Why are We Alive? -- Istanbul, Turkey

I rummaged through my pack last week, assessing what was superfluous and what was in dire need of replacement. After over seven months of travel, some things are just bound to wear thin. 

And you find that most of what hasn't worn thin just isn't worth lugging around the globe. 

When I leave Istanbul, I'll get rid of my jeans. Jeans are heavy and I don't think I really need them. I have two dresses and one skirt should I want to look nice (a very relative concept), and all three are quick to dry and very lightweight. I can leave behind... um... my red jacket? It isn't particularly warm or waterproof, the hood is broken and the zipper is experiencing challenges on more than an occasional basis. But is my sole sweater enough to keep me warm in England? I won't need much in the Balkans or Greece, but England will more than likely be quite chilly. And damp. Argh. Packing is stupid. What are my dire needs? Socks. I am in DIRE need of socks.

Even with the best intentions and (seemingly) utmost care, I have managed to lose three pairs of socks in seven and a half months. While this might seem insignificant to settled folks with a paycheck and a Wal-Mart half a week/half a mile away, for the budget traveler, unintentionally losing/destroying anything is intensely frustrating. 

Damn, now I'll have to buy new socks. I could have used that money to rent a bicycle on the Aran Islands or take the bus to see those famous caves near Doolin (it's inconsequential that I can't remember the name of said famous caves). Be more responsible, Bourget. Keep track of thy socks. 

So. Three pairs of socks lost to the wind (which translates roughly into hiding underneath Billie's couch in Germany/eaten by one of Billie's dogs) and three pairs entirely worn out. No respectable socks left to my name. I'm a real traveler now. Booya! (according to the Urban Dictionary, this is a term of self-congratulation)

I continued to sadly rummage through my bag. Need new socks. Underwear is fine. Bras are fine... in fact, I could probably get rid of one or two. I would love some undershirts, though. And new shoes in which I can be active. I have boots that are grand (minus the time-consuming laces) and flip-flops that are only mildly falling apart, but my all-purpose merrell flats are finished. No tread. Reeking to high-heaven. Stained and torn. Oy. Can I afford to buy new shoes? 

No. I really can't. I'll just stick with buying socks and hope for the best. 

And then Cesim happened. Which was the absolute, unequivocal best. 

I set off to city center late Saturday afternoon. I'd finished my work and was eager to get back to Çapa as evenings spent out of Beylikdüzü just have more opportunities. Umit (who is sick for the second time this winter) waved me a tired goodbye from the couch and wished me a pleasant evening. 

"Merhaba," I greeted Umit's sister, mother and father when I arrived at the small (but clean -- always clean) city center flat.

"Merhaba," the sister returned with a friendly smile. 

"Merhaba," the mother waved from the living room couch. 

"Merhaba, hosgeldin," the father boomed from the living room chair. Then he continued on in a long stream of affable, "turkishturkishturkishturkishturkishturkishturkish," to which I smiled weakly and shook my head with an apologetic, "I don't understand..." 

"turkishturkishturkishturkish." 

"I'm sorry. I don't know." 

Then we both sighed in resignation and I sat myself down at the kitchen table to wait for Cesim. 

"What do you want to do?" he asked as soon as he'd taken off his shoes, been fed a delicious meal by his mother and watched a little TV (the order of events in a Turkish home). 

"I would love a nice view. And maybe some coffee. Yes. A nice view and coffee would be wonderful." 

"Okay," his brow furrowed as he considered my request. We climbed into his car and drove off into the crowded streets of Istanbul. 

There were accidents and police checks all over the highway (which seems to be the norm for a weekend night in Istanbul. Pardon. Every night in Istanbul), so the going was slow and tedious. Once we emerged from the terribly congested roads, we found ourselves on the Asia side of the city. Cesim then drove up streets as narrow as the roads in Ireland, as steep as those in British Columbia and as dangerous as those in Morocco. If my collected host hadn't already demonstrated his driving prowess to me (both on his iPad and in real life), I would have been scared out of my worn-out, good-for-nothing socks.

My nice view of the city from Asia side

Some of the bridges are spectacular at night -- all lit up and changing colors.

Cesim! We ordered coffee, hot chocolate and discussed the merits of various cities as we enjoyed the view.

 For some reason, I found myself absolutely knackered. Saturday wasn't particularly eventful, so my perpetual yawning had no plausible explanation, but by the time we made it back to Cesim's flat (crawling through traffic the entire way), I had nearly passed out. 

Why? Must be... *yawn* winter. That is...*YAWN* only... reasonable...*yawn* reason. 

I crawled onto the couch and thankfully completed the process of passing out. 

It was a disappointment to discover that the fridge was dolefully empty of Turkish breakfast goodies, but the consequential shopping trip with Cesim was grand. The only difficulty was telling the unbelievably generous Turk (even for Turkish standards), "No, I really don't think I need anything else. Thank-you, though." 

