Lazy Life with a Language Barrier -- Istanbul, Turkey

It’s nearly nine in the morning and the house is quiet. Seher sleeps, Öykü sleeps, Ayse sleeps, Umit has lost his weekend to work and I write.

It is Saturday, one of Seher’s two precious days to sleep in – if Öykü lets her. The headstrong, chubby-cheeked, energetic baby definitely rules the Dimen roost, and she knows it. Everyone knows it, and as long as everyone respects this unconventional order of things, everyone lives in relative peace. It has taken me a couple of weeks to understand the family pecking order, but now that I've been sufficiently pecked into place, I’m beginning to fit.

If I’m working on my laptop and Öykü wants a look, I don’t tell her “no” and continue what I’m doing. I either shut my laptop and distract her with one of her baby magazines or I switch to my iphoto album and entertain her with dog pictures from England and horse pictures from Ireland. It usually takes about 3 minutes for her to get bored, wherein she squirms and wriggles and demands to be put down. I do my best to place the bendy ball of baby gently on the floor, but she is usually so eager to continue to her next adventure that my best efforts result in a resounding “THUD” and "WHOOSH" as her diaper makes contact with the wood floor.

She smiles reassuringly, shifts to all fours, wobbles a bit, stands up on her fat little legs and trundles off to Ayse. To demand the phone, the remote control, or whatever else Ayse might be using at the moment.

I open my laptop and begin to work with renewed vigor, the knowledge that I have exactly three minutes to finish whatever I start adding boosts of speed to my tapping, typing fingers .

Seher and her mother bend over backwards to make sure Öykü is healthy, happy, clean and constantly feeling adoration emanating from every corner of the spotless, “Öykü friendly” home. She has special cheese, special eggs, special olive oil, special apples. Her clothes and shoes are criminally cute (a fair few being handmade) and the only clutter in the house is created by the lavish amount of toys heaped upon the Dimen princess.

“This is the joy in the life,” Umit said when he came home from work and his baby girl wobbled and giggled and gurgled to greet him, squealing, “baba!” at the top of her not-so-little lungs.

I am completely captured by this little Turkish princess, and since I still can’t pronounce her name (not through lack of trying), I might just call her “princess”. I feel absurdly humiliated each and every time I try to tease an “Öykü” out of my blasted English lips and I’m about content to give up the pursuit of mastering ö.  

I’ve been at the Beylikdüzü apartment since Wednesday, and have done nothing but help out with a few chores, play with Princess, write my blog and practice yoga. I wake up at five o’clock every morning, chug a few glasses of water (I’m trying to be healthier these days. More water, less coffee) and sit down in the living room to check my email and facebook on Umit’s computer. It’s fun to see Umit’s students adding me on facebook. I hope they try reading my blog and enjoy seeing the pictures of themselves.

From the living room, I hear Umit’s soothing alarm go off at 5:20, and a few minutes later, I hear him padding softly down the hall. He peeks through the doorway and stares at me in disbelief.

“Good morning,” his eyes are full of sleep and his voice is hoarse.

“Good morning,” I smile cheekily. Sometimes I feel like being a morning person is my super power. I can’t fly, shape-shift or turn invisible, but I sure as hell can wake up early.

Umit eats a simple breakfast of bread dipped in tahini mixed with grape molasses. He drinks his black tea, puts on his coat and is out the door by 6:00.

From the living room, I hear Seher’s slightly less soothing alarm clock go off right after Umit shuts the front door, and a few minutes later, I hardly hear her small feet padding softly down the hall. She peeks through the doorway and stares at me incredulously.

“Crazy girl.”

Seher eats a simple breakfast of bread dipped in tahini mixed with grape molasses. She drinks her milk, puts on her coat, styles her hair and is out the door by 7:00.

I go back to bed for an hour, snuggling under the thick comforters with my kindle and taking more and more offense to the parasitic, confused, abusive lifestyle of Sal Paradise.

I hope that’s not how people see me... 

Kerouac's writing has got me hooked, though. I'm completely immersed in the depressing, liberating, soul-sucking, poetic tale. 

This isn't a book to read in the morning. I carry these kooky, kinky feelings with me throughout the day. Unpleasantness all around.

I switch to my yoga-sequencing book and read about ahimsa and aparigraha and how not to practice backbends after forward bends or backbends after core awakening. I flip through a few pages and glance over the 8 limbs of yoga. The spiritual aspect of my practice has never tempted me before, but I find myself wanting to delve into it now. Wanting to believe something. Wanting to accept the things that just don’t make sense because foundation feels good. Believing feels safe.

I won’t, of course. But goodness, life would be significantly easier if I could just forget about asking questions. Less exciting and fulfilling, but easier. Perhaps happier. Bertrand Russell says that philosophy doesn't answer questions. It asks them and adds interest to the world. 

You're certainly keeping your life interesting, Bourget.

Internet never seems to work in Istanbul, but at least shower pressure is respectable. So I strip down after closing my kindle and spend a few guilty extra minutes relishing the steady stream of hot water. Steady hot water is nearly as much of a luxury to this haphazard hopper as steady Internet and comfortable beds. I’m glad I’ve got at least one in my Turkish situation and I'm thankful that the Internet will be better next month.

