Building Boundaries -- Istanbul, Turkey

 It is only the 7th of February, but I am already starting to notice signs of spring. Birds building nests, trams smelling pungent, crowds thronging the touristic areas, sahlep sellers tapering off, bulbs beginning to blossom.

I’m starting this post from the bustling Eminonu tram station. Well... the dock near the bustling Eminonu tram station. I have Damien Rice and Regina Spektor blaring in my earbuds to help drown out the incessant “Bosphorus, Bosphorus tour! Ten lira, Bosphorus tour, come, come, come!”

Tourists take pictures of boats and of themselves in front of boats. Seagulls soar along beside top decks in search of flying simit crumbs and romantic couples entangle themselves on/in the railing.

The walk to the dock was uncomfortable. I’ve been doing my best to avoid being harassed by wearing earbuds and either thrusting my hands deep into my pockets or wrapping my fingers around my backpack straps.

Unapproachable. I need to appear completely unapproachable.

Unfortunately, the good weather seems to have reanimated the vendors and I am harassed regardless of how inaccessible I appear. The step in front of me and try to shake my pocketed hand. They gesture towards their shops and try to convince me to enter. They flash menus in my face and say, "yes, hungry? You want eat here?"

I ignore their hands, comments and gestures. 

The worst part about this is that I have to behave like an ass, I disdained to shake a hand thrust in front of my abdomen. I resent them for making it so difficult for me to be nice. I resent them for taking advantage of my niceness when I can't handle being an ass anymore. I resent them for the guilt I feel when, out of self-preservation, I treat them like they don't exist. 

I told Cathy that the key to getting rid of restaurant hustlers was to tell them that you just ate three kumpir. This is the Turkish equivalent to an American saying, “I just ate three Chipotle burittos.” The first time I told a vendor this, he was too surprised to even laugh. He looked at me in shock and started slowly backing away.

That’s right, you back away. I will regurgitate an ungodly amount of imaginary baked potato all over that overpriced menu of yours. 

  

The grey-haired, wrinkled man standing to my right rests his bare right hand on the cold metal railing. His beefy mustache is flecked with black strands, his shoes are polished a spotless black, his black leather jacket glistens, his corduroys (black) don’t match at all and he nonchalantly smokes a cigarette, grey smoke floating directly into my face.

He’s so stinkin’ Turkish.

I wish I could remove my earbuds and not feel so assaulted, invaded by the city. The music is a coping mechanism that makes me feel like I've somehow failed -- that I never learned how to properly "do" Istanbul because I always needed my noise-stopping crutch. I'm afraid that I’m becoming detached... withdrawn. I'm afraid that Istanbul has made me hard. Given me new boundaries. Important boundaries. Useful boundaries. But boundaries. 

Each wall isolates. Each wall whisks the loneliness I feel towards an emotion I have yet to experience but am fearful of -- 

-- emptiness. 

I leave my Turkish family in less than three weeks. The past two and a half months haven't been easy-peasy, but they have been transformational and I feel gratitude and respect for the people I will leave behind on February 25th. They have lovingly shared their lives with me and allowed me to become a part of their home. A sister. An aunt. A niece. A friend. 

I know I'm ready to move -- I know it's time, but the thought of leaving them and starting over again fills me with all sorts of conflicting emotions. I'm ecstatic to continue my adventure and to connect with some yoga enthusiasts, but uprooting myself from this family is going to be painful. 

Cathy sent me a message the other day that helped me process these feelings.

In reading your blogs I can feel how your are conflicted about your joy in your nomadic lifestyle and your longings for home and stability.  I actually think this is a good thing, it means that you are a whole person, a complete personality.  The nomad side does not eliminate the home-loving side.  And I think it is the home-loving side that helps you make deep connections with the people you meet, for a while they become your family and your comfort.  If the nomad side was completely dominate I think you would just slide through your journeys without intimacy or connection. 

Keep moving. Keep loving people. Keep letting go. Learn to recognize the difference between the boundaries that keep you safe and the boundaries that keep you separate. 

I struggled with conquering discouraging unproductivity on Thursday. It took me two hours to whip, wrangle my brain into working order at The Coffee Point, and by the time I was half-way focused, the morning was over. I had to pack up my laptop, pay for my apple tea and walk to the bus stop to meet one of Umit’s students for an afternoon activity.

It’ll be strange to meet with just one... I thought as I hurried down the street, dodging simit carts and lottery ticket sellers. With the exception of Dilara, I’ve always worked with groups. I hope her English is good enough that talking for a few hours isn’t unbearably awkward.  

I needn't have worried. This young lady was able to express herself in English beautifully, which delighted me because she was bursting with ideas worth expressing. We talked about religion, travel, and her love of history and anthropology. She invited two of her non-English speaking (but cheerful and fun) friends over for tea and appetizers. I taught them to play a few card games, they taught me to play okey  -- 

and then we all went out to eat kebap. As one does in Istanbul. 

Thanks for the great afternoon. Keep asking questions! You're quite the inspiration and I'm excited to see how you shape your life.

This is just the best face.

Cesim was hungry on Thursday night. I told him that I'd had a massive kebap lunch and could probably go for a solid week without eating, but that I would be happy to accompany him to a restaurant of his choice. 

"I'm not hungry," I emphasized the point, "but I will sit with you and order a drink." 

It was a mistake. I don't think that Turkish people understand "not hungry." Cesim ordered me an enormous plate of rice, beans, lamb, pickles, soup, salad and cornbread. 

Whaaa?

"This is absolutely, gigantically delicious. Perfect. But I am so, so, SO full..." I complained but not as the chair creaked underneath me. "You will make me gain so much weight and I won't forgive you for it." 

"You could have a kilo more, I think," was Cesim's entirely unapologetic response. 

I glared. My stomach grumbled. The chair groaned.

We went to the mall to try to catch Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, but as it's a children's film (apparently adults don't appreciate awesome as much as kids), there were no showings after 8:00 pm. So we moseyed over to a Mado. Where I drank cinnamon tea and Cesim forced me to try bites of his pistachio ice cream. I gave up protesting. There was no point.