I despise how prohibitively expensive you are, but damn, you make a fine boot. A fine, wide
boot that perfectly accommodates my castle toes.
My favorite part about staying with Raman was listening to
his stories about Indian culture. During my four-day stay, I learned enough
about Indian food, religious beliefs and social structure to make me desperate
to visit his home country. There’s a three-month yoga-training program in
Rishikesh that I will jot into my dreams for 2016 (don’t roll your eyes, I’m
allowed to dream about 2016).
I had no idea such a selectively lazy group of people
existed. Raman told me story after story about the marvelous to behold carefree
nature of his countrymen.
He shared his flat with another Indian researcher for 6
months. Their company paid for their room and for a maid to keep it clean. All
they had to do was open the door to let the poor woman in every morning, but at
her abrupt, unwelcome knock, they would look at each other, vigorously shake
their heads, pull the blankets back over their eyes and fall fast asleep. Their
flat wasn’t cleaned for six months. They
were supposed to be at work by nine every day. Raman woke up at ten. His
colleague got to work around three.
But this same colleague who continually showed up late for
work made it to the temple every Tuesday at seven am. When it comes to religion
and family, Indians are timely and give their everything.
“Raman, your apartment is spotless,” I looked around the
glistening living room after hearing his story.
“Yes, only because you were coming. I really hated you for a few
minutes,” my host threw back his head and laughed.
The clock on Raman’s wall is an hour fast. This made me
nervous for the first afternoon because I thought I’d made him wait and that
I’d been late. After triple checking all of my clocks (phone, kindle, laptop),
I felt fairly certain it was his clock
at fault.
“Did you set it fast so that you won’t be late?”
“Aimee...” Raman reproached, “You’ve been staying in my home
for 3 days and still you do not know me?”
“You were too lazy to reset it after daylight savings?”
“Of course.”
Religion and family are of paramount importance to Indians,
and although Raman doesn’t seem religious, he feels guilt about not being
around to support his mother and father. He sends them money, but as a son, it
is his “duty” to physically be there. Because of this, Raman will take three
months of vacation every year to spend with his parents. This sense of duty is
not commonly felt in the states and we put more emphasis on work and career
than Indians would ever dream of doing. Or perhaps they might dream of doing
it, but only because they sleep so much that the chances of having a nightmare
about being sucked into the workaholic American way of life are greatly
increased.
Indians do not drink alcohol, an unusually large percentage
of the population is vegetarian and they don’t date. Arranged marriage is still
a popular method of landing a spouse and not all Indians practice yoga.
Relatively few can summon the energy to practice the physical variety and some
are famous for spending their entire lives staring out of windows.
Bollywood films were also discussed. Raman says that they’re
so vivid and unrealistic because people in India use them to escape – perhaps
even more than we do in the western world. He said that I wouldn’t like going
to a popular Bollywood film in India because Indian audiences... well... are a
bit more enthusiastic than Western audiences. From the way he explained it, I
got the impression that an ordinary day in Bollywood is comparable to a rowdy
performance of Rocky Horror.
Dating was another aspect of European life to which Raman
had to adjust, and dating in Southern Italy would put even the most
accomplished Casanova in the US on edge.
“To get a girl in this city, you must take her from someone
else.”
“What?”
“Girls do not leave boyfriends until they have a new one. So
you have to go to discotheques to meet and take girls. Even if they are
unhappy, the stay in relationships until they find someone else.
So like how people in
the US view jobs. They won’t leave unsatisfying jobs until they have new ones
lined up.
“In the US, you can meet people at bars, right?”
“Yeah, that’s a major reason people go.”
“You don’t meet people at bars here – only at the
discotheque. Even then you have to know someone who knows someone. You can’t
just go up to a girl. You tell your friend, “I like this girl.” Your friend
says, “My ex dated her brother’s friend. Maybe we could arrange a dinner.”
No wonder this
arranged marriage thing is so popular in India, I don’t voice my thoughts
but I’m sure my expression communicates my egocultural distaste on its own just
fine.
 |
| Teaching Raman how to make bananas foster |
My flight for Istanbul departed at 13:55, but since it was a
new airport and I prefer long waits at gates as opposed to frantic dashes
through terminals, I lugged my bags to the Alibus stop at 10:25. I handed the bald
Italian driver four euros to get to the airport, stamped my ticket, stuffed my
green bag underneath me and took a seat. We rolled into Terminal 1 thirty
minutes later and I serenely walked into the bustling airport.
