so soak it up

As I've talked about a few times on this blog, I decided last December that 2013 would be the year of no excuses. I would keep my promises. I would fulfill my own wishes. I would make shit happen.

When my former roommate Hatice emailed me a few months ago to inform me that she and her boyfriend had finally set a date for their wedding, the future was clear: after a year and a half away, I'd be coming back to Istanbul. No doubts. No hesitations. No drawn out, half-assed, feeble reasons why I couldn't make it. (Or sound, financially responsible ones.) I promised her I would come. I had to be there.

Hatice and Mahir accept their gifts (money and gold), which guests pin to the ribbons around their necks.

Much to my own surprise, the idea actually thrilled me. Seeing Hatice and Mahir marry, of course, but going back. Smelling the salty air of the Bosphorus, hearing the seagulls and the call to prayer, tasting the endless bittersweet tea. Maybe getting my fortune read in a Turkish coffee cup by an obliging friend. Just being there again.

The depth of my excitement and the list I immediately made of all the things I wanted to do and see should've told me something obvious: I'm still in love with Istanbul. It's still a part of my heart, and our life together is not yet finished. But I also felt anxious. I left the city broken, bitter, and feeling like I didn't recognize myself anymore. Would walking those streets and hearing that language and being back in it flip my sad sack switch?

Answer: no.

Phew.

Relief.

Maybe?

Aside from a few moments when I thought I spotted an ex-boyfriend doppelganger and wanted to punch someone in the face, going back felt like going home. But with perspective - with the knowledge and wisdom that make things funny and ridiculous, rather than wildly irritating and offensive. Like people constantly pushing me to get on the tram. Endearing. Shitty directions and uncooperative taxi drivers who refuse to take me or my money because "it's too close." Comic. Men mentally undressing me without any sense of shame. Predictable. Overprotective and judgmental hotel employees giving me death glares and being rude to my friend. (Okay. That was offensive and not even a little funny.) It all felt kind of doable? Maybe "extremely familiar" is more accurate. And it was.

With my mom in tow, I had to take it a little more slowly than I would've otherwise. Though we definitely made it to Güllüoğlu, (the baklava shop of Istanbul,) my favorite coffee shack, and some other local joints I missed, we had to skip the "little" things - like the Aya Sofia, Blue Mosque, Chora Church and Bosphorus boat ride due to lack of time. Not that I haven't seen them many times, but they still intrigue me. Instead, we took the most incredible six hour walking food tour (to be talked about in great detail in the next post), but more importantly, I got to see several friends. I spent every single night hopping on the tram to Taksim to disappear into the always vibrant, always crowded night of modern Turkishness. Passing signs for "Gezi Parkı" in the metro each time, I managed to see three of my old coworkers, my roommates and their many lady friends who'd gathered for the wedding, and probably my most advanced student who's become a very close friend since I left. My conversations were long, varied, and mostly wonderful. We talked about Gezi Park and the protests a lot - and the murky future of Turkey wrapped up in all of it. We talked about our jobs, our lives, our loves, our cats. Ergin (former student) took me to a shot bar, and in an amazing reversal of roles, taught me how to drink Jaeger "like a boss." Fresh squeezed pomegranate juice followed shortly after, which was something I always coveted but was too shy to order for myself. (Sometimes life goals are small.)

terrible (but great) picture of most of us in my roommate's new apartment

I guess, more than anything, this trip - much like this year - was about listening to my instincts and doing what felt right. The wedding itself was magically foreign, just as I'd hoped it would be. The whole notion of romance and coming together to celebrate the love between one man and one woman was totally absent. I noticed as we were walking into the wedding "salon" that the two weddings being held were differentiated by signs that listed the groom's name (only) as well as the two towns the couple came from. Astounding. Aside from Hatice and Mahir's "first dance" (they'd actually gotten married a week before in Hatice's hometown near the Greek border), all of the dancing was done in groups, mostly in a large circle called the Halay. (A tame version here.) The guy at the end was given a pink sparkly handkerchief to wave festively each time. What?

 When the time finally came to leave the wedding and my mom and I plunked down on the metro to make the long journey back to Sultanahmet, I looked around me. The car was full of Western bare-skinned babes and their boyfriends - people like my roommates - and yet a few miles away were women who would condemn me to the fires of hell for showing my hair. For drinking a few beers. For generalized harlotry. What a kooky city. What an insane country. The guy sitting directly in front of us whispered "yabancı" to his ladyfriend and tilted his head towards me. "Foreigner." He grinned.

I'll never quite belong in Istanbul, as hard as I may or may not try to fit in and look the part. My teeth are too American. My shoes are too weird. My glasses are too big. I smile too much.

But that's okay. I don't fit in here either.