"Really? Are you sure?" 

"Yup. I'm great!"

"You need shampoo?"

"Nope. I'm great!"

"You need juice?"

"Nope. I'm great!"

"You like pears?"

"I do like pears..."

And a thin produce bag magically filled with fruit with alacrity comparable to the rate at which people from Southern France can count calories and the Irish can say, "it's rude to count drinks."

As I placed the heavy bag into the shopping cart, I noticed the several bars of chocolate that had already found their way inside. Underneath the cheese.

This fellow understands me too well. 

 One full shopping cart, one demolished Turkish breakfast and one conflicted "why did I eat so much? BECAUSE IT WAS SO GOOD" conversation in my head later, Cesim asked if I was ready to go. 

"Where?"

"Shopping. For you. I think you must need new things." 

"Well, umm..." I stammered, contemplating the smelliness of the socks I'd been wearing for four days (I probably wasn't the only one contemplating said smelliness), "I do need socks." 

"We go?" 

"Yes. Thank-you!"

Due to my unfortunate experience in Morocco wherein my host used gifts as a form of manipulation and domination, I've grown a bit leery and uncomfortable when it comes to accepting out-of-the-ordinary displays of generosity. Especially from men. Thoughts of, "what does he expect in return? Am I willing to use the currency in which he's operating? Will this be used against me later? And if he's simply giving with no strings attached, do I have the right to accept such goodness?"  blare through my mind with the regularity and alarm of Istanbul ambulances.

My life as a vagabond/volunteer has transformed the giving and receiving of gifts into a complicated ballroom dance wherein I must follow my partner without knowing exactly which steps he plans to take beforehand. But if I know the steps, know my partner and pay attention (body language does say an awful lot), it is possible to experience a moment that showcases the beauty of the human spirit the way dancing celebrates the beauty of the human body. I just need to make sure that if I want to foxtrot and my partner wants to Argentinian tango, I feel no shame or hesitation in leaving the floor. This is my life and I have the right to choose how I dance, dammit.

We rolled to a stop in the parking lot under StarCity and I got to see all sorts of beautiful human spirit. 

"What else do you need?" asked Cesim after he'd bought me five pairs of socks and I'd gushed my thanks.

"Umm... a sweater or a jacket," images of the fraying Prana sweater my sister had given me for Christmas last year flitted across my mind. It's on its final legs, that one. 

"And I think you need shoes," Cesim noted after handing me the bag containing my new, light-as-a-feather down jacket. "And pants? Underwear? Shirts?" 

"I do need a pair of athletic shoes," I reluctantly admitted. "All I have are these boots and a pair of worn-out flip-flops. And some undershirts would be great." 

"Undershirt?"

"Like a tank top. Do you understand, 'tank top'? the shirt with small straps," I gestured to my shoulders. "When you wear tank tops underneath shirts, they are called camisoles. I would really like a couple of camisoles to wear under my shirts." 

At the end of the spree, I found myself carrying bags with a pair of barefoot, New Balance shoes, five socks, a down jacket, a polo turtleneck and three camisoles. 

Everything I needed. Absolutely everything. 

"Cesim, thank-you so much for all of this. You've just made my life better," I said as I thought about running with the new shoes through Exmoor National Park in England and being significantly warmer/less smelly in Istanbul.

"Why are we alive?" 

Why are we alive. What a perfect explanation for a heart-warming act of human goodness. I hope I can do the same for someone else someday. 

"Maybe if it was the other way, you would do the same for me," Cesim continued as we drove back to Beylikdüzü so he could cuddle Öykü and I could teach my Sunday night English class. 

"I would."

I just wish there was more I could give NOW. 

The lesson that evening was wonderful. We played a rousing game of scrabble and then a makeshift version of the game, "Guess Who?" where they had to learn how to ask questions about facial features.

I had miserable tiles. Even the legendary Jessie Kelleher would struggle with this collection of vowels.

I'm becoming much more comfortable correcting English mistakes and much more agile at pouncing on teaching opportunities. 

"F -- A -- R," Serkan played. 

"You could play "far", " I quickly interjected, feeling like a cat pouncing on a plump pigeon, "or you could put an e on the end and make it "fare". Do you know the meaning of the word, "fare"? 

He looked confused. 

"Fare is the price of a ticket. Not the ticket itself -- just the amount of money you pay for the ticket. And "fair"," I spelled it out for him, "has two meanings. It means equal and someone who does not cheat, or it means a place where children can go to ride Ferris Wheels," I gave an animated visual demonstration of a Ferris Wheel. 

When Serkan dropped me off at Umit's flat, I was on a high similar to the highs experienced after a good writing session or stepping off the stage after a standing ovation. 

I'm really learning how to teach. 

I can teach yoga. I can teach theatre.

I can teach English.

I fell asleep that night feeling more confident than I've felt in months -- both in myself and in the goodness of those around me.