Glory Ho

I look thrilled don’t I?

Maybe I’m not into rocks. Maybe my history-obsessed friend Nicole drug me toward too many ruins when we backpacked in Greece. Maybe I’m just ignorant. But once you’ve seen a bunch of columns, you’ve already seen a few too many.

This was a latrine. That was a slave quarters. Over here was where the Romans had sex.

I actually DO like history. I adore antiques. I hear there are seven wonders worth seeing. The Acropolis was cool. So was St. Peters. I have romped through many a castle and monument with fascination. And I can honestly tell you that if I found a genie in a bottle I would go back in time.

But a field of rubble and ruins, with sometimes English-translated facts that I will soon forget just doesn’t do it for me.

When they unearth new treasures, new tombs, new teeth, I always think about what my husband once said after reading an article about recently discovered dinosaur bones:

Put them with the rest.

So whaddya think this means? Okay, so it means no honking. Maybe this is obvıous. But when we first saw it, we were trying to picture the council meeting which could have instigated such a sign:

“I’m serious, Sezgin, I’ve had enough of that ridiculous orchestral rubbish and I want something done about it!”
“Now, Erkan, there’s no reason to get all worked up about a little trumpet playing. ”
“He’s got a point,” said Ibrahim. “After fifty seven renditions of the theme from Lawrence of Arabia, even music connoisseurs have a limit . .”
“Okay, okay, I hear what you’re saying,” said Sezgin. “I’ll get a few signs up and give word to the band director at Denizli Musical Academy to give it a rest.”

Our hostel hostess Yoomi, in Pamukkale was a fabulous cook and a motherly presence. I”ll miss her. (Photo by Michael)

What ıs that language at the top right?????

We hitchhiked today.

It was the first time for both of us. Never took more than six minutes to get a ride and four friendly people carried us across the southwestern half of the country. A Turkish bus (complete with wet wipes, tea, juice, cookies and water) is not bad, but hitchhiking is better. It’s cheap, a challenge, and just so much more interesting. Most of all, it’s a move that expresses our comfort in the seat we call the universe. Not every situation, time of day, country and road are right for it, but today was. It’s how we found ourselves learning Turkish numbers while drinking tea in a hospital, a pit stop for two young well-dressed medical workers who picked us up, because you know, in Turkey, a hitchhiker-host just doesn’t think twice about running an errand and figuring you’d like to come too. How the first guy with his shiny SUV and three-year old begged us to come back to his house for breakfast and meet his wife. How we were eventually between the leather of a mafioso’s BMW, smoke seeming to come from his ears as much as his mouth, racing along the mountains to a Michael Bolton meets Oriental kind of tune. But he bought lamb-roasted lunch from his wad of 50s. Delivered us well. Made sure we were comfortable. Like Tony Soprano, he was mad at his boss and his cell phone and his past and his money—not us.

Besides, he was so obviously a blinking neon light: Michael. Andrea. You’re on the right track. Money isn’t exactly the key.

Indeed, hitchhiking is liberating.

But this was only the first half of the day. Then we arrived at Yakabag Farm. Which is basically a commune. For those who like to think of your life as a movie, please picture mine a cabernet-merlot blend of The Tuscan Sun, Stealing Beauty and the Beach, but with more hippies. No, really. I think I saw Ken Kesey in the hall yesterday.

People come and go. You can stay as long as you want. There are few introductions and less instructions. You learn as you go. If you have a question, just ask. The atmosphere, along with whatever tribal rhythms happen to be on, seem to say cheerfully: There’s so much to do but all of eternity to do it in.

You can clean the kitchen. Or not clean the kitchen.

The grape vines which do a shadow dance on my wall will keep growing either way. The pomegranates with their nest of sweet, fossilized rubies stacked inside, (the fruit which flavored my grenadine’d girlie drinks through college,) will keep falling to the ground, ripe and real. This morning I practiced yoga on the roof. I learned to make bread. I met the horse I am encouraged to ride. I saw the complex, olive-smashing machine, which has just now begun working—the one Sinan hired an Italian to make seven years ago. I signed up to make breakfast on Saturday. I was assigned to weed the orchard. I sat on a wooden blue chair and ate olives and tea and oranges for breakfast with nine housemates.

