An Excellent New Cycling Buddy Shares the Morning

     I must confess I've been holding out on you-- my "four" (?) readers!  ;-) Last weekend's ride was very beautiful... but there were some socially fun parts, too!
    On the way to the "Laughing Village" a small truck nearly ran into a herd of about 45 sheep & goats. (What I call the "Laughing Village is one of the friendliest villages in the area, where children often just come up to me and start laughing before launching into fits and starts of English and Turkish questions.) The goats had been parading slowly along, taking up  most of the lane. The truck only just managed to stop. I forgot myself and shouted:  "What are you thinking?" even though I knew the driver couldn't hear, and probably wouldn't understand if he had. The shepherds seemed completely unfazed by all of it, and just kept going. They gave me a quick "What's the problem?" look. I kept going. No problem. I hear that a lot from my students, from teachers, and now... from my new cycling friend, Kadir.
     Kadir is truly extraordinary. From what I've been able to gather, mainly from our basic English/Turkish conversation (and partially after introducing him to a Turkish speaking friend over pizza and soda) is that he is from Gaziantep, and wants to ride for the Turkish Olympic team during the next games. First he must go through a series of competitions around Turkey during this bike season.
     I can sense that there may be some disbelief out there... along the lines of:  "What? How did you-- a slow, middle-aged language teacher-- meet an elite cyclist?"
     Random good luck. After passing through the Laughing Village, I concentrated on the beautiful farmland and rolling hills around me. I forgot everything. I was in my cycling groove. Finally I reached the top of the long incline and sped slightly downhill, and then woosh! Into the Quiet Village. It took 8 months of riding through the Quiet Village before I felt everyone (me and the folks who live in the village) was ready for me to hop off my bike and buy something at the store. In May I finally went further than waves and "Merhaba." I bought some water and fruit juice at a roadside shop-- chatting with the women and small girls there in Turkish. On my way back two of those little girls ran up to me, and presented me with flowers. I was so surprised, and appreciated their welcoming gesture very much.
     So, back to Kadir. I was just wooshing into the Quiet Village and then suddenly I realized the woosh of bike tires had gotten a lot louder. It wasn't just my old hybrid's two tires anymore... I saw about 20 or so racing bike tires all around! I couldn't believe it and forgot to speak in Turkish.  I shouted in English "Wow! What is this?" Then there was a crash in front of me-- just as we approached the little girls' family's shop. One rider with this uniform-wearing serious looking cycling club had ridden over a giant stone on the side of the road and just wiped out. I saw blood on his elbow. Once again, in a semi-emergency situation, I completely forgot to use Turkish and shouted "Are you okay? Are you okay?"
     I saw that there was a trainer/coach kind of guy on a motor bike who sprang into action and started helping the injured rider. All of the other riders stopped. One rider in the pack spoke English and started chatting with me. He assured me there was "No Problem." The other rider got the help he needed. We continued on to the Tiny Village... and then parted ways as the competitive cyclists headed on for the challenge of the extremely steep Road Cut Out of the Giant Hill. When I first moved here, I was fit enough to peddle straight up and over that hill without a second thought.. now, if I take on that hill I sacrifice a half an hour of additional scenery because it is exhausting! So, I took the scenic, winding, slightly flatter route instead. We exchanged info and met later that day for coffee and chatted, in basic English and very, very basic Turkish about bicycles. It involved a lot of drawing, diagrams, and pointing at pictures of one of my training-related books. Soon afterward, Kadir told my friend that he had only just discovered the route where we had met over the weekend. I "corrected" him:  "No, no, I discovered it in October!" (Joking, of course; he got the joke. Whose route is it?!)
    That evening Kadir presented me with a Turkish team jersey, and I wore it on a "slow training" ride with him at 6 a.m. this morning. While riding with Kadir I learned a few ways to make that route just a little better. I felt so incredibly lucky to have met someone who also knows how cool it is to discover a new route. Yes, I was very outclassed as a non-athlete on my used hybrid-- but he didn't make me feel at all silly. He quite simply treated me like a friend-- a cycling buddy.  During the ride, Kadir taught me how to say "right, left, and straight (go ahead)" in Turkish. We conversed as tractors passed us, and children greeted us on the roadside.  I introduced him to the shopkeeper at the Laughing Village. 
     For the first time since I've arrived in Turkey, I feel like I've found a long lost cousin-- someone who thinks about what I think about, and lives in a way that is in some ways a little similar to me--  only he is really taking it to a whole new level. I really do feel honored and lucky, and I wish him all the best with the season's races... for Kadir-- and for all cyclists-- I wish safety, health, joy, and happiness. Ride with peace and joy, just for the pleasure of riding through it all. During our short, one-and-a-half-hour "slow"(for Kadir) training ride, we kept checking in with each other: "Are you happy?" Answer:  "Yes, I'm happy!" Response: "Good.... wonderful...Beautiful 'Antep?" Answer:  "Yes. Beautiful."

Hills & Valleys Around 'Antep

     Every time I ride my bike outside 'Antep I try to do one new thing-- sometimes that means stopping and chatting for the first time in a village shop where before I'd only ridden past. Sometimes it means accepting an invitation into one of the village homes and socializing with a family. I love that I am slowly learning more about Turkey as I do this. But there is a less extroverted side of me that sometimes just wants to sit on my bike seat and travel as far as my legs will take me, absorbing as much of the natural landscape as possible.

