Maud -- Istanbul, Turkey

However and wherever we are, we must live as if we will never die. 

~Nazim Hikmet 

Friday. My second and last day working at Seher’s school. It was the end of the week, and although the past few days had been immensely enjoyable, I was bushed and wanted nothing more than to spend the day cooped up in a cozy café, reading Kerouac and writing my blog.

A nap would also be nice.

If Seher can muster the energy to teach five days a week, manage a home and take care of a baby, I should be able to make it through this. It should be a waltz in the park. What’s happening to you, Bourget? Remember when seventy-hour workweeks were a breeze?

Man up, girlfriend. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your life is pretty great.

I stepped out of the car and was immediately greeted with the enthusiastic faces of kids from Tuesday.

“Hello! Hello! How are you? Hello!”

“Hello,” I replied to the starry-eyed students, a bemused smile tugging at my lips.

These kids make me feel like a first-class celebrity.

We hung up our coats and ascended two flights of stairs to the floor of the sixth graders. I took a deep breath.

Here we go.

“HELLO, TEACHER!” the class stood to greet Seher.

“Hello, classroom. How are you?”

“FINE THANKS AND YOU” the class shouted back in a punctuation-free staccato.

“I’m great, thank-you. Can you greet my friend?”

“HELLO!”

“Hello.”

I called the role. My Turkish pronunciation had improved since the butchery of their names on Tuesday, but the children still laughed at me. I laughed with them and tried (without success) to conquer the impossible “ö”.

Damn that vowel. Chok zor.

The first two classes finished, Seher suggested I take a break as she taught the third – so I gratefully finished my breakfast, sipped some salep and tried to focus on the absurd exploits of Mr. Paradise. I’m afraid I came across as a bit cold to one of the other teachers, as she made an effort to talk to me, but I answered briefly and returned to my book.

I just... need... space. An hour of space.

I’m a talkative person who lives to meet new people, but the constant stimulation of this week has made me need more time to myself. Most people I meet on the road think that I’m an extrovert because I travel, I’m outgoing and I’ve got a great big sense of adventure. However, the people who know me intimately probably think otherwise. I’m an introvert who just loves people. A lot. But because I’m an introvert, I need plenty of time alone to recharge my batteries after hours spent chatting and connecting. This is one aspect of couchsurfing I appreciate – I generally have days with myself and nights with my host, which works out to be a perfect balance for me.

This volunteer week left me satisfied, happy and depleted. When the teacher tried to talk to me, the red light of my battery started blinking 10%, 10%, 10% so I politely answered her question and then pointedly returned to my book.

I hope she’s not offended.

Break over, the fourth class commenced. 

“This is my favorite classroom,” Seher commented as we huffed up the stairs.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

And I did see. This class was respectful, eager and animated. They asked me question after question and burst into enthusiastic applause when I sang a verse from “Sound of Music” for them. When we returned from the break, “WE LOVE YOU AMIEE” was scrawled on the blackboard in big, childish letters.

“Aw, I love you guys,” I gawkily shifted my weight, not sure how to respond.

“Guys? What is “guys”?” Seher pounced on the opportunity to teach them a new word.

I would be such a bad celebrity. It’s probably for the best that I decided to forego the acting career. Writing in cafés is much more my style.

After the lesson was over, they flocked to me like moths to a lamp and each and every girl kissed both my cheeks. They touched my short hair as I bent my head to kiss them and kept saying, “You’re beautiful,” and “I love you”. Wherever I looked, I found big brown eyes transfixed on my green eyes.

I blushed and stuttered and smiled awkwardly. This was not expected.

Kissing completed, they stood around and gazed up at me with those round, sparkling eyes. Seher was still busy packing her things, so I asked the kids a few questions to interrupt the constant stream of “I love you”.

“Do any of you sing?”

“Yes! Yes, she sing! She is good singer!” the girls responded, thrilled at the opportunity to show off.

“Would you sing me a song?” I asked the tiny Turkish girl with black hair and beautiful, shy eyes.

“She only songs Turkish,” other girls chimed in, their broken English explaining the singer’s reticence.