I splurged on Wednesday and bought a large container of Dove moisturizer. It was the first lotion I’d bought in over 6 months of traveling, and it was long overdue. My dry, cracked skin sings hallelujah as I rub an excessive and necessary amount into my legs and feet. I wear makeup and don't feel remorse about wasting mascara. I clip my nails and consider filing.

I am going to be better to myself. I need to love my body more.

I slip my laptop into its sleeve, grab my keys, don my red jacket and trundle out the door (hopefully before Princess wakes up and starts cooing, “Aimee? Aimee? Aimee?”).

It takes ten minutes to walk to my café – Ipek Firin -- and I pass stray dogs and hundreds of birds busily gobbling trash and bread people threw into a grassy space between buildings. I pass concrete blocks with metal posts protruding sharply and brutally pruned trees. Both look like hostile, eerie skeletons in the soft light of morning. The intimidating, industrial silhouette of Istanbul seizes the skyline, and I feel very small indeed.

Cities are such lonely places. I’m glad I’m only here for three months. Being crammed into a tram full of strangers I touch but don’t know is the most unnatural, dehumanizing sensation. We share space, but we don’t acknowledge presence. We treat other human beings as if they are nothing but the reason we cannot stretch out our arms. That woman doesn’t have a name – she’s the ass that got the seat first, the hand that stole the loop and the cause that I’m standing.

Wiping off my Timberlands on the doormat, I walk to my seat by the electric outlet and three fake decorated cake – one with flowers and a blue Christmas smirf, the second with the ace of spades and the last in the shape of a heart with a yellow rose blossoming atop. It’s a beautiful café, but I think I’m about finished with it. My computer and its Internet are not on speaking terms.

When the Internet does work, I spend three hours sipping coffee/hot chocolate/salep, writing my blog and researching yoga. The waiters drop by occasionally to say hello, but they’re much more respectful here. Whenever Maud and I went out for drinks in the touristic area, we couldn’t even enjoy a cup of coffee without being invited to nightclubs and chased down streets by people pining, “You will come back? My name Emre. You will come back?” At this café, the waiter introduced himself to me as Hussein, but has yet to invite me to a nightclub.

I like Hussein.

My eyes droop and my concentration wanes, so I pay for the drink, smile pleasantly to Hussein (murmuring “tesekkur ederim” under my breath), and walk home. A dozen birds are frantically finishing the final crumbs, and the grassy area is on the verge of desertion (except for the ubiquitous translucent plastic bags and coca cola bottles), but the dogs still meander quietly, searching for sunny spots to nap the afternoon away.

“Aimee?” the inquisitive voice of Princess drifts through the front door. She hears me taking off my Timberlands and turning the key in the lock. When I open the door, she careens to greet me, fat fingers waving and babbling her baby version of, “HellO”.

“Hello, how are you?” I shake the extended hand and kiss her enormous cheeks. “Merhaba,” I greet Ayse in the kitchen.

She smiles. “Merhaba, Aimee. Chai?”

“Hayir, tessekur ederim,” I’m trying to wean myself off Turkish chai, but my efforts are met with obstacles at every turn. Chai is always offered and it seems unfriendly to refuse. Chai with sugar. After the first few days in Istanbul, I noticed that I was consuming about six teaspoons of sugar a day in my drinks alone. 

That's a lot of sugar. No wonder people here seem to suffer from weight problems. The chai culture here is like the mint tea culture in Morocco. 

I disentangle myself from Princess and return to my room to practice yoga. However, as Princess runs this joint, the room does not really belong to me. It belongs to Princess, and she wobbles in and out whenever she feels the inkling. And when I practice yoga, her inkling to wobble is strong indeed. I usually end up practicing down dog with baby trying to crawl up my arms, puppy with baby trying to pull up my shirt, and chaturanga with baby trying to clamor on top of my low back.

Yoga becomes less of a meditation and more of a balancing baby act. I suppose this is good training for the Lunar Immersion Acro program I want to attend in London this April.  

I try to help Ayse around the house later in the afternoon, but the language barrier is prohibitive. I don’t know whether or not she wants the peppers or the napkins, the mop or the vacuum, the rug placed horizontally or vertically. She talks at me in Turkish and I talk at her in English and neither of us understands much of anything. So she laughs and sighs and I smile and shrug.

I return to my room, close the door and break out my watercolors. I've never used watercolor before and the quick drying nature of the paint terrifies my obnoxious artistic perfectionist, so to overcome my fear and keep myself motivated, I've started a project. 

I asked everyone I stayed with for the past three years to send me their addresses. I'll paint watercolor postcards of memories with them and mail the paintings off before I leave Istanbul. 

Here are my first two cards: 

 

Seher returns from work at 1:30. Umit returns from work late. We eat, watch TV –

“Turkish people are addicted to television,” Seher has complained on several occasions. Turkish TV shows seem indulgently, unashamedly dramatic and full of thick, black mustaches that just make me giggle. The women are always crying and wiping tears mixed with black mascara and the men are always winking and twitching those thick, black mustaches.

-- and drink coffee before bed.

Too. Much. Coffee. 

 

Because the last few days have been so lazy, I’ve grown tired. Lethargic. I’m someone who thrives on activity – take away activity, and I start to deteriorate. Activity is to me what long hair was to Samson. This week has cut off my activity like Delilah cut off her lover’s hair. Three days of calm and 10:00 at night looks like a great time to stumble to bed.

Saturday... Saturday will be busy, at least.