Closing a Chapter -- Istanbul, Turkey

Five more days until I fly to England.

This is where I’m going:

Friendly owner of alternative Retreat/Yoga centre/spiritual vegetarian community, 5 mins from sea, Exmoor National Park, in village, North Devon. Looking for one or two helpers. Dormitory style accommodation. board & lodging provided in exchange for 30 hrs work a week. work: helping to run the retreat, admin & office, computer/website, new business start up, see our second website link above. housekeeping, gardening, decorating, other misc jobs. This is an area of outstanding natural beauty on the north Devon coast. included: Yoga classes, wifi, sea kayak

Oh, yes. Aimee’s gonna learn how to sea kayak. In the Atlantic Ocean. In March.

Here are two of the ten 5 star reviews about my future host and her retreat:

Some things are better experienced than described and the 2 weeks I stayed at Cranleigh House is one of those things.
The accommodation is excellent and the work is in a friendly atmosphere. They are always willing to have a conversation about any topics and happy to lent you all you need, from workclothes, wetsuits, towels, shoes, books, maps, DVD, ... , or even a kayak to sail between dolphins (an amazing experience!).
Thanks a lot for your generousity and source of inspiration. It will be difficult to forget my stay with you.
Hope to return some day!

I spent two months here (from october to december) and since I left I´m looking forward for the next time I´ll be there. Cranleigh House is a place where you can meet amazing people and learn new things all the time. It´s a school of life with the best teachers. Accomodation is very good and you will taste delicious vegetarian-vegan meals. Combe Martin and the surroundings are magically beautiful. Join the meditation and yoga classes and let yourself grow personally and spiritually. I can't thank enough what these people did for me. Thank you Cranleigh House! Wahay Guru!

It’s self-evaluation time. It’s the time at the end of a chapter where I think about the progress I’ve made as a protagonist exploring the complications of life.

I’m closing the chapter of “Istanbul” and opening the chapter of “Devon”.

ISTANBUL

(and the behaviors of which I’m proud)

•  I’m proud of myself for being brave enough to explore the bustling, hustling city on my own. In days past, I would have spent all my time off reading alone in my room or crunched in a corner of the closest café. Now I read in city center parks and catch cruises to the closest continent.

•  I’m proud of myself for learning how to speak slowly, simply, clearly and patiently. Even if my conversation isn’t as titillating as it once was, you’ll be able to understand Every. SinGle. Word-duh. of my extremely bland small talk. I will be the life of all the parties.

• I’m proud of myself for developing a deeper sense of humility. I believe that there is nothing that teaches humility and patience quite so well as living in a world revolving around the whims and wails of a one-year-old child.

•  I’m proud of myself for working with and working through my loneliness. Steven Berkoff says, “Writing is an antidote for loneliness.” This blog has therefore been promoted from a mere outlet for my creative/emotional angst to a boon companion in whom I may confide.  

• I’m proud of myself for the confidence I’ve developed... no, perhaps confidence is the wrong word. The ease I’ve developed when it comes to meeting new students and leading stilted conversations with strangers for up to six hours at a time. I don’t feel particularly confident because I’m never sure of “success” – but I feel ease because I don’t fear “defeat”.

You win some, you lose some, Bourget. You’ll get another chance next week. Or tomorrow. Or tomorrow and next week. So cool your damn jets already and get back to explaining why you laughed when Adim asked, “do you want some pregnant?” instead of “do you want a pomegranate?” Oh, and try to teach Cesim how to say “third” instead of “turd”.

• I’m proud of myself for finally breaking out my watercolors and curiously playing with the medium that has intimidated me for so long.

• I’m proud of myself for throwing away my makeup and creating more space in my life for things that are more important to me. For not buying more cover-up when the plate tectonics of my face created an Everest-esque zit right under my lip. For finally appreciating an unbelievably adorable pair of overalls (I’ve always been childishly fond of overalls) without feeling bereft because I could not buy the unbelievably adorable pair of overalls.