I’ve got all the time
in the world.
I quickly found Turkish Airlines check in and dropped off my
backpack. I’m always nervous to part with it (most of my life lives in there),
and I was especially nervous this
time. Baris had lost his bag on the flight from Napoli to Nice and even though
it was returned to him intact a few days later, the thought of my bag ending up
in Bucharest instead of Istanbul added extra weight to my steps as I walked
away.
Please make it. I know
I could live without you, but I’d really rather not. Á bientot.
I grudgingly galumphed towards the congested security line.
After the beautiful efficiency of German airports, this miasma made my head
spin. Round and round the security line, “hurry
up already!” goes the Aimee.
After waiting in line for 20 minutes, I was able to place my
hefty boots, jacket, sweater and laptop in one box, carry-on rolling along
independently. My first box went through no problem. I laced up my boots,
zipped my two coats and picked up my laptop.
What’s taking my green
bag so long this time?
“Questo?” a beefy guard pointed to my bag.
“That’s mine,” I responded timidly. “Is something wrong?”
“It is forbidden.”
“What?”
“Open it,” the guard thrust the bag towards me.
I opened the harmless bag and saw my camera, a few cords, my
external hard drive and my tripod.
Surely he can’t want
me to –
“Big metal object. It is forbidden. You must check in.”
“You take it,” I removed the formidable weapon from my
suitcase and handed it over.
“No check in?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes,” I bit my lip. Parting with one of my final few
possessions was hard. Especially since I’d carted it around for a significant
period of time and it had made my life uselessly difficult already. Was it for
nothing? “Yes, take it,” I resolved.
The guard shrugged and I repacked my bag.
I’ve taken that tripod
on SO many flights. Why this one? Oh well. I guess I need a smaller tripod,
anyway. I’m going to interpret this as a sign that it’s time for me to get down
to one bag. I can do it. I can travel long term with all my interview equipment
in one bag.
Challenge accepted.
The flight was fantastic. It was only two hours long, but I
was served Turkish Delight immediately after finding my spacious seat, given
ear buds that I might listen to music (they played some pretty fantastic jazz),
a delicious Turkish meal (best airline food I’ve ever had) with an unexpected
glass of Merlot and a cup of coffee that was only halfway bad.
Turkish airlines, I’ll give you more than halfway great.
I was nervous about immigration. After what happened in
Ireland, I’m consistently nervous about immigration. I think about immigration
and my fingers go numb, my cheeks flush and I feel the familiar pounding of a
migraine headache behind my left eye.
It’ll be okay,
Bourget. Que sera, sera and all that, right?
I’d researched American requirements for Turkish visas, and
the process seemed pretty straightforward.
Find someone in the terminal who will sell me a visa before I go to
passport control. Should cost about 25 dollars for 90 days within every 180
days. Easy-peasy.
But my fingers were still going numb.
If they ask what I’m
doing in Turkey, what will I say? Staying with friends and spending LOTS of
money. If they ask how I know Umit and Seher, what will I say? They’re friends
of a friend. And I’m here to spend LOTS of money.
But the visa fellow asked no questions. He simply took my 20
euros, gave me 5 back, and put a visa sticker in my card. I didn’t even have
time to hold my breath before the “ordeal” was over.
Wow... that was too
easy. The hard part must be coming. I approached passport control with a
plastered smile and confident stride. I handed the officer my identification,
“I’M STAYING WITH FRIENDS!” on the tip of my tongue and ready to produce
addresses and –
“Visa?”
“What?”
“Visa?” the officer asked again, not even bothering to look
through my passport.
“Yes, I just bought it,” my smile turned sincere. Is this all there is?
The officer stamped my passport and motioned me through.
That was all there was.
My eggplant bag (I’ve fondly and unimaginatively named her
Aubergine) was the fifth bag to tumble onto the belt circulating Napoli luggage,
so I happily hauled her off, strapped her onto my crickety-rickety back and exited
the terminal.
My plane landed just before five and I met with my warm,
friendly Turkish host before five thirty. I have never experienced such an
easy, timely transition.
Istanbul, of all
places. I am continually surprised.
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