On a subway from the center of Bursa. Playing peekabo with Boudreaux in the glass reflections of the Turkish night. When an older, soft-skinned man in the Turkish uniform–a tweed sport coat, knit black chemise and shiny dress shoe attire sat down next to my husband. He was looking for a little attention. Nodding. Maybe pleading. I could see quite a distance into his eyes—enough to know he wasn’t entirely here with us. But instincts are pretty useful. And I knew that he wasn’t looking for trouble. Boudreaux noticed my expression and nonverbally inquired what was up. I gave him my: “No big deal, we’re just in a developing country” look.
But then, Boudreaux, unable to resist the man’s own nonverbal cues, turned:
“Merhaba,” he said.
“Merhaba” the old man responded and shook Boudreaux’s hand.
Then the Old Man began talking and he continued for a long while. Michael nodded in sympathetic agreement. “Yes, yes, I know. . .” he agreed. And “Mmhmm. I understand,” he said. The Old Man placed Boudreaux’s hand on his forehead, then again to his lips. He made emphatic gestures, bringing all four fingers to his thumb and made a silent kissing gesture at his mouth, as a television character might tell you that the spaghetti sauce is “Italian”.
But I got the feeling he was talking about life.
By this time, other passengers had noticed. They weren’t showing annoyance or embarrassment by staring out the window. Only smiling with sympathy and compassion. Two plump, red-and-white-head-scarfed women were giggling a bit. But it was soft and kind. A wide-mouthed student against the window listened with her looks. As a stop approached, a kid with a goatee, about 20, began loosely translating.
“He wants to know if you have children. If you believe in God. He’s saying he hopes you will be happy,”
This is just how Turkey rolls.
What a great memory