Musings from a yobanca

I sat in a dim bar, my eyes tingling from the endless cigarette smoke curling towards the ceiling. I blinked, relishing the slick relief. It was Saturday night, and for the first time in five months, I was hanging out. Ayşa, the beautiful girl who works in the front office of PEÉ and took me to the hospital last week, had invited me to go out with her to meet a few old friends from university. I accepted immediately--I didn't care where we went, or what we did, or who we saw.

Walking into such a situation, you can't have high expectations. If any of them speak English, I thought, well then good for me. But if not, well, so goes yobanca life. They did, in fact, speak English to varying degrees. They were initially shy about talking and so for awhile, Ayşa translated for us. There were lots of smiles and laughter as I stumbled through some basic Turkish phrases--putting them at ease because certainly their English had to be better.

Occassionally one of them would take mercy on me and ask me a question or two. However, they hadn't seen each other for awhile, and they were happy to chat and tell stories. It was during my witness of one of the men telling a story that had everyone in stitches with laughter that I discovered a new type of embarassment. Previously unfelt, this gentle yet inescapable embarassment dawned on me: clearly I was The Fool, understanding nothing whatsoever of the conversation taking place around me. Should I laugh? I didn't know what I was laughing at. Certainly, the situation had a degree of comedy from my side, but if I laughed, it would be an idiot laughing at a private joke that no one else could understand. No, I decided, it was best just to smile.

But god, how I longed to laugh, to understand, to be surrounded by old friends. Ayşa, the beautiful, sweet girl, sensed my predicament and translated for me, allowing me to share some of their experience.

I sat in that pub, knowing that I was in the midst of vast oceans of conversation. It was like treading water and praying that I would come across a stray piece of driftwood upon which I could rest, if for only a second. It was so hard to stay alert when all I heard was the odd number or "yes" or "no," "because," "what," or verb stem (iyor) without knowing the actual verb. It's easy to become overwhelmed by the incessant waves of words. I wanted, at times, to just drown in the words--tune out and permit myself to exist in a private world in the midst of an incomprehensible reality--but I forced myself to focus and try, even though I knew it was futile, try to understand.

"Don't fall asleep!" Ayşa joked with me once. I told her I wouldn't.

The truth was, once I had accepted this new embarassment, I enjoyed myself. When we parted company, they all kissed my cheeks goodbye (first on the left, then on the right) and we promised to meet again.