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