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.