And the scenery. We are in a fabulous fairytale valley of villages, orchards, headscarf-wrapped tractor drivers, stone farmhouses and a lot of chickens and sheep. A mosque’s wandering minaret with its tiny megaphones whose prayers awake us at 6:30 each AM, pricks the sunset. Mountains are every which way but up.

While the attic of this 19^th century farm house is a shadowy, bamboo-sheet divided barn of sleeping bags, blankets and candles, much like the hut where we stayed in Thailand, the only appropriate word for our room is spooky. A fireplace painted with ocean swirls and Hindu temples was painted by someone who, I can tell, might have been, say, a teacher, but just got up one day and decided to paint the fireplace. Two window seats, shielded by satin curtains on one side and Ottoman timber shutters on the other, are a perfect hiding place between worlds. The shelf above the naked black seamstress’s mannequin bust is lined with handwritten-labeled potions and oils. A light bulb cradled by a wide-brimmed hat, sliced to let in the light,  creates what can only be described as an extremely eerie glow. A crinoline mosquito petticoat bustle hangs above our heads. No less than seven swaying dream-catchers are not letting anything, good or bad, out of that room. A red and decadent elephant tapestry, which I just realized I find happiness and safety in, lifts its trunk from one wall. No wonder. Because a Ouija board, patient and perfectly crafted by good ‘ol Parker Brothers, is propped within the fireplace’s forgotten ashes. 

And now, we lounge, a shelf of luscious unread books at my side. I just changed the CD —someWoodstock sounds—and to my surprise, just as we end our umpteenth conversation about our hitchhiking experience, Hitchin’ A Ride comes on. What’s stranger is that my Mom had this 45 when I was little. I can picture the label. It was red. Yet I had always passed it up for Crocodile Rock. I’ve never once heard it before right now. Even on those late night commercials.

I guess it’s been waiting for me to understand.

________________________________________

“Merhaba,” I say to the bartender.

 He smiles wide, ready to take my request, customer service hugging him like an aura.

 “Do you have a pen and a paper?” I ask in English, following Michael’s advice to at least begin communication in full sentences rather than the toddler style of pointing and blurting.

But he doesn’t speak any English and shakes his head in confusion.

No problem. I try again with pantomime by drawing a square on the bar, then pretending to write something upon it.

Aha! He seems to say, a look of recognition on his face. And promptly brings me the salt.

I laught pretty loud before I just start looking for a pencil. And find one. I guess I never was terribly good at charades. . .

Sitting here talking about love life issues. Just ordered a dominos pizza. Celine Dion’s French voice is in the air.

But first having cigarettes and coffee. Tea will be after the meal. How does anyone sleep here?

When Sez’s couchsurfing profile told me that his motto in life was: “take the blue pill,” I knew he would be a good host. But I had no idea what we were in for. By day, while Sez went to work, we read, wrote, cooked and wandered his neighborhood of apartments, patisseries and dirt soccer fields. When he returned home, we fell into conversation about Bush, the PKK (see video here) and the troubles of his Iranian friend, Sara. He played Arabesque Turkish love songs for us. His friend Erkan improved his English. We taught him the words to They Might Be Giants rendition of the Istanbul-Constantinople song.

One night, we saw live Turkish music, clapping along with immersion beneath the ceiling-wrapped vines of tulip lights, green wavy walls and round tables of testosterone. We drank Tuborg and took pictures. We ate a traditional cig kufte appetizer of spicy raw meat sprinkled with lemon and wrapped in a lettuce leaf. And then, we were forced to sing what words we knew of Hotel California into a microphone. In front of the bar. Surely out of sympathy, the bar’s ten patrons applauded.

Here in Denizli, where he lived, there was nothing to see. He knew that. We knew that. But we didn’t care. We were interested in speaking with the real Turkish people about life. What they ate for breakfast. (olives, bread, jam) How much vacation they got. (two weeks) How they dated. (A lot of very formal set ups).

