Glory Ho

Months ago, on our way to the “cotton castle”, in Pamukalle, Turkey, we were beckoned inside a home by a squat women, let’s call her Helga, with chapped hands and a ruthless expression of hospitality. It was something we’d seen before.

Come, come, it said. Take off your shoes, it insisted. Have some tea, it offered. Buy something completely useless to weigh down your backpack. It’s Turkish tradition.

And so we did.

A photo from Turkey. . I’d forgotten all about it.

Back in Turkey, many falafels ago, we learned that the Turkish word for “one” was “beer”. Nice and easy to remember. In fact, we learned the numbers 1-5 by inventing a bar conversation:
1.Beer?
2/Eke (yuck)
3.Ooch (ouch! don’t insult my drink)
4.Dirt (it tastes like dirt)
5.Besha (that’s bullshit)

The word for ‘beer’ in Turkish is “beer”.

When we arrived, we had plenty of misconceptions about the oppression of religion in this country. With prayers-calling five times a day and gaggles of headscarfed women, we figured most people were devout Muslims and that alcohol would be unavailable, cleavage would be kept covered and vodka ads would not resemble drunk Victoria’s Secret models (as they had in Bulgaria). The latter two turned out to be true. The former two not so much. The majority of the population in Western Turkey don’t attend mosque more than a couple times a year–your typical Christmas Easter crowd, while Efes and Tuborg are easily found at the local grocery and the average kebab restaurant.

However, here’s the rub. It’s tends to be the tourists who pop a top. When we were invited back to a flat by a couple of college kids in Eskeshihir, they served us Coke. Cool, thirty-something couchsurfing host Sezgin did not consider picking up beer or wine when we prepped for dinner. At the olive farm where we volunteered, wine was served with one dinner in 14 days.

But our night out in Antalya took the cake. When we went to an American-style bowling alley during three games (!) no (!) one (!) had (!) a (!) beer. Including us—it was brutal. At the beach park bar afterwards, the others sipped tonics while we split a conspicuous bottle.

Alcohol is simply less accepted. People were raised to get happy on nicotine and sugar instead of Schnapps.

On the ten minute drive home that night, couchsurfing host’s Fevy’s car was flagged down for a random breathalizer test. It all took about two minutes. The courteous policeman unwrapped what looked like a tampon applicator, attached it to a monitor and asked her to blow. To no one’s surprise, she blew a 0.0. I asked what would have happened if the result had been different. What was the law? What were the consequences? She didn’t know.

Luckily, we continued to find beer in the Middle East, even if our hostel occasionally outlawed it, liqour stores were well-hidden and non-transparent carrying bags were recommended.

But then we arrived in Dahab, where beer was once again in a snug koozie of celebration. Below is the minute-by-minute capturing of Michael and Stella (the Egyptian beer).

Back in Antakya with the girls, they treated us to a different restaurant each night, planning or outings as if they’d known us for years. Even when we were ready for bed, they insisted: more tea, more fatoush, more kunefe.  

I never caught the name of this particular place, but I’ll never forget it.

The air seemed finite, like the space inside a paper sack. There were endless rooms. Each wall was a giant quilt from Anthropologie, murals outlined with frayed edges wandered freely. Fake antiques and hanging hollow gourds tried very hard. Curtains and beads swung above a mud-room’s amount of leopard slippers. In every space, wood stoves grew up through the ceiling. Half-tended herb gardens lived in makeshift containers and macramé cooed from around fierce yucca plants while fat and flowered women wandered without obvious purpose. The ceiling was burlap. The floor a notch above dirt. Between, ropes and bamboo had been forced together to form a very odd couple. Buddhist and Roman statues posed with uncertainty as if they’d missed their stop at the museum. Men with apathetic expressions rolled dough for traditional Turkish dessert behind glass. Hookah pipes snaked round red and royal-blue trees of tar. This restaurant couldn’t decide if it wanted to live in Egypt or within the confines of a 1960s commune. Like any obedient customer, I mimicked what I saw. Utter disorientation.

In our brown room with old photographs and rugpiles, we were served Kunefe, a popular dessert in Southeast Turkey. Kunefe was essentially baked cheese, splashed with honey and covered with a thin toasted crust and a toss of pistachios. It was both heavenly and heavy. A languid women served tea on on a wood tray, each glass bottom already glistening with piles of sugar, the granules dreaming of the cavities they would soon create in my mouth.

But nothing could make up for the Fish.

Against one wall above the couch, a backlit fish tank hummed with purpose, as if only following the rules. Doing its job. Plugged into the wall. Inside, a goldfish shone bright in the corner of the tank, orange with the unnatural hue of Sunkist soda, twirling, flipping and sliding along the glass with the water’s current.

Except the goldfish was dead.

Who knows when the submission had come. When the food had been forgotten. Why the fish had not been flushed.

