Throwing in the Makeup -- Istanbul, Turkey

I'm starting this post from Coffee Point in Çapa. A bizarre cartoon with unicorns and humping racoons plays on the small TV hanging on the wall in front of me. A bored looking server with a yellow ribbon in her hair leans against the glass wall, checking her phone and tiredly resting her chubby cheek on her petite left hand. A couple by the window drinks çay (as do most Turkish people) and fiddle with their phones. A couple by the door smokes cigarettes (as do most Turkish people) and stare at each other with a mixture of lust and boredom.

Nineteen days left in Istanbul.

I've decided to thoroughly enjoy them.

Since Cathy's departure, I've settled back into my comfortable, grounding routine of writing, yoga-ing and researching volunteer opportunities in different countries. I haven't broken out my paints for a few weeks, but I fully intend to get to work on Cathy's postcard tonight. It'll probably have something to do with a sinking ferry.

I met up with Mr. Salomon for a couple of drinks on Saturday night. I'm all for couchsurfing and volunteering, but spending an evening with a stranger who wore nice shoes on the tram was rather out of character for me.

Then again, so is spending three months living in a city like Istanbul.

Doing things out of character is good for me. I'm glad I chose to volunteer in Istanbul. I'm glad I whiled away a few pleasant hours drinking spiced wine and eating something resembling a spleen sandwich in Taksim with Mr. Salomon. 

I'm glad I've matured enough to recognize the difference between a difficult situation that encourages growth and a difficult situation that is simply abusive and leaves me feeling broken and used. I'm glad I feel confident enough to buckle down and flow through the former and courageous enough to lace up my boots and leave the latter. This courage allows me to confidently take more risks. The knowledge that I am capable of loving myself and reacting responsibly should things go horribly awry is profoundly liberating. Taking risks creates room for greater opportunities -- like hitching through Europe. Like the few hours drinking spiced wine and eating something resembling a spleen sandwich in Taksim with Mr. Salomon.

I just picked out pieces of the meat. Still not sure exactly what it was.

I taught the real version of Apples to Apples to airport guys #1 on Sunday night and was pleased with how well the game worked as a language learning tool. It got them talking, laughing, hammering home basic sentences and learning new vocabulary. They still slipped into Turkish with frustrating regularity and failed to ask the definitions of the many English words, but they seemed to gain a lot from the night regardless.

I slept on the couch in Umit's empty apartment. Seher, Ayse and Öykü were still vacationing in Izmir and Ümit was spending the night in city center, so I had the Beylikdüzü flat to myself. It felt strange to be alone.

I worked and wrote and practiced the warm-up routine for the solar acro-yoga program on Monday.

I wrote and met with a couchsurfer named Ersin on Tuesday. He had a gentle, respectful personality that made me feel comfortable immediately.

Glad I took this risk. 
 
We followed the tram down past Gulhane park and my new Turkish friend presented me with a baby blue and black checkered scarf, treated me to an americano and shared stories of his life as a mathematics teacher in near Van Lake. He pulled out his smartphone to show pictures of his home, and I was blown away by the exquisite landscape.

I will return to Turkey. Not to Istanbul, but to Turkey. There is just so much this country has to offer. 

The night was quiet. Umit's mother, father and sister are still off visiting family in Bursa, so Cesim and I had the flat to ourselves. As Cesim is a bachelor (the fridge looks nigh well forgotten these days) and I am too afraid to cook for Turkish people, I've been living off of eggs, sausage, cheese and tomatoes and Cesim has been consistently eating out. These ingredients are perfectly satisfactory and I have no complaints, but Cesim looked surprised when he opened the fridge.

"Why did you not say me there is no food?' he looked hurt and disappointed.

"It is enough for me. I don't complain," I shrugged my shoulders.

"Not this day, but maybe tomorrow we are making some shopping," Cesim assured me.

The weather has been markedly better since Cathy flew home (as I figured it would be), so I spent Wednesday morning writing and practicing yoga at Cesim's flat and Wednesday afternoon strolling through Gulhane park. Along with everyone else in Istanbul. The tram from Çapa to Gulhane was so crowded that I buried my head in my arm (to avoid burying it in the arm of someone else), kept feeling someone's hand brush up against my ass (really? is there no other possible place for your hand to be?) and nearly passed out from the noxious smell of body odor and powerful perfume.

I had intended to disembark at the stop in front of the Blue Mosque, but I instead frantically pushed my way out of the claustrophobic car three stops early and stumbled for the sidewalk. Compared to the 15 minutes suffocating in the tram, the streets of Istanbul felt spacious and mellow. The air smelled fresh and pure. The vendors seemed so respectful that they verged on standoffish and aloof.

That was hands down my most unpleasant tram ride thus far. I can't imagine how horrible it must be during the summer months. 

As I now had quite the ways to walk, I decided to take advantage of not being in the tram and browse some shops to make my commute more interesting.

I'm almost out of makeup, I turned into a glamorous perfume and makeup store across the street from the Grand Bazaar. I know it's expensive here, but I really want some more mascara. And eye-liner. 

I grabbed a plastic basket and began my hunt, struggling to discern any noticeable difference between the "Cat Eyes" and the "Rocket Volume" Maybelline mascara.

