I've gone and gotten comfortable, damnit. Sahlep isn't this spectacular, exotic drink anymore. I've grown accustomed to drinking ground up orchid tuber. How weird is that? I'm not awestruck by the sight of the Blue Mosque or the Galata Tower. I still stop and sniff appreciatively whenever I pass a chestnut stand, but I am no longer seduced by doner kebabs, slowly rotating in all their glorious fat in the windows of every other shop. How can I go back to being a beginner here?
I haven't written lately because I've been reading. Because I'm continually speaking with people who have decent, poor and terrible English, I feel like it's important to keep a steady stream of Oscar Wilde and F. Scott Fitzgerald counteracting all the, "I loves to making sports" bombarding my poor brain.
I'm going to leave Istanbul with the most bizarre accent. No one will ever guess where I'm from.
People already don't know where I'm from. I believe I've nearly vanquished my American identity entirely. Like in Ireland, most strangers assume I'm Spanish.
I sure would love to be Spanish... I would live in Barcelona, eat paella every day and dance until 4:30 in the morning. Every morning. I could rock the flamenco. In my pathetically adorable, awkward white person style. Hell, yeah.
The last few days have been quiet. I met with a new group of students from the airport on Friday night, and it felt great to compare this first session with the last first session. I've grown a lot as a teacher in the last month. I've become an expert and speaking slowly and succinctly. I can explain myself like no one's business and I can recognize the half-confused, half-look of "I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU BUT DON'T WANT TO ADMIT IT" in a heartbeat.
"Do you understand "carnival"?
"No..." head hangs in despair.
"Do you understand "party"?
"Yes! Party!" (some sound effect or gesture to demonstrate understanding of "party")
"A carnival is a kind of party."
I have also become incredibly deft at the fine art of small talk. People learning a language are generally uncomfortable talking about destiny, art, passion, etc. People want to say things like,
"I have two brothers."
"I like to play football."
"My favorite food is cheese."
So I ask about family, sports and food. This has been a difficult transition for me, as I'm accustomed to talking about things that make me think. I prefer to skip small talk altogether and discuss what makes art meaningful, how best to navigate the line between planning and spontaneity, and whether or not we should always expect the best from people.
There's a time and a place for everything, Bourget. Small talk is important. Perhaps this is where you can learn to be less intimidating and more approachable. You can learn how to turn off the intensity for a moment or two.
Saturday afternoon was spent with Dilara. Saturday evening was spent with new students on Asia side. Sunday morning was spent practicing yoga, writing emails at Pucca and preparing for my lesson with the other group of airport guys that evening.
I learned how to play backgammon (nearly as popular as football in Turkey) properly. And I won. Twice (I had lots of help, but that's irrelevant to the fact that I won).
I practiced yoga on Monday morning and then boarded the metrobus for Çapa. I wanted to spend my two days off in the city center with Cesim and his mother and sister. I wanted to walk through Taksim and visit the Coffee Point and eavesdrop on people speaking English.
Hearing people speak English fluently just makes me feel like a fit.
Cesim took me out for a wonderful evening in Taksim on Tuesday night. We ate Iskender, drank Ayran and then went to a bar and merrily imbibed two bottles of wine.
This is just... this just needed. I needed. This. My mind stumbled with my feet. Sometimes it's just nice to be a little out of control. To feel loose. Sometimes it's nice when thoughts don't come together and you can justify it with, it's okay.... I'm tipsy. Everything is just fine and I'll think more clearly tomorrow.
I met with an old student turned friend of Ümit's, and he showed me the way to his sister's luxurious apartment in the Asia side of Istanbul. My schedule is now:
Wednesday at 13:00 -- Go to Melek's to spend the night
Thursday evening -- return from Melek's
Friday at 18:00 -- work with airport guys #2
Saturday at 13:00 -- hang out with Dilara
Sunday at 18:00 -- work with airport guys #1
It's a full schedule, but I love how varied it is. With Melek, I simply take part in her life. She's overwhelmingly generous, an incredible cook and seems to be as beautiful inside as she is outside (and Melek is a drop-dead gorgeous lady). I'll teach her some yoga next week and when her husband returns from interviewing for his documentary project in Belgium, France, Spain and Germany, he'll participate in the yoga as well.