But worse than the discomfiting loss of life was the fish’s fate. To be a puppet to the kinetics of the tank’s current. To flip and flop without will or control as artificial life sent its body in circles. This too closely resembled the life of people who’d given up on dreams. . .on change. . . on going their own way. Because at a glance, the fish looked alive. But in reality, its fishy little soul was long gone.

So I sat there having a hard time not looking at it. . .hoping I would suddently realize it was actually alive, fidgeting at the icky energy of a place trying too hard to be trendy and failing with the most simple of Feng Shui principles.

And as much as I enjoy sushi, I am amazed that I still think of that dead fish with sympathy and sadness.

When I was ın my slumber party phase, my friends and I played those games. You know the ones. Light as a feather, stiff as a board, quiet as a churchmouse. We choked each other to deplete the amount of oxygen traveling to our brain and passed out for seconds at a time. But most of all, we sat knee to knee with the Ouija Board between us. Often at night. Sometimes at a cemetery. Obviously, we enjoyed fear and had a penchant for the mystical. But mostly, we wanted to find out who we would marry.

Years later in college, I Ouija’d with some of my sorority sisters in the attic of our 19th century house. The last thing I remember is running down three flights of its spiral staircase toward the land of the living. It was a fun freak out, but I decided then that I would leave devils and destiny alone.

So when I saw the board propped in my room’s fireplace at Yakaba, it certainly contributed to the spookiness of our space. But I was no longer worried about spirits. I began thinking about free will. 

As a child, belief in a predetermined path of fate through either a mystical presence or a religious God provides comfort and reassurance–especially at a time when we may feel lost or confused. But ideally, as an adult, we feel empowered to change and influence our own life, leaning on an alleged higher power a little less often.

Instinctively, I gravitate toward free will philosophies. I believe I am responsible for my own happiness. I adhere to the Open Space Law of Two Feet (if you’re neither contributing nor getting value where you are, use your two feet (or available form of mobility) and go somewhere where you can) . I am not repulsed by Tony Robbins. And I’ve always loved this little gem from Live Life To The Fullest, a gift from Aunt Sue at graduation: Act as if everything depends on upon you, but pray as if everything depends upon God.

However, for balance, and to help me release some control and literally go with the flow, I also sway toward more fatalistic mantras. I repeat: This is where God circled for me to be on the map. I believe in the other Open Space saying: The people here are the right people. I trust in the universe.

But in the past few years, a new concept has came rolling into my driveway. One that meets somewhere in the middle. . .and reconciles the two schools of thought. Two years ago, I watched science, positive thinking and mysticism collide in What the Bleep Do We Know. I listened to the hokily-delivered, but powerful lectures of Abraham Hicks. And at Yakaba, I read between the not-so-literary lines in James Redfield’s Celestine Prophecy. Here’s what they (and not coincidentally, Buddhists,) say: While I am the master of my own destiny, and I need not depend on the universe for answers or direction, my connection with the universe is still crucial. Because if I can harness its power and energy, one much greater than little old me, then through deliberate creation, (free will and intention) I can attract exactly what I want.  

Tapping the universe? Harnessing energy? I know, it’s tough to believe, let alone embrace. And I’ve been thinking about it for a few years now.  But . . .just give it a whirl, think of it as positive thinking with a pirouettte and let it carry you away for a dance or two. It’s good stuff.

I’m still in denial about moving that mysterious Ouija planchette. At least on purpose. But even back then, as we reached out our adolescent hands to the universe, probing for information about our hopes and dreams, we were practicing for life. Because we did get something back. I think our only mistake was attributing the message we received to a higher force. . .when it was really coming from ourselves.

We are now in Syria.

Although there were stories or interrogations and bright overhead lights, none of that happened. But we had our own initiation–we were taken “hostage” by an overly hospitable border family for 36 hours in what we’ve come to call the Will of the Collective.

It all started when “the girls” put us on a dolmush (a minibus) headed for Reyhanle, a Syrian-Turkey border town, with instructions that the family of their friend, Guler, would help us get on a bus to Syria. In Reyhanle, we were intercepted by a guy who we could only assume was the right one. Hussein led us away from the bus stop to his home, where we were served breakfast of bread, olives, jam, cheese and tea in a carpet picnic with the rest of his family staring in awe. It was 9:00 AM. Two hours later we learned that we would be sleeping there and tomorrow we’d go to Syria.

Mmmmhmmmm.

But this kindness killing was nothing new. And these days we were choosing the shabby, often neglected door marked “Time” over the hundreds of fancy French double doors marked “Money”. So it was okay.

Sort of.