They all look the same, damnit. All make eyelashes appear longer, more alluring and do a fine job separating the individual lashes. All are ridiculously overpriced and will probably make my eyelids itch. And I'll have to buy more remover to haul around with me... which is also expensive and adds unnecessary bulk to my bag. Twenty-four lira for one lousy piece of eye makeup. Thirty-five lira for one small bottle of liquid liner. Twenty lira for the remover. Christ, that's almost forty dollars. That's enough for three museum tickets... a bus ride from London to Edinburgh... four new paintbrushes... and I'll just have to purchase more when these are finished. Is it worth it? Why do I wear makeup, anyway?

I wear makeup because it's part of my morning routine and I feel partially naked without it. It is a social norm and compliance gives me a sense of belonging. I wear makeup because I want to attract attention and because it makes me feel more confident and sexy. But what kind of attention am I attracting? I thought about the stares on the tram. Do I want that kind of attention? Do I want to attract people who only picked me out of the crowd because I'm wearing Cat Eyes mascara and thirty-five lira eye-liner? Or do I want to attract the type of people who notice something else? 

For what do I want to be noticed? 

I want to be noticed for my confidence -- confidence that is in no way related to the amount of added pigment on my face or the quality of my clothes. I want to be noticed for my curiosity. I want to be noticed for my energy. I want to be noticed for my shoes (where I've been) and my hands (what I do) and the way I move (how I do it). And people who notice these things are the people I really care to be around. 

I put the makeup back on the shelf. The salesperson who had been watching me for the past ten minutes looked mightily confused and more than a little exasperated.

Think I'll save that money for a fan paintbrush. 

Walking with new resolve, I returned the empty basket to the stack by the door and continued briskly down the road to Gulhane park.

I've never seen a child look so bored whilst riding a lion before.

This photo was not captured mid-roll. This photo was captured mid-nap.

Istanbul has a large population of psittacula -- Afro-Asian Ringnecked parakeets. They escaped from a zoo decades ago and are now in the process of taking over the city.

 As I photographed the birds, I contemplated the virtues of my decision.

No makeup equals one less thing to worry about. One less thing to carry. One less distraction. One less barrier between myself and the people I want to draw into my life. 

What else is a distraction? What else could I lose? 

Fashion. I'm already doing an admirable job looking like a hobo, but I still feel the pressure to fit in. To buy things I can't afford, aren't useful and won't even fit into my bag. I still spend too much time checking price tags and yearning after that cute polka dot dress in the shop window. My time and energy are being wasted on something that is not intrinsically important to me. I don't care about clothes. I've never cared about clothes. I've only started pretending to care because other people convinced me it was important.

I felt like someone on her deathbed, looking around at her possessions and finally comprehending their meaninglessness. It was 100% empowering and 100% disenchanting.

Let go of the idea that you'll one day have the money to purchase all these adorable garments. Stop taking pictures of all the knick-knacks for which you'll one day have a cupboard and kitchen and home. No more looking at pictures of foxy faux hawks and wishing you could afford the cost of gel and constant maintenance.

I've decided to experiment. I won't wear any makeup at all for the rest of 2014. Not a smidgeon. I won't cut my hair for the rest of this year, either. I'll keep myself clean and respectable and comply with enough of society's rules so as not to offend (like dressing modestly in Istanbul), but I will let the rest go. I even joked with Ümit about not shaving my legs, but his horrified reaction suggested that an apishly hairy Aimee might be taking this new approach one step too far.

"What's wrong with hairy legs?" I queried playfully.

"It is offensive in Turkey," his response surprised me.

"Offensive?" I'd considered that hairiness might be viewed as aesthetically undesirable, but I'd never thought hairy legs had the power to offend anyone.

"To have hair. Removing hair is a part of being clean. Men and women must shave their armpits -- "

"The men have to shave their armpits?"

"Yes. And the genital area is always shaved."

"Oh... well, it's cold in Istanbul, so no one has to see my hairy bits anyway," I thought about the fact that I'd already gone over a month and a half without taking the razor to my legs. Affordable, eco-friendly insulation. Go me. 

We detoured at Burger King on the way to teach our Wednesday evening lessons at the airport. Ümit was ravenous and ordered a burger. He offered me some fries and I nibbled a few, working through my confusion that people would willingly pull into Burger King when there were so many delicious kebap shops to be found.

The lesson was brief. Two out of six students showed up and two out of six students left half an hour into our discussion on the weather --

"What is hail? It is not snow, it is not rain -- hail is like hundreds of tiny ice-balls hitting the ground."

"What is mist? What is fog? Which country has humid weather? What was the weather like last week?"

-- to work on a malfunctioning airplane, or something of that nature. They led me to Ümit's classroom where I assisted him until his session culminated at eight o'clock and his exhausted students returned to their Istanbul apartments. Then my host dropped me off at the dark, Florya metrobus station and wished me a pleasant evening. He drove home to his beautiful wife and adorable baby girl and I made off to Cesim's flat -- where we drank a sweet black mulberry wine and raised our glasses my 8 months of travel.

I fell asleep that night considering the space I'd just created in my life.

Maybe it's not a lot... a few minutes not applying makeup in the morning. A moment not removing makeup in the evening. Time spent watching hands and faces instead of watching pants and coats. Practicing French instead of checking the current deal on Steep and Cheap. 

No, it's not a lot... but I think that this shift of focus will be noticeable enough to deter some of the unwelcome attention and to draw out the sort of people with whom I can have connections that are meaningful to me.