• I am proud of myself for surviving three months in the fourth most populous city in the world and coping with a culture fundamentally different from my own. Surviving, growing and finding the few places to fit.

ISTANBUL

(and the behaviors of which I’m, well, less than proud)

•  I’m ashamed of learning so little Turkish during my stay here. I realize that I need to prioritize and that there simply isn’t time for everything, but I could have definitely made space for a few more Turkish words. It would have made conversation with Ayse significantly less stressful.

• I’m ashamed of helping out so little around the home. When cooking and cleaning are done “just so”, I always feel very intimidated about lending a hand. I’m afraid of bungling up a recipe or accidentally using the fabric softener instead of the special soap for the wood floors (it really doesn’t help that everything is in Turkish). I can’t unload the dishwasher when Öykü is sleeping and I can’t vacuum when she’s awake. There is a mop for the bathroom and a mop for the rest of the house. There is a brush for the bathtub, a brush for the toilet and a brush for the sink. I feel like Turkish people must have as many words for “clean” as Eskimos have for “snow”. But this is only an assumption, as I still don’t speak Turkish. I can’t ask Ayse to explain the complex cleaning procedures to me, so I try to assuage my throbbing conscience by quietly cleaning up after myself and helping out when she asks.

• I’m ashamed of not learning how to find motivation in myself instead of in the people or the space around me. My yoga practice is eking, squeaking by. I read and I write, but I have more difficulty focusing on the work at hand than in any other placement thus far. Perhaps it’s the distraction of traffic. Perhaps it’s the distraction of construction. Perhaps it’s the distraction of Öykü or the television or Ayse’s puttering in and out of my room. Whatever it is, I’m not proud of the fact that I have been largely unable to keep myself accountable.

• I’m ashamed of how intensely and negatively I react to certain elements of Turkish culture – even though this family has been doing their best to understand and respect my American sensitivities/sensibilities. Turkish people are more direct than Americans with their requests – you must go, you will come, pardon (after the fact) – which is abrasive to me, but sincere to them. In three months, I have not been able to translate what I view as an abrasive invasion of space into what they view as sincere familial interactions. My improper reactions (given the circumstances) have kept me at a distance and I’ve been unable to connect with my hosts as thoroughly as I would have liked.

• I’m ashamed of the obscene amount of time I’ve spent beating myself up for not flourishing in Istanbul. For merely surviving in Istanbul.

You did it, Bourget. There are no flying colors and you certainly didn’t break any sort of “cultural assimilation curve”, but you survived as best you could with what you had at the time. You have different tools now – different levels of awareness. If you come back in the future, you will behave differently, but if you went back in time, you would behave in the exact same way. Because you were there then and you’re here now.

• I’m ashamed of what feels like the seeds of racism beginning sprout in the fertile soils of resentment, confusion, fear and loneliness. I spent Tuesday afternoon walking and reading my way through Gulhane Park and noticed a large, dark haired fellow in a red jacket sending me creepy sidelong glances. I immediately redirected to the other side of the path and kept my gaze deliberately forward. Creepy red jacket followed me.

“Turkish, Turkish, Turkish,” he started a conversation.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Turkish,” I removed one ear bud and kept walking.

“Turkish, Turkish, Turkish, Turkish,” the man persisted.

I shook my head and moved ahead.

He followed. He caught up. He walked six feet to my right, keeping pace and sending me the sinister forehead-slightly-down, eyes-in-the-corner, chin-at-a-cocked-angle look.

I tingled, bristled with resentment.

Just leave me the f*ck alone.

I deliberately slowed down so that he would pass.

He suddenly seemed to spot something absolutely riveting under the bridge and slowed to a stop to observe this absolutely riveting thing (probably a collection of cigarette butts).

If that’s how you want to play...

I turned up the volume of my music and assertively speed-walked past my unsolicited companion.

He caught up.

“Tuuuuu – Cold, cold water – uurkish – surrounds me now – Tuur – and I can’t –kiiiiiish – let go -- ” my music interrupted his steady stream.

“No,” I didn’t even bother removing my ear buds this time. I saw a bench and sat on it, still naively hoping that he would mosey on.

