Sunday, December 19, 2010

Au Revoir Istanbul/Send My Regards to Europe

The following is an excerpt from a short play I have just written called, "Lindsey and the Turk . . "

Lights up.  A 28 year old red haired American woman stands on a street corner in Istanbul, shivering from the cold, her hands deep in the pockets of her purple coat. Enter young Turkish man, tall, who swaggers towards her.

Turk: Hello, where are you from?

Lindsey: Turkey.

Turk: What? Really?

Lindsey: Yeah, can't you tell? (pause) No, I'm from the U.S.

Turk: Oh, you are very sweet, like a honey.

Lindsey: How would you know that, you've been talking to me for 5 seconds.

Turk: Can I kiss you?

Lindsey: That's ridiculous. No.

Turk: (laughs) Do you want to drink a tea with me?

Lindsey: No, I am meeting my friend here.

Turk: Ok, see you later!

Lights out. End of play.


And this, dear reader, is but a snippet of an oft repeated scene enacted on the sexy streets of Istanbul. I returned to the fabled city after a few snow filled days in Ankara, where I helped in the creation of a snow fort, drank Salep (sort of like liquid vanilla pudding) and re-watched a few Woody Allen flicks.

Stepping off the bus into Taksim square, now decorated with strings of white lights, I easily made my way back to Ian's apartment, and knew I was close when I passed some sassy transvestites and the corner stand that sells intestine sandwiches.  It was lovely to see my friend Ian again, we spent some time catching up and eating cookies, and of course drank beer at Ritim, the local watering hole.  Ian's apartment building is in the midst of some small renovations, and they TOOK OFF THE ROOF the other day. That's right, as in, walk up to the top floor and check out the dark sky through rips in the plastic.

The weather was wretched, though familiar, as I waded my way through 2 days of very cold, rainy weather, not uncommon for this time of year. I spent a day wandering around the Blue Mosque, then stopping by to visit with my friend Melanie and her husband Ferhat.  Ferhat is a chef, and made a delicious dinner that night of white beans with peppers, and an eggplant salad dotted with thyme.  Melanie and I drank tea and made paper snowflakes, and we walked around the spice market and grand bazaar that night, dodging rivers of water that rolled down the streets, eating baclava type deserts and tangerines.

I spent a few hours at the Modern Art Museum, watched the men fishing off the Galata bridge, and bought a few last pieces of schwag to cart home with me.

Turkey got under my skin, and I feel that now that I have traversed a small portion of it, I have a sense of where I might like to go when I come back.  It is a confusing, interesting place, most certainly.  A country where Kurds are underdogs, to say the least, Armenian churches empty and the topic taboo, everybody seems gay but is apparently straight, women with headscarves cannot take classes, some people still believe that "gypsies stole my chicken," and "Jews control all the money." A place where Istanbul Turks work 14 hour days for 12 lira, and village men sit from morning to night sipping tea. Where if you meet a woman's family it means you want to marry her, where though people may be poor, there always seems to be enough to eat.  I won't soon forget the amount of delicious olives, bread, cheese, and various dishes I ingested so happily, the sweet farmers who promised to find me a husband if I come back, and the overwhelming kind hearted Turks and foreigners, and friends and strangers, I met along the way.  

As the plane arrived in Frankfurt from Istanbul the other morning the feeling of coming full circle was palpable. I made my way through the snowy streets, marveling at how familiar the city how felt, ready for beers and bratwurst.  I hung out with a friend last night and we recorded an original song of mine- what a delightful way to end a pilgrimage! My brain is still sifting through the last 3 months, but before I go I wanted to thank you again for your listening ear.

I think if one has the chance to go on a soul journey, whether it be to travel to a grandmother's homeland or visit sites of Richard Brautigan books, it should be attempted come hell or high water.  It seems that in searching for what we think we are lacking, we many times find that we had everything we needed all along. That has been my experience at least.

I don't feel this is the end of my adventuring, in fact quite the opposite. Though I am still sorting through some logistics, I will give you a hint that my days in Seattle are numbered. Seattle and I need to have "the talk" when I get back.  I think I will take Seattle to Greenlake, we will walk around and drink our lattes and I will say, "I know we have been together a long time, but I think we need to see other people now." Seattle is like the long term boyfriend I couldn't bring myself to break up with, but I wasn't sure I wanted to marry.

I envision myself living somewhere warm for the time being, where a kitchen garden of basil and mint can be tended, little cactus can dot the windowsill, and rain will be contained to afternoon thunderstorms.  A place where my father can drink Tequila sunrises on the front porch, and we can start a Linda Ronstadt cover band.

But in the interim, I look forward to seeing your sweet Seattle and Portland faces, eating some pumpkin pie and imbibing some strong micro brew, watching season 3 of Madmen and riding my bike again.

The snow is falling heavily here, and I have my fingers crossed I make it out of Germany tomorrow morning as scheduled despite the impending blizzard.  I will dream tonight of Polish trains, Grzybow farm, my soul man Mick in his angel wings, Hope mama and the smell of Jasmine, Turkish villages, high school friends, rembetica beats and short lived bands.

I think this is the start of a beautiful thing. See you on the other side.

