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).