But there happened to be a gardener nearby in whom creepy Red Jacket took interest. He stopped to talk about the tulips and I swiped on my kindle, found my place in “So long and thanks for all the fish” and tried to read.

He sat beside me.

“Turkish, Turkish -- ”

“NO,” I stood abruptly, crammed my kindle into my crumpler bag and hurried down the trafficked street near Eminonu. I quickly joined some other tourists and ran across with them, keeping my eye on Red Jacket as he followed on the other side.

Goddamn Turkish men.

This is the first time I’ve ever thought like this. I wasn’t angry at “men”. I was angry at “Turkish men” – the whole lot of ‘em.

I bought some roasted chestnuts and boarded the next ferry for Kadiköy. I seriously doubted he would follow me to Asia – which proved to be an accurate assumption, as that was the last I saw of Red Jacket. But the unwelcome, narrow-minded thoughts persisted.

I can’t wait to get to England where I don’t have to worry about this so much. I’m so tired of being harassed on the streets by Turkish men.

I don’t want to think like this. I don’t want to think “Turkish men”. I don’t even want to think “men”. I would prefer to isolate “Red Jacket Guy” in his own little box of creepiness. But it’s been difficult for me to isolate events lately. Developing patterns and groups feels natural, safe, and easy. It is easier to say, “Turkish men are dodgy and disrespectful,” than it is to say “that particular person standing by the tulips is dodgy and disrespectful”.

It’s easier, but stupidly inaccurate and limiting.

• I’m ashamed of how much I’ve needed this blog and of my ungodly craving for positive feedback in regards to my writing prowess. Traveling has blessed my life in so many ways, but it has also stolen away some of my loves. I can’t practice theatre. I can’t dabble in oils. I can’t take philosophy classes at the local university or have dedicated yoga students. Pianos are rather difficult to pack and I can’t afford tango lessons. Writing is one of my sole loves that fits into the life of a vagabond, so I’ve come to rely on it for a large amount of my self-worth – especially when living in situations where my other loves are difficult to practice. My sense of value is so tied up in this silly little endeavor that one negative word can ruin my day. One positive word can make it.

Needless to say, this isn’t healthy.

SUMMING IT UP

Istanbul has been a whirlwind of an adventure. Although I’ve faced more challenges than in any other placement thus far, I don’t regret one moment spent with my affable family and their earnest students. I’ve learned more about culture, religion and city life than I would have deemed possible in a mere three months time. My life feels fuller because of this. I have more to offer and more to understand. I am ashamed of certain behaviors and mentalities I’ve developed during my stay, but I’m doing my best to show myself some loving-kindness and to move on without judgment. I am acutely aware of my issues – but am striving to use that awareness for growth and not self-condemnation or self-pity.

GOALS FOR ENGLAND

(based off of who I am now and what I want to see change)

• I want to reconnect with the outdoors. I want to explore my fear of water and learn to sea kayak. I want to spend as much time in the woods and on the beach as my schedule allows. I want to tromp about barefoot. I want to stop being so distant and feel my surroundings again. City life has pushed and squashed and trampled my senses into a small suitcase locked in the closet in the room in the apartment in the complex of myself. For the past few weeks, I’ve felt trapped on the unpleasant and confusing verge of exploding and imploding. So basically, I just want to frolic in a meadow and wriggle my toes in some sand. Nuff said.
• I want to spend more time meditating. I want to regain my ability to focus on one task for extended periods of time. 
• I want to get to know the people in Combe Martin. I want to go out on my own and make friends independent of the resort.
• I want to keep up the watercolors. 
•  I want to work harder on my website (more on that later). 
• I want to rediscover the joy of my yoga practice. 
• I want to find a way to disconnect my sense of self worth from my writing – without attaching it to anyone or anything else in the meanwhile.   

I'm sure my time in England will teach me something worth learning, even if none of these particular goals are achieved. I only write them down as a form of direction and should life throw something different at me, I'll happily (hopefully) let go of my dreams to catch my reality.