Withdrawals -- Istanbul, Turkey

I’m starting this post from the spare room of the Beylikdüzü apartment. It’s after nine and Umit has just returned from work. He coos over his baby girl (who has stubbornly refused to sleep all afternoon) in the living room and the stove clicks and sputters as Seher heats up a late dinner in the kitchen. Teaspoons clink against tulip shaped tea glasses. Whenever Seher starts a conversation with Umit that lasts more than approximately fifteen seconds, Öykü bursts into indignant screams of "why are you not paying attention to me? I'm clearly the cutest and most interesting creature in the room."  

"Why weren't you talking to meeeeee?"

 

 

Nearly a week with no makeup. Nearly a week of ignoring the pretty dresses. Nearly a week of dismissing most my material desires as “not useful”.

Honestly? It isn’t easy. Honestly? There are moments I hate it. Honestly? Sometimes I already wish I could throw away my backpack instead of the makeup and splurge on that checkered dress in the shop 30 meters down the road from Galata Tower.

I walk down the street and I feel my flaws. The scuffmarks on my boots glare up at me.

“You slob.”

My reflection flits by on the tram. My undefined eyes stare, stare, stare accusingly as the windows whoosh, whoosh, whoosh past.

“God, you look terrible.”

I drop my gaze to the scuffmarks on my boots.

This isn’t what I want, echoes glumly in my unadorned head. This isn’t what I want. I'd rather stop wanting altogether. Appearance is not my priority... so why is it so hard to relinquish these final elements of vanity? Why does it bother me that the girl standing on my left is wearing a significantly more stylish coat? Argh. The only thing that’s wrong with my coat is that the zipper is mostly broken and it’s only partially waterproof. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why can’t I just not be bothered?

Well, she might have a nice coat, but at least my boots are from Italy. My underwear is from France. My skirt is from Colorado and my shirt is from England. At least I –

GAH! NO! This is also not what I want. Why do I have to make myself better than that girl with the cute coat? self-loathing sliced through my smugness.

I’ve given up makeup and anything resembling trendy clothes, so I’ve found something else with which to assert my superiority.

Bet those boots have only walked on one continent, my smugness returned full throttle as a gorgeous woman with impeccable makeup, designer clothing and kickass boots boarded the tram. ARGH. It is none of my business where her boots have been.

The need to compare appears to be an unfortunate aspect of the human condition that I can’t seem to shake. I find myself desperately seeking similarities and dissimilarities even though I care nothing for the standard.

A Turkish woman is successful if she is thin, stylish, keeps a clean house, managed to snag a prosperous Islamic man (when she was a virgin) and has at least two children.

According to Turkish standards, I am a first-rate flop of a human being. I understand that I have absolutely no maternal urges and am not on the lookout for a prosperous Islamic man who will let me keep his house, but I’m still human and I still long to fit. To be noticed and admired and even envied a little. So although I want nothing to do with this society’s standard of perfection, failing so hard is still a bit of a bummer for my ego.

I returned to Beylikduzu early this afternoon to chat with some of Seher’s old students over a light (and very late) lunch. 

Öykü's main goal at every meal is not to eat, but to create a masterful disaster for Seher to clean up later.

While I waited for them to arrive, I emptied the contents of my backpack onto the spare room’s stiff, orange futon.

 What can I still get rid of? What is not worth carrying? What do I have that simply serves my vanity and has no other function? These shirts. These dresses. This underwear. Are they worth carrying? Will they enhance my life so much that I’m willing to let them weigh me down on the side of the road for what could be hours as I wait for a ride?

It’s so hard to get rid of things I’ve carried so long. It’s so painful to leave behind items that carry so many memories. I don’t need them... they’ll only slow me down... but did I lug them around on my back this long for nothing? Eight months is a long time to feel that weight... but nine months is longer. Did I waste all that money on things I’d be forced to leave behind in Beylikduzu? No. That money was not wasted. It bought a lesson. A lesson on being light.

I separated the useful from the merely beautiful and then took inventory of clothes. 

·      Two sports bras (double as bathing suit tops)

·      Three pairs of underwear

·      One bathing suit bottom (underwear does not double so well as bathing suit bottom. Sadly)

·      Three undershirts

·      One pair of long underwear

·      Four pairs of socks

·      Two long sleeved shirts

·      Three yoga shirts

·      Two pairs of yoga pants

·      One pair of shorts

·      One super useful black skirt

·      One sarong

·      One down jacket

·      One sweater

·      One pair of boots

·      One pair of active shoes

This still seems like way too much at first glance. Then I remember that this is all I have and it starts to look a lot smaller.

I told Seher that I’d thrown out my makeup and had decided to whittle down the contents of my bag to only the most useful.

“Turkey is not good for you,” she said after a moment’s thought. “And you are not good for Turkey. We are the complete opposite.”

“Yes, but sometimes that’s the best way to learn. I think that through immersing yourself in a culture that holds dramatically different values, you find out what’s really important to you. Looking beautiful isn’t really important to me. I’d rather be mobile than pretty.”

Even though I can’t stop comparing myself to the pretty women in the tram. Maybe one day. Maybe one day I’ll feel good about who I am without having to put someone else down first. Oof.