“Sing me something Turkish. A little bit,” I motioned with my fingers, indicating that I only expected a verse or two. The shy eyes glittered under black brows and the girl began to sing her something Turkish. I leaned in close and the flock around me quieted.

“SHHHH!” they shushed the pell-mell running boys.

Seher beckoned from the door, so I thanked the girl for her song and followed my host back to the lounge.

Goodness.

I had no words for what had just happened.

We loaded into the car after the last class and drove directly home. Seher’s voice was worn out and I was run down, so we listened to music instead of spoke.

I hugged Öykü, ate some cheese, checked my email (for a last minute message from Maud), quickly packed my overnight bag, and boarded 145T for the city center. The plan was to meet Umit at Çapa where he would hand over the apartment keys and I would have three hours to myself before meeting Maud (at Çapa – I don’t have a lot of city landmarks yet).

Everything went according to plan -- except for meeting Maud at Çapa.

The arranged appointment was seven. Maud is Dutch. Dutch people are never late. I glanced at my phone.

Five past seven. Something must be wrong.

I hurried to check the stop on the other side of the road. No sign of my Dutch friend.

Ten past seven. Maybe she’s stuck in traffic. If she is, I bet she’s SO mad it made her late.

I returned to the original stop.

Fifteen past seven. Maybe she got hit by a motorcycle and broke a leg. If she has, I bet she’s SO mad it made her late.

I crossed the road again.

Twenty past seven. Maybe she was kidnapped and is now in the back of someone’s trunk. If she is (in the trunk), I bet she’s SO mad that the bastard is making her late.

Cross.

Twenty-five past seven. She’s not coming. I’m worried. In five minutes, I’ll go back to the apartment to facebook her.

Five minutes.

No... No, I’m really worried. I’ll just pop into this café, buy a drink and use their Internet to contact her.

“Hey you!”

“AH!”

I turned around and gave Maud an enormous hug. “Yay! You’re here. I was just about to get a drink to facebook you!”

“I’m SO sorry I’m late,” Maud said. Right off the bat. Like I knew she would. “I was really mad about it.”

“No problem -- I was just worried about you. I’m so glad we ran into each other!”

And we continued walking down the street, following the tramline back to her hotel near the Blue Mosque. I caught up on the latest gossip from Billie’s, learned about her new job and reminisced about our week together in Germany.

“We had the best time.”

“We were always so drunk!”

“Ahem. We had the best time.”

Maud is blonde, tall, athletic and beautiful. I have green eyes and other distinctly non-Turkish features. As we jabbered away in loud, fast English, we attracted a lot of attention. My favorite quote of the night was:

“My love! How will I sleep tonight? My love!”

Man doesn’t fool around.

Maud brought chocolate and alcohol to share. There are many reasons I love Maud, and this is definitely one of them.

As you are only permitted to bring one liter of alcohol into Turkey, she smuggled some strong stuff. We stopped by a kebab place a five-minute walk from her hotel to purchase freshly squeezed orange and pineapple juice to serve as mixer. Before we trudged up the flight of stairs to her room, a seedy looking character accosted us.

“You are back,” he told Maud.

“Yes, with my friend,” she gestured to me.

“Ah. Friend,” his forehead crinkled and he winked at me. “But there is only one bed.”

“Yeah, I know,” Maud said impatiently as we made for the stairs.

“You take elevator?” our unsolicited lackey opened the elevator door for us.

“It’s one flight,” Maud was aghast. Dutch people always take stairs.

“What a dirty little dude,” I chuckled as Maud struggled with the card to get into her room. “Did you see him wink?”

“That’s why I was so rude,” she opened the door and slipped into the sweet little room. I took off my boots (a quickly formed habit) and my friend poured the drinks.

And poured.

And poured.

And poured.

We giggled and drank and giggled and drank and I ate way too much chocolate.

A chocolate A for Aimee. An enormous chocolate A for Aimee.

“Thank-you so much for visiting me. This is just wonderful,” my voice slurred and my body felt warm and bubbly. Being around Maud generally makes me feel warm and bubbly, and it’s only partially to do with the alcohol.

“I told you I would, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but lots of people say that. Most people never actually visit.”

“Well, I do.”

“Yup. You do.”