And even Lonely Planet, the bible of all guidebooks, with its boxed vignettes of anecdotes about regional cuisine and historical legends, has become, shall we say, “quaint” after the cultural exchange which is possible from couchsurfing. . . .

So many experiences, so little time. . . .six months will never be enough.

I’d heard the stew-brewing controversy about the headscarf ban a few years ago, but I never really got it. I remember thinking: A majority of Turkey’s population are Muslim, so what’s the deal? The protests surrounding restrictions in French schools seemed to further submerge the issue in a murky bath of obvious modesty, yet nonconforming rebellion. Confused and not terribly concerned, I forgot all about it.

But a few trips to Istanbul during our Peace Corp service planted a couple quickly flowering plants in my ever-expanding, but weedy, garden of ideas. So what was the headscarf ban all about? Should women be allowed to wear these seemingly harmless hijabs in government-funded environments?

Our couchsurfing friend, Sez, thinks yes. But while he believes women should be able to express their own interpretations of the Koran in any way they choose, he also urged his own sisters, upon approaching adolescence, to abstain. Why? Because in Turkey, you must choose. Hijab-free, you can attend high school and university. With it, you’re forced to self-study. According to him, the Qur’an says merely to “cover yourself” but does not specify how. He feels they should not forsake their education for this amorphous rule–and that going without a headscarf does not make one less Muslim.

Now in Turkey for more than two weeks, I am no longer just reading a story about a clandestine book club amidst a Muslim community. Nor are my impressions captured within the confines of a two hour film about an American trying to escape her Iranian husband.

I understand now that this country is a lot more like Europe than the Middle East. A lot more like Greece than Iran. As I shop for groceries. . .as I walked home in the dark last night to the sound of the eternally haunting call to prayer. . .as I ride the subway with Ipod-clutching, paisley-pattern-covered, and generously eye-lined 17-year olds, I am here.

From this vantage point, complications fall away with ease. Clarity emerges. Just like in the US, some people go to church and some people don’t. Some find strength in the holy spirit, others in running triathlons and still others in restoring vintage pinball machines. It’s your choice. And similar trends shine through as well. When heading from Chicago to Sheboygan, bible ownership and potluck suppers probably increase. Similarly, Islam is more apparent in the village than in Istanbul. Women here just happen to wear their Allah-worshiping heart on their sleeve. I can see how it’s really none of anyone else’s business.

So, again, why the headscarf ban?

In short, so Turkey can maintain the glowing impression I’ve just received. Straddling the East West fault-line in many ways, they want to appear European, dedicated to secularism enough, to wash from their billowing, balcony-hung flags, any wrinkle of a potential return to an Islamic state–a place where religion and government are one, public hangings and stonings actually happen and women aren’t allowed an education. On the lengthy Turkish timeline, it was “just” a century ago that the Ottoman Empire fell and a guy named Ataturk led the Turkish National Movement, helping to establish a modern, secular Turkish democracy. And thank God (or maybe not, depending on your denomination) that he did.

In America, for the most part, we’re comfortable with yamikas, headscarves, beards, aprons, crosses or robes–whatever you deem spiritually fashionable. Maybe because religious freedom was one of our nation’s founding principles. Or maybe because there is no fear, in America, of returning to some Quaker or Christian state. However, America IS fond of what Michael calls “bright lines”; enforced laws drawn in the sand (or in our case, grass) which are relatively unsusceptible to corruption. And as much as I eventually warmed up to the benefits of a bendable rules in Bulgaria, defined lines, such as a ban on headscarves, are a characteristic of a developed country. One that works. Moreover, who knows how the United States would react (perhaps a la the French) if we had an overwhelmingly large Muslim population throwing a little too much religion into the classroom. It’s tough to say.

Strange, isn’t it that the very law which drives Turkish women away from formal education is the same one meant to make Turkey a more modern, more Western place. But so it is. And with neighbor Iran demonstrating the very Islamic state at the end of a slippery slope Turkey is struggling so desperately to avoid, I’m starting to get it. Why the headscarf is a halo of heated controversy. Why the ban is actually protecting women from a potentially worse fate. Why different laws work for different countries. Why Turkey is holding their ground.

