The Tougher Parts...

August 28, 2006
Ankara, Turkey

The toughest part of a trip is never the beginning or the end ; I guess that leaves the middle. The first part is always filled with questions and hope, and the end is filled with stories to tell to the life that has been waiting for you thousands of miles away. In between are the days that you settle into, surrounded by new and intriguing people, where forever seems plausible. Except for that one letter you get that throws you off. I never cried in Santiago, but it wasn't because I didn't miss home; I just knew I would always come back and things wouldn't have changed.

Besides, I wasn't ending anything quite yet. Just now I read Macaire's email, and there was nothing superfluous or dramatic telling me how much she missed me, but I started crying-- the first tears in a long time. Our friendship is far too developed for emotional emails like that, yet the part that got to me was her conversational email telling me about her trip to Europe, the new car, looking for a job…things that always grace our chats. For the first time, I have realized that this time is so different. No more Berkeley, no more childhood, no more Thanksgiving/Christmas/Easter at the Kilkenny's in the coming months; I almost threw up. How will I not see my best friends for one year? How will I leave these people in two months for Budapest? What takes the most courage is starting new things and ending them before they even start, really. I almost want to push people away because I cannot stand to care for yet another person and think for one moment that I will never see him or her again. How many people can fit into your heart so that it bursts like a firecracker with one beautiful moment of memories before its gone forever? There's always a catch to adventures.

---------- This was written a few weeks ago, and while I might not feel the same way at this very moment, a fleeting emotion always says something about a person's character.

You know what the worst feeling in the world is? Forgetting that you miss something so much that when you are finally reminded of it, your heart jumps down into your feet and the only way to get it back where it should be is by barfing. I mean, it can be anything: your favorite t-shirt, the beach, that amazing pad thai, heck, even another person (but let's be honest, I'm not developed enough as a human being to miss another person quite yet in that way). Of course, I'm in love with something that can't tell me whether it loves me back, and that's really OK with me because I'd rather imagine how much this thing misses me incredibly. Most of you will probably roll your eyes when I tell you what it is because you probably have already guessed and you heard about it continuously for what seems like a lifetime. So, for those that have little patience with my sentimental state, I urge you to scroll far down into the abyss of my horror stories that comes after my gushing.

Santiago. I'm sorry, I can't help it. I forgot all about it for almost a month, but today, when I saw pictures, I came two seconds short of licking the computer screen – what can I say? Gut reaction, literally? Cloudy skies, the Andes, that South American look, and the idea of being able to comprehend the blasted language all seem almost too good to be true. It also doesn't help that I found my REIK song collection (don't laugh; everyone deserves their guilty pleasures of pop and boy bands). Maybe if I go back I'll remember how much I hated the combination of no gutters and a foot of rain, no vegetarian food, and the three months of constant prodding, poking, and being called la hindu. Who am I kidding? I'll take the rain and that old cramped AI office if I could live a lifetime in Bellas Artes, walk Providencia with Nathan, spend an infinite amount of time with Javier, and get drunk off of piscola and have deep conversations with Sebastian every night. Wait, I just said I didn't miss actual people; man, am I full of crap…right? Nah, I think I'd still love that ugly beauty of a city, but these guys are a definite bonus to my fond memories.

Do you think I'm crazy? Crazy for being so attached to a place that I can't even stand other people discovering it? I think I have possession issues over cities, but feel free to steal my theoretical boy toy. I'm hoping I'll feel this way about Ankara, but I seriously doubt it. Honestly, it has to do with the language barrier, and so you'll be happy to know I've quit my whining and that I am adding a sixth -- or is it seventh? I've lost count – language to my list. Turkish, the seventh most popular language in the world is adding one more person to its aficionado list.

I think I feel insanely better now that I've let this off my chest because carrying around this missing feeling was seriously wearing me down. Really, I don't understand how people can feel this way for a whole person; it would drive me crazy. Ok, ok, I know this isn't time for Khushbu's opinion on everything under the sun, so I'll limit my five page email (you know you love it) to stories. Kind of.

_________

This time last year, I was traveling to Valpo with Nathan and Javier, oblivious to the fact that I had hit the friendship lottery and had won myself two more soul mates (there's your shout out Rad, Cbad girls (don't make me list you, you know who you are), Annie, Dayna, Cin/Neha/Phonia, Shalu/Vandu, Lety). It has taken me a year to understand that friendships like that rarely come around, and even lesser ones slip out of reach. In both the former and latter cases, we are infinitely lucky, even if we realize the repercussions a year later. In regards to N&J, they gave me faith in strangers, in new places, and in destiny. Those that I have "lost" almost a year ago, I realize now that I have gained much more in their exchange – less questioning my character, faith in the goodness of others rather than casting stones at outsiders, and most importantly, courage. Courage to let go of the simple, easy, shallow and what will always seem the easiest to keep close. However, I cannot say that those short-lived relationships did not involve some of the best laughs, jokes, and closeness in exchange for their minimal life spans. For this, I am eternally grateful, and mostly this is what I will remember (tossed in with a tiny does of contempt, naturally).