The rest of the day, we were treated like a mix of celebrity, toddler and Christmas toy–never left alone. We were explained how to wash our hands, taught to dip our bread in our cheese and told that we definitely wanted another cup of tea. Hussein repeated to us in VERY minimal English, roughly every seven minutes (I say roughly because it felt like every four seconds), these three messages: 1) that we were all one–that Hussein’s father was our father, his sisters were our sisters, his brother our brother 2) that we would go tomorrow to Syria and 3) that all of us would chat via Windows Instant Messenger so we could continue these fulfilling conversations beyond today.

There was a village tour, a bread-making demonstration and a lot of Arabic music before it became apparent that I was to hang out in the girl’s bedroom with Fatmah, 25 and Selva, 19, and somehow find conversation even though neither of them spoke any English. Michael’s place was on the couch next to brother Ali, Hussein and their father or in the computer room, using the translation software to have very caveman-like conversations. That night I stayed with the girls and I’m still not sure where Michael slept. The next morning when we hugged in a relieved embrace, the show of affection was a spectacle. Luckily, they all thought it was really funny instead of really disrespecting.

We finally made it across the border that day. Although the three men’s presence (there was no bus, we were forced to hire a taxi) helped hurry the border patrol along with their tapping fingers and Arabic jabber, we had no idea what they were explaining about our visit, our visa, anything–and we didn’t like that one bit. How, we thought, could it be possible that getting by in a foreign country could be so much more stressful WITH help than WITHOUT?

But mostly, we are puzzled by what seemed, regardless of culture, a complete lack of respect for our own schedule or preferences. We were never ASKED if we wanted to stay over. We were TOLD. And a few days ago, the hotel clerk, Ahmed, a nice guy who we’d become friends with over the past few nights of wine and conversation, did not INVITE us to his home to meet his family for dinner, he TOLD us we would be going.

Let’s be clear. I am very appreciative of this hospitality. But I’m still curious about its roots.

In both Turkey and Syria, the dinner table is one big appetizer platter. Almost all food is communal. One or two water glasses serve a group of seven. Bedrooms, due to energy costs and space, are divided only between sexes. The idea of privacy. . .of the individual. . .is missing. These people assume that because we have no friends or family, we will be grateful for the “comfort” of a group. No matter what.

It is simply the Will of the Collective.

In Antakya, Turkey, our last planned stop before Syria, we stayed with Sakine–a friend of Fevy, our host in Antalya–and her sisters:

Feygin, Jaylin (we called her JLo) and Sakine, not yet married, all lived with their mother in a large flat, where they lit a fire to take a shower and drove each other around in a fifteen year-old car. They didn’t mind sharing a bedroom, because it also meant sharing expenses. Most amusing, the girls were tough-skinned, teasing each other (and eventually us) mercilessly, as they drove in the rain, from one nargile bar, restaurant or tourist site to another, JLo singing and movie quoting the whole way. A big Sunday breakfast, a space heater for sleeping, a trip to the coast and a Christmas tree (!) also made for endless good times in Antakya.

Proven  by the pillow fight (WHICH TOOK PLACE IN A RESTUARANT) below.

This near-the-Syrian-border town also marked a cultural shift, as the pepper paste became spicier, the hummus more plentiful (hallelujah!) and the Kunefe, a cheese, syrup and pastry dessert, more obligatory. In addition, this family was Alevi, a 15 million-strong religious and cultural community in Turkey. Alevi is profoundly influenced by humanism, where women and men are equal and the focus is on uniting with God during ceremonies including music and dance. Some consider Alevism a type of Shi’a Islam since Alevis accept Shi’i beliefs about Imam Ali.

Finally, and perhaps most profoundly, we began to realize just how sacred a ground we were beginning to cover in this part of the world.

The Church of St. Peter (merely a cave and rocky Indiana Jones-like escape tunnel) is widely believed to have been dug by Peter (yes, the Apostle!) for the budding Christian community of Antakya (then Antioch), where he and Paul (yes, the other important Apostle!) preached around 50 A.D.

It is rumoured that the inhabitants of Antioch were the first to call Jesus’ followers “Christians” (Acts 11:26).

(I did not take the picture above)

But I did take this one–me taking water from the allegedly healing water of a dripping pool in the corner of the church/grotto.

With such Christian roots, we decided to look a little harder for any current Catholicism. And after a windy walk through the medina,

we found it.

Their guesthouse was without heat, and even then, unfortunately too expensive for our hobo blood, but we visited their altar and Michael video’d and photographed and spoke at length with other parishioners, including a French woman who was WALKING on a pilgrimmage from France to Jerusalem.

Our Syrian border story coming soon. . . .

Our Buying bananas straight from the plantation.

Our hitchhiking host (left) along the switchbacks and dreary seacoast towns of Mediterranean Turkey.

We are at the end of the beginning. On the road for over fifty six days, our life is predictably unpredictable. Here’s how one day unfolded:

7:00 Michael’s watch alarm goes off.

