and somehow, life continues.

I think it was fifteen minutes into my (four hour long) afternoon class today that I made my plan for the evening:
-beer
-ice cream
-bed.

I ate the ice cream bar five minutes after I got home, and am waiting for dinner to crack open the watery mess of Turkish beer otherwise known as "Efes." Bed is where I am now.

I've hesitated to write anything since that last post because, to be frank, I'm still a raging tangle of hair and hurt. As my astrological chart can attest, I am an emotional creature by nature. Some people live by thinking, analyzing, interpreting. I'm good at that, but logic and reason aren't my first response to anything. I'm more of a quiet raw nerve. And this shit hurts. Bad.

Whenever I meet new people here or get down to brass tacks with my students, the same questions arise: 1. Why Turkey? and 2. How could I be so brave to move so far from home? The first question has a pretty straight-forward answer. I love Turkish architecture, Turkish history, and Turkish food. I needed to change my life. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Here I am. The second question was easy to respond to until recently. People readily confuse my foolhardy interest in foreign life with courage. But I'll let you in on a secret you probably figured out from personal experience if you're reading this blog: they're not the same. I wasn't brave to move here; I was willfully naïve. (And I don't regret it.) And now that circumstances have changed and I feel precisely how alone I am in this crowded metropolis, my thoughts have changed as well. The person I've always been - the one who happily spends hours and even days lounging in quiet solitude with her books and art projects - seems to be vacationing in Monaco or the Himalayas. Wherever she may be, she's not here. The minutes tick by on my watch. Classes start and finish. The date changes. And I seem oblivious to everything but how empty I feel without this guy who became such a huge part of my life, and such a huge part of my Turkey.

(If you threw up in your mouth a little reading that, don't worry. I did too when I typed it. How did I become that girl?)

So many people have given me various bits of advice on how to deal with this. Most of it has been "Get over it"/"Let him go this instant"/"He's an idiot," which I totally hear and respect and agree with intellectually. If I were anyone other than me, I'd be telling myself that too. I've also been advised to keep busy, and socialize as much as possible. While the former is a given due to my work schedule, the latter is a struggle on my best of days. Nevertheless, the few friends I do have here have really stepped it up - inviting me out, scraping me out of my apartment when I decline, and trying to show me the sweetest parts of life here. Which, on one occasion, actually involved stuffing me full of sweets. (My roommate's boyfriend has a sweet tooth that rivals even mine...)

This last Thursday and Friday were two days of great social activity, both intended and unintended. Thursday afternoon I pried myself from the clutches of laundry and sulking, and took myself to Beyoğlu to take pictures and pet stray cats. I somehow ended up buying a pound of Turkish Delight at the Spice Bazaar, and then watched the sun set in Gülhane Park while waiting for a friend to show up for dinner.

April is Istanbul's International Tulip Festival, and they take their bulbs seriously:

After a wonderful evening with my friend Chip, I decided to call it a night at 10.15, and was just descending the final escalator in Istanbul's deepest metro stop when I ran smack dab into three coworkers. (Note: I like some of the people I work with [most of whom are dudes, by the way,] but have always declined their invitations out.) They said "Anya! You're coming with us!" and all but dragged me by the arm back up to the street. What ensued was a super late night of bad English language sketch comedy, and two beers at a foreigner-heavy bar with colleagues trying to get me drunk. I was grateful for the effort, but realized between the theater and the bar chat that the best part of Turkey is... Turkish people. Sure, some of them are anti-semites and misogynists. They're probably all a little xenophobic and nationalistic. But they're also friendly, funny, largely unsarcastic, and pretty charming. Which I can't really say for the bitter and self-absorbed ex-pat community I met.

Fortunately, Friday night saw me taking the metrobus to the other side of the city entirely - deep in traditional Turkish territory - to have dinner with my friends/former students Necla and Sinem, and Necla's family. Necla and Sinem were the only two girls in my first man-heavy class back in September... where I met Aydın. (I told them two weeks ago about my relationship with him and their eyes beyond bulged.) In any case, Necla has been such a supportive pal to me always that I couldn't refuse the invite. And any chance to eat homemade Turkish food is a chance I'll take. I should admit that alongside my excitement was a fair share of anxiety. There are plenty of social rules that govern these meetings, and I only know a few of them. (Take off shoes before entering a house, eat everything on the plate, try things that look dubious etc.) When Necla and I found each other at the station, she informed me that the house would be "crowded." Not only would Sinem join us, but so would Necla's grandmother, her aunt, two cousins, her stepfather, mother, little brother, and her best friend. And none of them speak English. I armed myself with all the grace and manners I could muster, as well as a pound of baklava from Istanbul's most famous 'lava joint. The evening chez Necla was wonderful. Awkward, funny, bewildering, and wonderful. Her family greeted me with such warm, open, curious arms, and I was without a doubt the honored guest. Not only did they make an entirely vegetarian meal (a sacrilege in Turkey), but every time my plate looked slightly less full, Necla's grandmother dumped half of her food onto it. And it didn't take a dictionary to understand the words that followed - I'd better finish it all... or else.

Some interesting cultural notes:
-neither Necla nor her mother cover (wear headscarves), but Necla's grandmother does. She had her scarf tied loosely around her hair until Necla's stepfather came home, and then she immediately redid it properly.
-despite telling off Necla for wearing a knee-length skirt (and opaque black tights), Necla's grandma didn't remark on my very form-fitting clothes. And she did, very sweetly, brush my bangs out of my eyes and take my face in her hands to bless me. That sounds a lot more awkward than it felt. If anything, it made me remember my own grandmothers and how infrequently they showed me that much affection.
-Necla's grandmother is definitely an "old woman," and is treated as such. But when I looked at her face, I saw that her skin is beautiful. I realized this woman can't be more than 65 - my mom's age. And I was right. Holy. Guacamole.
-Necla's five year old brother drinks his water out of a sippy-cup. What.
-Necla's stepfather never joined us for dinner. The women sat in one room together, gossiping, while he sat in his office and presumably ate alone.
-my baklava was apparently very confusing, though eaten with relish. They kept asking me why I'd brought anything, and then suggested it was because I must be very hungry. When I told them I thought it was the polite thing to do, they looked confused. I need to investigate this, though, because every time Aydın came to my apartment, he always brought a treat of some kind. And I always brought him a treat, which he accepted without comment. (Other than "thanks.") Did he lead me astray?
-after dinner and dessert, Necla made us all Turkish coffee and asked her mom to read our coffee grounds. This is a Turkish fortune-telling method called "Fal," and Necla always does it for me jokingly. When her mom obliged and sat down to read more seriously, Necla closed the kitchen door so her stepfather wouldn't know what was happening. She said "he would be angry if he knew she was doing this." ??? I'm sure this has something to do with old Turkish folklore and no-nonsense Islam, but I couldn't ask for more details.
-upon leaving, I was told to come back, and come back often. And then I was kissed many times by Necla's mother, grandmother, aunt, and cousins. It warmed my broken, calcified heart.