This is Red, signing off.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Brotherhood of Raki

I think I may have found paradise.  It is located on the Bodrum Peninsula, 2.5 kilometers from the sleepy Turkish village of Derekoy, in an untouched valley, speckled with groves of olive and tangerine trees and a thirsty creek.  Near the end of the road is a house, surrounded by garden beds and stone walkways, inhabited by happy chickens, a huge dog named Garcia, Sal and Nomo the geese, and a woman named Hope.  She greeted me after I stepped off the local dolmus with a wide smile and warm hug, and promptly bought me tea at the men's kahve (coffee house) outside of which sat six or so old Turkish men in sweater vests and fishermen's caps, some with canes and all with deep smile lines around their eyes.

Hope and I were set up on a bit of blind date by our friend Michelle who lives in my other personal paradise, an earthship home located near Twisp in the glorious Methow valley on the east side of the Cascade mountains.  I am happy to report that after meeting Hope I feel I have found a bit of a soulmate, approximately 3 decades older, but only 4 days apart by birth.  Gotta love those Aries gals.

Hope and her husband Phillip moved here about 20 years ago from the bay area, and created a life for themselves brimming with love, the making of art, the cultivation of the land, and the connections with the people of the valley.  Phillip passed two years ago, and although I am saddened that I never had the chance to meet him, I am honored to have been introduced to his spirit, his poetry, and the countless stories of his and Hope's life together.  Apparently Phillip and I both love napping, and both need to eat snacks all the time.

My day would start with tea and/or the zen practice of making Turkish coffee, followed by fresh squeezed tangerine juice from the garden, and a bowl full of thick yogurt and homemade granola.  We would work in the garden or around the house for a bit, then head off in the car to explore parts of the peninsula, whether it be drinking tea by the Aegean ocean and looking at the Greek island of Kos, hiking up to a mountain village, or visiting one of the many local markets to stock up on cheese, olives, tomatoes, and bread.

Hope taught me how to make Borek, a spinach pie type dish that she filled with wild greens, nettles, green leaf lettuce, ricotta, and sharp goat's milk cheese, wrapped in a fresh sheet of filo dough and fried up on the stove.  I could eat it all day and not tire of it.  She also showed me how to cook wild thistle, cranberry bean salad, and coconut milk bread pudding.

One evening for dinner we ate the following: wild mushrooms from the Aegean mountains sauteed with onions and garlic, fresh green olives, sheep milk ricotta and tangy goat cheese, octopus salad with garden endive and beet, and Peruvian potatoes right out of the ground.  Be still my culinary heart.

In the evening, over a bowl of cookies and a teapot of sage tea, we would watch music documentaries, ranging from the story of 4 eighty-something soft shoe tap dancers who had been chorus girls at the Cotton Club in Harlem, to the Wim Wenders documentary "The Soul of a Man," which told the stories of the musicians Skip James, J.B. Lenoir, and Blind Willie Nelson.  We traded music, my Gillian Welch for her Professor Longhair, my Danny Schmidt for her Eric Bibb.

The air smelled like jasmine, the stars dotted that sky like bright pieces of white flame tacked onto the darkness.  The sun rose clear, and set dusty and pink through the valley.  The skin of the olives was firm as the fell from the trees, and tangerines heavy and quick to shed their peels.

How happy and how lucky one may feel in the soul-full places of this groaning, spinning Earth.

Now, before waxing too philosophical, I must get to the heart of the matter, and the aforementioned title of this piece.  With us this entire time, through thick and thin, was a lovely man named Ron, a friend of Hope's son who recently retired from a 30 year career in television, to roam around the world for a spell.  He was the faithful dog walker to the massive, big hearted canine known as Garcia, and our all around handy man.

Ron is a traditional Minnesotan man, who shared with us this old saying- "There are three things you should know about men from Minnesota.  We don't dance, don't carry umbrellas, and only take with us what we can fit in our pockets."


The Brotherhood of Raki occurred when Hope's close friend Ahmet came over with a bag full of fresh fish, to be grilled on an open fire and savored with multiple glasses of the potent and anise-based Turkish liquor, Raki.  We had quite a spread- fresh grilled sardines, bean salad, olives, the whole nine yards.  As Sunday afternoon progressed, the conversation and food was abundant and suddenly we were 2 full bottles and a couple mini-fridge sized bottles gone, and the men were weaving through the wind like Raki soaked sheets on a stormy day.  Needless to say, our dear Ron proceeded to do a number of amusing things he has no recollection of, including mooing at cows, racing Ahmed down the valley, smoking a cigarette, and kissing Abdullah, the owner of the men's coffeeshop, repeatedly on both cheeks (as is customary in Turkey.)

Ron was a bit mortified the next day, but all was forgiven, and dignity was restored. The story got funnier the more we all thought about it, and Ron putting it best, saying, "Well, shucks, I guess that's the night I'll never remember, and you'll never forget." Well said, my friend, well said.

If there is a Brotherhood of Raki then perhaps we had a Sisterhood of Gypsy love.  Hope and I were listening to Taj Mahal and getting ready to watch Gadjo Dilo, an absolutely stunning film about a (very hot) Frenchmen who meets a village of Romanian gypsies and proceeds to fall for a young woman who looks like a Roma Kate Winslet.  As were getting ready to sit down Hope says to me, "Good music and hot gypsy sex! What more could you want, Lindsey?!"

Not a thing.

I am back in Ankara now, spending a few more days with Hope (who coincidentally also was planning to travel to Ankara this week) and staying with my friend Ryan again.  In a few days I will board a long distance coach for Istanbul and drink the last dregs of my month of Turkish delight.  I hope this finds you well, as always, and I promise a few more tales from the road before the jet plane takes me back to the moldy crotch of the Pacific Northwest that is my beloved homeland.

much love,
Lindsey