1. Seeing a live and very unruly black ram led out of the cargo hold of a passenger bus.

2. Basking in the inspirational energy of a woman who just wrote Sinan Diaryz—a walking tour book of Istanbul’s Ottoman architecture. God, I miss American female bonding.

3. Watching Turkish woman avoid “regular” toilets in favor of the stand-up squat variety. But, I guess when you’ve been going touch-less you’re whole life, a plastic seat seems gross. (Yes, Christine, of course I’m hovering!)

4. Learning what a real supernova is.

5. Attempting to sink into the floor as a violent movie called “The Marine” began playing on a bus ride through Turkey.

6. Having a conversation about time machines with Michael over our umpteenth (Mom, this is your word!) donner kebab and ayran (something like buttermilk).

7. Time spent with Kirdir–the rug-selling, bike-renting, triathlon-coaching guy with a moustache.

8. Being served coffee, water, tea and cookies. On a bus. Does Greyhound do this?

9. The inescapable irony of having to explain that we were in the “Peace Corps”, to Turkish people, at this present time.

10. Joking with Sez, our second Turkish couch-surfing host, about the Seinfeld Soup Nazi.

These Turkısh promenade-placed shrubs are lıke a cross between egg-dyed romaine lettuce heads and those trendy crocheted broches found at Urban Outfıtters . . . .

From the Eskısehır-to-Afyon bus. As a farmers daughter, I’ve been there before.

I’ve been lookıng for an antıque-whıte, cherry-themed servıng plate. Um, no. But ıf I was, I could fınd one ın Turkey. The grocery stores have just as many wıcker cd racks, teapots and Elvıs twızzler sets as any Safeway. More stuff.

 After much mournıng I accepted the fact that I wıll be travelıng when the next season of Lost comes out . . . .but can I help ıt ıf Sawyer ıs followıng me around the world?

When you think of Turkey what comes to mind? Prison? Constantinople? E
ast Meets West? The toilets? Well. . .it sure seems more like P-R-I-D-E.

I’ve never seen so many flags at once.

Even after 9/11.

Turkey flies their red and white with side-of-a-building-sized gestures and in the strangest spots. Everywhere. Which, to be honest, makes everywhere feel just a little bit more festive. As if you mıght run into a pageant, parade, or cotton candy stand around the next corner.

Thing is, I’m trying to picture, say, New York like this. A flag at Macys. Dozens more from East side apartment balconies. Stars and stripes down the Empire State Building. Strung in tiny triangles from telephone poles in the village. In the back window of taxis along fifth avenue. It’s probably Old Navy’s attempt to make the flag a fashion statement and the lack of support for the current administration, but this vision seems both impossible and cheesy. And American gets so much shit for being patriotic—especially from the Brits! We’ve got nothing on Turkey!

But the flags are only a beginning. Turks actually “scurry” to find someone who speaks English for us. They walk us to where we want to go. Invite us back to their place for beers. Carry our bags. Pay for our tickets. Give us extra tea. They are the most hospitable people we’ve ever encountered and we get the
feeling it’s because they are proud. They want us to leave their country and
spread the love. Who are we to say no?

For our fırst couchsurfıng experıence, we stayed with Meriç (pronounced Merich) in Bursa. He lived in a farm of landscaped pastel apartment buildings in the suburbs. He commuted to work, drove downtown to go bar-hopping, ate lunch and dinner in a company food court and shopped at a massive grocery store built just for his subdivision. The grocery store looked a lot lıke Albertsons. If it weren’t for the flags, it could have been Aurora.

Honest, sincere and accommodating, Meriç was an angelic host. He took us to dinner, drove us around, helped us fax and print and picked us up from the ferry. We stayed two nights, but he would have let us sleep ın hıs college-lıke flat for a week. Merıç and his easy-going, Facebook-belonging friends drank wheat beer, worked in cubicles, and smoked Marlboro Lights. So I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when they said to us, upon hearing about our Peace Corps service and future plans: But what about security? What about your future? Aren’t you worried? How could you just abondon your jobs? And Syria? Be careful!

The same comments we get from fellow Americans.

You just never know what you’re gonna get. . .