Music, Sweet Music

I don't know how many eyebrows had gone up at the words: "I'm going alone." Alone? At this time of night? At your age? With your Turkish skills? All the way to Bornova? Yes.

Anything for the sake of Pinhani, the Turkish band I've discovered that is me. I've been talking about their concert for almost six weeks. Damned if my boyfriend is working, if my colleagues are too tired, if my Turkish friend hates the concert venue because she feels claustrophobic. I'll go alone. *gulp* Yeah, I tell myself. That's right. I came to Turkey alone. What's a few hours at a concert in comparison?! Cowgirl up, as a dear old prof of mine would say.

So I leave from work...

After the 10 minute walk to the metro; the subsequent 15 minute ride to the university-ridden quarter: Bornova; the quick kaşarli tost at Mambo, a diner in Küçük Park; the conversation with the two adorable waiters that led to a map drawn in my notebook of randomly accumulated Turkish with the advice: "Ask young persons. Old persons dangerous! Come back if you get lost;" the unsure walk through the surrounding neighborhoods; the circling back; finding a different rock bar; asking for directions three times AND randomly following different groups with whom I had zero affiliation; finding myself walking down a long, pitch black alley which couldn't possibly lead to the concert, thus spurring CSI-influenced subconscious thoughts to bubble up (that was exactly the sort I place I should get raped and murdered if it ever were to happen); deciding mid-pitch-black-alley that if I didn't find the bar in three minutes, I should go back; finding it 97 seconds later (poetic irony); paying my 20TL to get in; having my bag searched; receiving my ticket and floating down the bottle green-lit tunnel like a bubble in a Carlsberg beer bottle; pushing my way to the front of the crowd; waiting an hour while the cover band warmed up; waiting half an hour while the real McCoy set up; getting crushed up near the front of the crowd, maybe twenty feet from the stage; finally, finally, at midnight, I heard the first few chords of my beloved Pinhani, and knew that the last two and a half hours had all been worth it. Always keep going.

And when one guitar is not enough, get three: acoustic and two electric. And a bass, drums, a piano for the occasional part, a saxophone, a trumpet, a trombone (the horns played on rotation by the horn player and lead guitarist/vocalist who is obviously too talented for his own good), and once if for only a few bars, but dear lord what were they thinking?!, a kazoo. That's right. Is it jazz? Rock? Blues? Ska? Traditional Turkish? I don't know--it's because it defies a category that I love it. Take me to your leader.

Located directly under a speaker--without a chair, and in the path of the barmen who constantly fetched patrons overpriced booze--I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven. As the songs built and peaked and relaxed, I was beyond grateful for music's ability to communicate and transport. Floating on guitar rifts, on the beautiful-yet-incomprehensible Turkish lyrics; hammered by the drums; experiencing religion in my English-isolated consciousness. Alcohol, drugs or companionship would have been so unnecessary. I tripped home by 2 a.m. and beamed through a 10 hour day on four hours of sleep.

I was talking with some of my students about my adventure; the woman in class said she'd never go alone... But why?! I want to know. I mean, shouldn't I take the locals' word for it?! Aren't I a fool to second guess wisdom about her own city? But I had zero problems. I didn't drink anything. I didn't invite attention and no one reciprocated, save one of the barmen who tried to chat me up about English lessons (he was quickly ditched in the crushing crowd without further incident).

I went alone. Late at night. At my age. With my Turkish skills. All the way to Bornova. Yes. You could, too.

Tentative moral of the story: The world is safer than we have been led to believe.

Absorbing and Being Absorbed

I think there's been a cosmic ban on communication for the last few weeks. It's finally starting to lift--what else can explain this morning's otherwise random pile of emails in my in-box from unrelated friends after weeks of nothing. The cosmic ban has probably impacted my dearth of blog posts.

What's been going on? I'm being absorbed. I'm going Turk. Not in an official way, but in an "Ok, I'm going to accept my boss' offer for a second year-long contract, so I may as well buckle down and learn the language, get my oven fixed, and start hanging out with the locals more" kind of way. And I'm eating sarma (rice-stuffed grape leaves) everyday. I've died and gone to heaven.

My decision to stay another year was likely impacted by the arrival of a boyfriend (a bass-playing Turk who I met at the restaurant/club where he works via my "brazen, American ways" [actually approaching and talking to a man] (compared to what I've observed of "meeker Turkish ways" [maybe acknowledging his existence with a glance or two, but not pursuing anything beyond that]). Our skill in the opposite language are at the same level, which is to say that, when speaking, we are as precise as grooming a poodle with a chainsaw.

My pride aside, I stumble through pained communication to convey only the most basic of things. What do we know about each other? Little. Do we have things in common? You'd be as surprised as me to find out! If I were dating a guy in the States, I would expect to know all about his hobbies, his childhood, his educational history, his hopes and dreams for the future, etcetra by now. And I would have catalogued this information in a sick, encyclopedic manner. I would be concerned about what kind of job he has, whether or not he likes his mother, and how I might theoretically fit into "the picture" after a few years. Screw all of that. They're extraneous luxuries.

We've abandoned the shame of busting out the trusty sözlük (dictionary) in a restaurant, the back of a taxi, or while walking down a crowded street in daylight. Entire conversations have been had flipping back and forth between the pages. I mean, how the hell else are we going to get through to each other? Well, when the sözlük fails, we do resort to Charades. Yeah--you should be jealous. People, this is romance at it's height.

Everything is revealed slowly; the level of patience required for this kind of endeavor should be enough to make me a saint and get me my own day on the Catholic calendar.

But I now have a companion who is concerned for my well-being, takes me on adventures around the city, introduces me to new places and people, and is teaching me how to cook Turkish food. Hell yeah! Though I've observed the Turkish Machismo and been disgusted by it in the past, I confess that it's nice to have someone be protective of me. Not that İzmir is dangerous, or that I can't muddle through on my own, but god it's exhausting after awhile. As long as I maintain my yobanca woman status and keep some distance (i.e. refusing to allow him to pay for everything), then it's fine to have someone keep his eye out for me.

My language-learning incentive has skyrocketed. I've had three or four people tell me that the best way to learn Turkish is from a boyfriend. How right they are. It's so much easier to just ask him. Last night while he was cooking in my kitchen, I pointed to everything practical and made a massive word list of all the language needed to cook: bowl, counter, fridge, cabinet, to cut, to fry, etc. I am slowly but steadily making my way through a Turkish grammar book. I force myself into the exhausting task of tuning into random Turk's public conversations and find that I know something and can sometimes understand what they're saying. Beams of pride.

Yavaş, yavaş (slow, slow).