7:25 We get up. High energy costs mean bedrooms are typically pretty cold, so unless there’s a room heater, I sleep in my clothes. No need to get dressed. I brush my teeth and hair and put the blankets back on the bed (we have long since stopped mourning the lack of sheets). It has rained quite frequently on our trip, so I retrieve my windbreaker and make sure my half-gloves are in the pockets—the kind that homeless people usually wear. It is Saturday. Last time I showered? Wednesday night.

7:45: Tejad asks us if we have everything. He does not live here. Fuat does. But we stayed with Tejad the night before we moved here and he slept over. And yesterday, another guy, Oz, gave us a tour of the mosque, explained why it was $130 to fill up a car with gas here and found us rain ponchos. Tejad is a tall, half-bearded 22-year old studying economics in Adana and is very inclined to laugh. He can recite the Denver Nuggets roster and until last night thought that they were named after McDonald’s famous chicken meal. He’s also a huge fan of the show How I Met Your Mother. We’d never heard of it yesterday, but by now have seen six episodes.

8:00: We are on a city bus to the train station. Tejad insisted on accompanying us there because we are helpless tourists.

8:30: At the station, we buy two tickets to Iskendar for about $10. It’s not much, but we wince as this is the first time we’ve paid for transportation since Day 14.

8:45: Tejad leaves us and Michael goes to get breakfast. Small cheese pastries and a cup of plain yogurt.

10:09: Pretending to read. A complete stranger gives her baby to six college-age kids on the train and they pass the baby around, cooing and giggling before handing him back.

10:15: Having bonded over the child, the kids begin to ask us questions by first huddling over a pen and newspaper then presenting us with sentences they have formed in English. They go something like this:

Are you want US be in Iraq?

You like Amedinijad?

Rapport quickly develops as they giggle and practice their English. They are all cousins—Emre, Ibrahim, Inur, Fudya and Hussein—coming home for the weekend from University.

You want come our house?

11:30: We are sitting on the floor in Fudya’s living room with eight Turkish kids eating spinach burek, cabbage, and potato soup. There is a lot of laughing and giddiness. THIS is traveling. Her home is in a small village—a walk, taxi and minibus ride from the train we got off in the middle of nowhere.

12:10: We are introduced to the ram they will slaughter next week for Korban Bayrami, the Muslim holiday.

12:15: We visit their football stadium, the village river, their parent’s orchard and more family members. Friends come by. Tea is served. There is a lot of cheek touching—the physical greeting here in Turkey. When Ibrahim’s sess his grandfather, he kisses his hand.

3:30: Using our SIM card in their phone, we call our hosts in Antakya (friends of a couchsurfer in Antalya) and have the kids explain our schedule.

4:30: We are on sitting on $5 bus to Antakya, a bag of 25 oranges in hand as well as a free new pair of socks (you have no idea how exciting that is) and a warm fuzzy feeling, looking out the window at three of our hosts who will not leave the station until we have safely departed. A horror movie (American of course) is playing on the bus television. We are soon offered chocolate cookies and Coke by the bus attendant.

6:00: Standing in a very dark parking lot, only a barber’s lights in sight. We need a phone to call Sakine.

6:02: After two phone calls, a lot of confusion, a barber shop visit, hovering taxi drivers, we are riding in a small white car through a very dark Antakya. We do not know the driver. He will not speak to us.The whole thing would have been very sketchy, but only because why would a very grumpy guy with a broken hand and no gas in his car be willing to drive total strangers to meet another total stranger in another part of town unless he was getting something out of the deal? But the answer to that is “because that guy is Turkish.” And that’s why there is nothing sketchy about this at all.

6:30: We meet smiley, energetic Sakine and Jaylin, two of the three sisters who will host us for two nights (which turned into four) in this much more Middle Eastern city near the Syrian border which claims to be home to the very first church in the entire world. Peter and Paul apparently hung out here.

Night 56 will have to be another blog.

“We have fish. Very nice fish. I can cook for you with corn, wheat corn.”

Fish sounds dreamy but is usually way beyond our budget. We exchange concerned glances.

“How much?”

“I make whole meal for $12 together. We have very nice wine here in Anamure.”

“How much?

“Ten lira for you”

(Alcohol is a big splurge for us. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a beer. We don’t say anything.)

“We have breakfast here in morning.”

“How much?”

“Ummm, 3.5 Lira”

(We consider. We just bargained the pension for 20 lira, down from 30, because we skipped breakfast and heat. Now he wants 7 lira for breakfast?)

“You are American?”

“Yes. Ben Americaleem,” we say in Turkish.

“Because usually America my best customers, spend lots of money, (he pantomimes throwing money into the air). Where are you from? Homeless part of America?”

“No,” we say, looking at each other and realizing just how cheap we’ve become. “We from Denver.”