I Think I Love You a Little -- Istanbul, Turkey

It’s five thirty on Monday morning. Cesim slumbers in the bedroom next to mine, his friends snore intermittently in the living room down the hall and I prop myself up against the unforgiving wall behind my mattress on the floor. I’ve already nibbled away two squares of Toblerone chocolate and am guiltily sipping a cup of coffee.

Pshaw... I’m just feeling French this morning. N'est pas grave, Aimee. Enjoy your chocolate. Bon appetit and afiyet olsun and all that jazz.

It’s Tuesday. Tuesday the 10^th. I leave Istanbul in fifteen days.

Whenever I can see my final moments in a given country looming on the not so distant horizon, I start to feel a sense of nostalgia generous enough to forgive/hide a multitude of incompatibilities. It’s like being in an unhappy relationship – during the relationship itself, you only want out, but once out is hot and steaming on the table, you begin to reconsider your order.

We have a few things in common, don’t we?

We sometimes have meaningful conversations, right?

I probably won’t find anyone better... will I?

The fear of being alone. The fear of starting over. The fear of the unknown.

I believe that these are the fears that cause us to stagnate and to abandon the search of a lifestyle that brings us joy.

Istanbul is a super great guy, but he’s just not my type. He likes going to the movies and driving fast cars and wearing fancy clothes. I like reading books and walking slowly and wearing sweaty yoga pants.

But... we both like kebap, don’t we? And the traffic really isn’t SO bad... there are worse things in life than drivers who think you’d look just fine as pavement art. Is it really such a big deal that I can’t find a yoga buddy or a mountain to climb?

The fear of being alone. The fear of starting over. The fear of the unknown.

I believe that these are the fears that cause us to settle for something that “isn’t so bad” instead of something that is truly amazing.

It’s Tuesday. Tuesday the 10^th. I leave Istanbul in fifteen days and I’m afraid -- but my plane ticket is bought, my visa is almost up and I’m heading to Devon whether I like it or not. I'm the sort of lady who conquers fears by purposefully giving myself no other option. For instance, I plan to hitchhike across Europe for two months with a friend this summer. I will explore my fear of living spontaneously and flying by the seat of my pants. I will explore my fear of not knowing.

Pourquoi? Because I will have no other option. 

This isn't quite as self-destructive as it appears. My yoga practice and the concept of "playing your edge" has helped me to find that fine line between self-abuse and challenge. I am rousing myself to remove the obstacles that prevent me from living in a manner that fully represents who I am.

My fear of spontaneity is an obstacle. I would like to remove it. So my lovely friend from New Zealand (who I met in France) has graciously agreed to hitchhike with me across Europe for August and September. As she's much better at being spontaneous than I am, I hope to learn from her how to relax and go with the flow. In return, I will teach her how to be a yoga master. 

This is an example of Tessa's planning. She will be SO good for me. 

The weather was glorious yesterday morning, so rather than spending my time shamefully writing in Starbucks or uncomfortably writing in Coffee Point I loaded my camera in my crumpler bag and walked to the bus station to catch a ride to Taksim. I’ve been trying to revisit some of my favorite places to capture some better photographs before I leave, and I still needed to check Taksim off the list.

Unfortunately, buses don’t seem to run very often on Sunday morning, as it’s customary for most self-respecting Turks to stay in bed until noon. I did manage to catch a mostly vacant vehicle after about fifteen minutes of staring down the street, but was dismayed when the driver screeched to a halt fifteen minutes later to take a phone call. And asked his five passengers to please disembark.

This would never happen in Germany, I grudgingly gave up my seat.  

After ten minutes of waiting on the side of the road, I decided that buses probably weren’t my best option. I booked it to the Yusufpasa tram station and boarded the crowded (always) tram for Karakoy. I trekked up the steep hill to Galata Tower and tried not to notice the pretty dresses in the shop windows.

No... it’s okay to notice the pretty dresses. It’s okay to appreciate the pretty dresses. Just try to notice and appreciate them without wanting them. They are very separate things -- noticing and wanting. Your life is one of appreciation – not of ownership.

So I huffed my way up the hill and strolled through Istiklal Street. I had hoped to purchase a fan paintbrush and some white paint, but the art supply store was closed.

Well... at least it’s lovely out, I unzipped my red jacket and stuffed it in my bag. Wish Cathy had been here for this.

Cesim rang my work phone just before I changed tram to metro on the way to his flat.

“Hi, how are you?” he asked as soon as I answered. That’s a strange thing about Turks – they expect the person doing the calling to initiate the conversation rather than the person doing the receiving. I’m always disoriented when I answer a phone call and the person on the other line immediately queries, “How are you?”

Wait, what? I didn’t call you!

“I’m fine, how are you?”

“Just awake,” Cesim’s voice was thick with sleep. I looked at my smartphone for the time. 12:30. “I am making the breakfast. Can you buy two breads?”

“Yes. I can buy two loaves of bread,” I’ve been trying to teach “loaves of bread” to Cesim, but it doesn’t seem to stick. “But Cesim, I already ate breakfast. I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t accept. I am making the breakfast.”

Of course, I morosely considered my thighs. Of course he'll make me eat again.

So I bought two breads and ate a second breakfast with Cesim and Akif (a visiting friend from Ankara). Then I began my pilgrimage to Beylikduzu for an English lesson with airport guys #1. We talked about body parts and Valentine’s Day. I never fully understood how odd some words sound until I heard people saying them for the first time.

Knuckle. Wrinkle. Nostril. 

Cesim was setting the living room table with aperitifs when I walked through the door at nine thirty. I drank a small glass of dry whiskey, munched on some nuts and listened to Cesim’s kanka sing Turkish songs whilst deftly strumming one of the more traditional stringed instruments.

"Bak (look)," Akif said as he nodded at the other instrument leaning against the wall behind the sofa. 

"Wait!" I slurred as Cesim reached for its neck. "What does the chicken say in Turkey? Not the rooster. Just the normal chicken. The lady chicken. What does the lady chicken say in Turkey?" 

The three men looked at me. Then looked at each other. Then they looked at me again. 

"Se," Akif looked confused and then made a clucking noise that very much resembled the sound of a chicken. The lady chicken. 

"Because in America, the chicken says, "bak, bak, bak." When I first got to Turkey, I thought that Turkish people sounded very much like chickens because they are always going, "bak, bak, bak!"" 

The three men looked at me. Then they looked at each other. Then they looked at me again and broke out laughing. 

The lights were out but candles were lit. The music was masterfully melancholy and the alcohol went straight to my head.

Istanbul, my whiskey warmed brain tried to sift through emotions in search of thoughts, you can be a terrible boyfriend and sometimes I don’t understand you at all. But I think I love you. A little. I think I love you a little.