They're both Kurdish, and I'm getting a full-blown experience of Kurdish hospitality.
I am constantly being fed the most delicious things. Chocolate, figs, tea, coffee, lamb, cheese, fresh pomegranate juice, ice cream -- at the end of my visit, I had to put both hands over my distended stomach and exclaim, "No! I'm sorry. It's all amazing, but I simply have no more space. I'm afraid that one more fig will make me explode."
With the airport guys, I try to teach an actual lesson.
With Dilara? We just get to hang out. I feel like this is my chance to hang with the cool kids. 'Cos Dilara is definitely one of the coolest kids I know. In fact, she rivals my old roommate, Rudy Miller, on the cool scale.
In between teaching English and drinking entire bottles of wine (I've got class), I started and finished the first draft of a play about love.
What do you mean when you say, "I love you"? I've noticed that people tend to use this phrase to mean many different things.
I love you = I miss you.
I love you = I'm sorry for you.
I love you = I don't want to fight.
I love you = I love you.
So I wrote a short play about the different ways. Here are my two favorite paragraphs:
A
But
I’m the one sleeping in an empty bed. My bathroom has one toothbrush in the
toothbrush cup instead of two and the toilet seat is always down. And clean. I
have never been so deeply saddened by the lack of splattered piss around the
bowl. My favorite coffee cups remind me that my favorite person is pumped full
of formaldehyde and slowly decaying. This cup from Paris, that from Madrid,
this stolen from our favorite bar, that from his mother -- coffee has a
different taste now. I don’t get rich, velvety flavors with subtle undertones of
spice. I get deep melancholy with less than subtle emptiness. It’s not like I
lost my other half. That would be too clean. It’s like I’m a book and all the
odd pages are missing and my life is suddenly jumbled and doesn’t make sense. (pause) I’m the one who has to learn to
cook for one again and try to remember that I actually adore peanuts and only
didn’t use them because he thought they tasted like elephant slavery. I can’t
use his razor on my legs when I accidentally forget to take mine into the
shower. I can’t tell him to “grow up already” when he grumps that I’m in “his”
chair. I can’t puzzle about what to get him for Christmas or his birthday or
how best to celebrate Valentine’s Day so that we enjoy the holiday but don’t
feel like complete commercial suckers. I’m the one who has to pack up all the
clothes and decide how long I want to keep using the same detergent. How long I
can keep on smelling his smell without losing the rest of the pages inside the
emptiness.
A
The
sound of your footsteps pounding up the stairs. The tingling anticipation of
being able to hold you after just a few more... pound, pound, pound... the
scratching of your key turning in the lock. The water on your mustache when you
kiss me after showering. How you laugh and apologize for it, like your mustache
is a separate entity with a mind of its own and you merely do your best to get
along because you have to share the same face. The way you look at me when I
step into the shower with you. Every touch is felt, loved, stored in my memory
bank of perfect touches. Every word is heard, loved, stored in my memory bank
of perfect words. Every time you look at me, I feel perfect and I try to store
this perfection to use it later – when you’re on a business trip or when I’m
sick and feel like death – but it’s so big and so beautiful that there’s not
enough room in my perfection bank. So it builds up inside me until every cell
is vibrating and buzzing and supersaturated with bliss and I have to let it out
or I know I’ll explode into a million perfect pieces.
And
so I say, “I love you.”
and I finished one more watercolor. For Janet.
 |
| I've decided that I really love painting hands. Fabric? Not so much. |
I found a retreat in Greece where I can volunteer teaching yoga this summer (instead of going back to France). I also contacted a resort in Costa Rica and will probably teach yoga HERE for three months next year. My writing will now be published on the website of the retreat in Croatia and I'll have a couple blurbs on the website in Devon.
And Cathy visits in two weeks!
I feel like things are coming together.
This is getting real, Bourget. You, lady, are doing this. Making your dream a reality.
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