Where was I? Oh, yeah, the guys. How lucky was I? This time, not so much, but I think that I have found a little bit more of myself rather than others in this journey. Maybe, just like the good and bad of last year, I won't appreciate this time of solitude at this very moment, but I am certain of its positive reinforcements in the future.

This is not to say that I am lonely – quite far from it, actually. I spend most of my time surrounded by people, laughter, and discoveries, but it's different somehow. It's my first time without close friends, and I realize that this is the first time all I have with me is my semi-euphoric, semi-ludicrous optimism. Maybe it's meant to be, and in the ever-so-cheesy way, I will get to know the one person I have never truly gotten to know – myself.

Should I ease myself out of this introspective phase? For those of you still reading, and not jabbing out your eyes a la Oedipus style, be forewarned. You need to know names and there are more than a few.

Ezgi and Charğı: We 've all been interns since day 1 together, all around the same age, and so naturally, I feel closest to them. I have nightmares about them leaving me in a week because most internships in Turkey are for one month only, but no one ever wants to study ethnic conflict and terrorism so I got a longer time. Both are beautiful and handsome, respectively; completely ridiculous.

Emre: The guy who I corresponded with, who wrote that grammatically awful email about being a girl/guy, and the one we tore a new asshole – remember, Annie? – because his English was so bad. Well, guess what? His English is even better than mine; it must have been a fluke. We work in the same room, and I love it because we talk about things like his little brother who is hitting puberty.

Bahadır: I like to call him "Mr. Flower" in my purely sarcastic way because he once explained to my not-having-it-rolling-of the-eyes self that he pays for lunch, opens doors, etc. and does cheesy, chivalrous things because "women are like flowers." And to think, we're in the same age group. Strangely enough, I think he means it. Don't ask me if he was dropped on his head at birth, probably. We also argue over Arabic, Spanish, and he makes me feel stupid when we practice for the GREs. But secretly, he's my favorite. I feel another Javier (but straight) coming my way.

Noyan: Best friend and best nig brother in the world. Enough said.

Sebla: Sweet, awesome, hysterical girl who likes to make fun of the other nerdy presentations at work with me and talk about her Polish boyfriend that she met in the Czech Republic during study abroad. How international is that? I love it.

Selma: Spunky, short, lived in the U.S. for two years, and utterly awesome in terms of her craziness and generosity. She took me around the real Kizilay on Saturday, and out to the suburbs to meet her equally awesome friend.

I try on a daily basis not to be home before 10 p.m., which is becoming difficult as it gets darker earlier. I usually walk around Kizilay (the city center), sit in a café, write, watch people, shop, go to a bookstore, or study for the GREs or try and improve my Turkish capabilities and generally try to avoid any kind of eye contact. Never works.

First of all, there are always more men than women out on the streets, especially individual women. After a certain time, it is virtually impossible to spot a woman on the streets, but when have I ever followed the crowd? Also, as is usual t the places I visit/live in, there is not one person that looks remotely like me. You would think that since the goddamned Ottoman Empire spanned continents, I would get lucky here, but no. In this melting pot of olive complexions, blond hair, pale skin, jet black haired people, the cheese (your truly, in this case) stands alone.

Let's start with Zafer. Wait, no, let me lay out a few things that you should already assume. First of all, let me just say, for the record, that I do not instigate any of this. Second, why cannot any of these idiots realize that if they don't speak English and I don't speak Turkish, this will be a doomed relationship? Lastly, WHY, oh, why can I not meet normal (not to be deemphasized), SANE men who speak English (Even a little bit. I'm not asking for much). Back to Zafer. So after an aimless amble through Kizilay, I decided to come home, but didn't feel like sharing air with the crazy roommate, so I walked to the park 20 feet behind our building. Now, park is an understatement. It has a Ferris wheel, a few other brightly-colored rides, statues, dozens of benches, and my favorite – a huge lake with an equally huge fountain in the middle. And to think, it's in the worst neighborhood in Ankara. Knowing I looked extremely out of place (like I said, women do not go out alone after dark, especially in such a sketch neighborhood), did not deter me from walking head on into a crowd of families , couples, and oily guys. I looked for a place to sit, and almost robotically stuck my ear buds in place. For half an hour, I was left alone, mostly, except for the few leers from the typical skeezes. Finally, one guy sat down next to me and asked me a question. I took a stab at the meaning and shook my head. A few minutes passed by and he asked me if I wanted a smoke. No, thanks. Finally, he started talking to me, and that's when I had to tell him I didn't understand anything he was saying to me, but that didn't deter him. Oh, no. He asked me a few more things, but I shook my head apologetically and tried to look for a way out of this horrible, one-sided question and answer session. I felt kind of bad, though, and when he asked for a kitaap (almost like kitaab in Arabic), I almost shoved my phrasebook in his face in relief – thanks Holly! Good to know it's being used for something, right? Unfortunately, this launched an hour of questions and my responses to questions like, "How old are you? Where are you from? Where do you live? Do you have a boyfriend…" and a laundry list of responses from him in return. I felt cornered until I thought to whip out my cell phone, point at the time, and apologetically whisper sorry. After finding see you later in the phrasebook and pointing at it, I hoped to get out of there as soon as possible. Too bad the sucker took it too literally; he took my phone and put his number in and called himself. Fabulous.

