one month

Yesterday was kind of a big deal for me. Not because I got to watch the Oscars and critique the awesome and awful shit people wore. (I didn't.) Not because it was a Sunday and I got to eat awesome Turkish brunch. (I did.) Certainly not because I got to spend a half an hour commute staring at someone reading a book and mouthing the words. (I confess - I often do that, too.) But because yesterday was my one month Istan-niversary. I arrived at Atatürk Airport precisely one month ago... yesterday.

That kind of time marker often feels a little artificial and irrelevant to me, but for some reason, this one has really set in. It's hard to believe in some ways that it's been only a month. I feel more settled in my life here than I have in a long time. I have permanent grocery list items. I've seen the same metro musicians several times now. The nice bread man finally asked me why I was here in Istanbul to buy his treats. I’ve gotten over my fear of crossing the two super scary intersections by my apartment, and I know that the stray dog that hangs out on my street will not accept any kind of carbohydrate from me. More than these minor victories though, the relationships I have with my gentleman friend, my roommates, and stinky, pregnant cat Layla feel bizarrely advanced. (Actually, same goes for my American friend Chip.) I don’t know if it’s a manifestation of Turkish culture, or just that I accidentally surrounded myself with excellent people, but I guess it doesn’t much matter. These people and this fickle beast have made a strange place and almost inevitably uncomfortable situation feel safe.

I reminded Aydın last night that it had been a month since I spotted him walking towards me at the airport. That day, like all travel days, was a blur of exhaustion and sweaty clothes. Not really the ideal time to have a reunion with someone you want to impress. Not really the ideal moment to pick up the threads of a new and bilingual relationship, either. I remember how gross my hair was after being squashed into various plane seats, and the fact that I had a super convenient zit on my nose, and how nervous I felt about my phone potentially not working. I remember how ridiculous it seemed to put my trust - and my welfare - into the hands of a straight man, when historically speaking, that hasn’t been the greatest idea I’ve had. I remember wondering if he’d even show up. I decided to head towards the benches and sit down to wait. But then there Aydın was, before the thought completed itself. He was kissing my cheeks. Taking my backpack and my suitcase. Looking much less tired than I remembered him, and without his glasses. It couldn’t have been more perfectly timed. I didn’t tell him any of those things last night (if he didn’t notice the zit I’m not going to bring it to his attention) - I just said, “I was so happy to see you.” He said, “me too. And I am happy to see you now.”

A few minutes after that conversation, I packed up my stuff and got ready to go home. With my thoughts still scattered, I left the bag I keep all of my toiletries in on Aydın’s kitchen table. Real bummer. Fortunately, due to the fact that I knew I’d be here a while, I have duplicates or alternates of a lot of things. What I don’t have though is lots of makeup. I don’t wear a lot of makeup. I didn’t think it would be a big deal to wait until Friday to reunite with my stuff, but this morning the prospect of going to work later in the day looking scrubbed and facially naked scared the shit out of me. My female students pound on the foundation and eyeshadow. A few of them look like amateur drag queens. So I did the only logical thing and located the nearest Sephora. Trusting in my visual memory, I didn’t write down the address, and consequently spent forty-five minutes walking in the icy rain, battling my cheap H&M umbrella and cursing my lack of gloves. When I finally found it in some super swanky mall called “Astoria,” I looked and felt like a wet dog. The salesgirl followed me around the store - literally - until I found a pencil eyeliner and pretended to understand her spiel about the Sephora card. I noticed unlike the other dozen Turkish malls I’ve been to, this one had both a Starbucks and a Caffè Nero. I wasn’t terribly eager to go back out into the frigid mess outside, so I got a cup of coffee and did some writing. In the warm, comfortable, and very un-Turkish glow of Caffè Nero, I realized something major:

Coming back to Istanbul was not a mistake. Not even close. Buying a one way ticket without a job or a place to live, or any kind of solid plan was fucking bat shit crazy on my part. But it was an intuitive decision, and the right one. I’m in the perfect spot to write my book, and thanks to a very open schedule and plenty of quiet, I’ve been doing it. Maybe my goals aren’t so far off.