So the next day, while the Ambassador from Saudia Arabia was visiting, I had five missed calls. Come on, buddy, let's take a look at the situation: we could barely communicate with a book in front of us, how do you expect us to talk through a phone? Needless, to say, I did not call him back, and the guys in the office like to ask about boyfriend #1, Zafer.

A few days later, I went to Su Cafe to sit and read and observe people, so, pretty much for some peace and quiet. Instead, the waiter was so excited to practice English and in his sympathy for the poor Indian girl all alone in Ankara, he attracted quite a bit of attention to my table. As I was leaving, I noticed some guy ask for the check as well in a rush, but I figured he was in a hurry. I forgot about it, and started walking around, and within minutes, got lost. I eventually wandered back to an area I knew fairly well, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the same guy who asked for his check. That was 45 minutes ago. He came up to me and practically begged for me to have a cup of tea or coffee. Over and over, until I had to stop saying, "That's Ok. No, no, thank you." In that moment it hit me that he had followed me for 45 minutes because there could have been no way that he would have ended up in that same exact place unless he had walked behind me. Let me tell you how creepy that is. And all of this happens because of the ever growing Indian obsession.

One of the worst stories is one of the scariest ones. Selma and I had gone to see a Spanish film in Kizilay at the Metropol, and after a round of drinks we were walking to the bus stop (for her) and the metro (for me). On our way out, some guy yelled, "Are you Indian? Come here. Come here!" Selma was ticked off because guys had followed us all day while singing about big eyes and dark skin or making dirty comments, and she had had it. I didn't really understand or care enough for confrontation since all these creeps deserve is a rolling of the eyes and a smirk. But she was thoroughly pissed, and she did not hesitate to go back to him, yell at him, and then walk away like the tough girl that she is. I was kind of shocked and really proud of her. Except that they followed us down the street and they argued for a few more minutes. Then he turned to me and apologized. I thought this was all over so I said bye to Selma, and was hoping to walk a block down to the metro. On my short crossing of the street, even though she told him not to follow me, he did. She didn't know this and my phone was not working. In case something happened, I couldn't reach anyone. He asked me if I wanted to have coffee – at 10:30 in Ankara, this is unacceptable on the weekdays because the streets are virtually abandoned, I shook my head, said it was OK, and kept walking. He asked me where home was, and he could take me. I said No, and lied, and told him I lived very close so it was OK. He wouldn't leave, so I kept circling the streets, some times into dark alleys, where he kept trying to force a coffee or something out of me. When he tried to hold my hand, I gave him one of the bitchiest looks I have ever given someone – and I know I give damn bitchy looks. I still wasn't scared until I tried to run and ran into a cab, and the stupid cab driver would not drive even though I told him to go, and that it didn't matter where he went as long as we got the hell out of there. However, the idiot man stopped for Halil (aka the guy who would not take no for an answer), and Halil got into the cab, and I got right out. So did he. By this time I was ready for him to drink his coffee so I could get out of this situation. I caved in, but right when I did, he took it for a yes to whatever else he wanted, and the second he called me "baby," I lost it. No one calls me baby, except for Vandana or Rad in their shady men impersonations. In the middle of Kizilay, I started yelling at him, but he didn't understand. I started yelling for help, especially when he cornered me somewhere and I had to hold his head away and tell him to get away from me. When I was about to approach the police, I think he got the picture that he needed to bounce. By this time, it was 11:45 and the metro stopped running in 15 minutes. As harshly as I could, I told the idiot that if I missed the metro, he would pay for my cab ride home, and no, that did not mean he was coming with me. On my way to the metro, with the jerk in tow, he followed me and kept mumbling that all Indian women were like this, this is what he should have expected, and that I was crazy. Excuse me? If I had not been shaking with laughter – from fear – I would have let him have it, but I wanted to just get home. When I finally reached the metro, I let him know that if he followed me, I would rip in him half. He asked for my number.

These are just a few examples from the last month of a myriad of greasy men that surround the city in search of fresh meat, and Çağrı said I was overreacting and that all this was impossible. Then one day, we were walking to a café with his girlfriend, and he admitted he had never seen such a crazy circus. I told you. When the guys in the office found out, they decided that the needed to get me a bodyguard, and they were so angry that I go out alone. It was cute, but seriously, I could be their bodyguards. Now, they call me on a regular basis to find out where I am, and to see if I need some one to walk me to my next destination. Maybe I'm a fate snob, and I only want my destiny to include decent men, and so this is karma in revenge, but for God's sake, give me a little luck here.

And if you want or have time, you can read my artcles in the Journal of Turkish Weekly, it'll help get my ratings up! http://www.turkishweekly.net/comments.php Not to sound cocky or anything (brushing my shoulders off), but I beat out the president of ISRO for the most popular comments both times I published them. Holla! Ok, I am so cocky. I apologize.