     My most recent ride took me to the most beautiful spot I've ever seen-- after more than one-and-a-half hours of navigating my way. Finally, I reached a stretch along the winding hillside roads with no cars in sight for another 45 minutes. I made it to a small village outside of another small village for the first time. Getting there was breathtaking. I felt such a sense of wonder and awe-- as one tiny human peddling across these magnificent expanses, surrounded by farmland mixed with unspoiled nature. On one side I saw trees and wild brush growing up the sandy dirt of the rocky hillside.  Hundreds of yards below I saw a cultivated field of trees.  Further downhill, in the distance, cream colored hills were exposed, barely covered with vegetation. From my elevation, they looked like rolling loaves of partially baked dough... cooking in sun.

    I was conserving liquids, and knew that I should turn back to one of the larger villages for water and fruit juice...  but I really wanted to continue. Lesson:  Now that it is summer, I must bring two bottles of water, and if there is a village with a shop, always stop for a quick refueling. You never know if (or when) another shop will appear next to the road.

     On my way back, a man crossing with three cows asked me (in German) if I speak German. I don't, really, much more than enough to understand what he had just said plus a few more words and phrases. Even my elementary Turkish is better than my German. (French is another story... The day before a man in the city center gave me directions in French. I am not sure that he was Turkish; most Turks don't speak French.) But on my morning ride, I was too focused to do more than reply with a shrug, smile and wave to this farmer. As I peddled away I wondered if any German cyclists had been through his territory before me. 

     I love riding through the tiny villages-- and over time my interactions with the regulars I meet along the way become more familiar. Their surprised, quizzical  faces have evolved into amused nods of recognition, and sometimes I am greeted with a loud "Merhaba!" (hello) or even  "How are you?" in English-- especially from the kids.

     I will never forget these people. Young children sometimes point and laugh at the lady in the helmet riding a bike... and other times make a sincere effort to communicate with me. Older women sometimes wave at me from the field, making a space on the blanket where they all sit together, watching their children run and play. They wave and point for me to sit down. Sometimes they grab my arms, hug and kiss me, and talk at length in Turkish, trying to explain things. We all do a lot of pointing, smiling and talking. I try to at least say something back-- the baby Turkish version of:  "This is a beautiful day! This countryside is beautiful! Beautiful children! Thank you! How are you? I am an English teacher.." This is not exactly Oscar winning dialogue, but we break the ice as we form some kind of bond. I almost feel sometimes that my lack of language is a unique kind of icebreaker. They laugh and smile and seem comfortable having me there. Maybe if I could speak more fluently in Turkish we would try less to communicate... I could just quickly converse without even leaving my bike. I realize that in theory we could have a qualitatively richer conversation if I knew Turkish-- but would we? Is some of the magic my newness-- that I am alone, without a lot of words, just there? Present, and in the mix of their village for a brief time? Do we almost need this kind of whimsical beginning as a motivation for trying to learn more about each other? Is the challenge part of the process?

     Once, an approximately 10-year-old girl put her hand out to signal "stop" before grabbing my bike handle and proceeding to introduce me to the entire group of kids standing with her:  "My name is Tuba! (pointing to herself). My name is Ali (pointing to a little boy near her). My name is ....." -- pointing to yet more children. She got the concept of using a possessive + "name is" part of introducing her friends, and ever since then I've taken a tip from her:  Don't be afraid to make mistakes, and just try to communicate. With little Turkish of my own, sometimes I go ahead and take language risks, and say something that I know is only partially right-- using mime to make up for my errors. Impromptu and along the side of a road, young Tuba had gotten her point across to me; and in so doing, she taught me one way to get my own points across even when I don't have or can't remember all of the Turkish language skills to say it correctly.  

     The conversations, mimes and "chats" are all wonderful. But that part of me that searches for quiet beauty, for communion with nature and my more spiritual side-- also longs for the breaks in the conversation. The 40 minutes I spend peddling in silence between villages is not at all lonely. I hear birds singing. Especially as the temperatures warm up I notice more and more butterflies flying across the road from field to field. I see dogs sleeping with abandon, completely relaxed in all of their muscles along their legs, paws, and necks...  sleeping in the sun, they are barely aware that I am passing nearby on their road. Sometimes they nod awake, a few times they bark a bit.  As I ride up, down and along the hillside, I notice farmers working hard in the fields. I see homemade scarecrows staked in the middle of fields and wonder who put them there. A rare car will pass. Sometimes those inside will wave or honk. Tractors or trucks roll past, filled with young and old people in the back-- and these faces generally smile when they see me. In the city, everything is faster and louder. My rides through the villages.. to the serene hills dotted with cypress and olive trees... and sometimes mandelina trees... help me to find my own inner peace. I find my own connection with the place, as well as the people. These people I meet are truly from this place-- but when I joke with shopkeepers that "I'm from 'Antep"... I am only partially joking. A part of me stays on those hills all week long... waiting out the week, and remembering that there are many ways to find and connect with people and the beautiful parts of life around us. 

A Year Goes By So Quickly~ Remembering the early days ~~~

I am nearly done with my first academic year here in southeastern Turkey, and I think it is appropriate to just get down some of the images and thoughts that have been painted into my memory... So, compared to my other posts, this one will take on a more list-like format. Maybe in the future I'll "flesh it out" into something more lucid... but for now... I just want to record the random memories and thoughts and images I have still fresh in my mind.

1- Arrival day.  My luggage was still in Istanbul. A representative from my employer met me at the local airport and took me in a car... where he and the driver chatted in Turkish. It sank in. I'm really here. On either side I saw the tall walls of dry, camel and cream colored dried earthen walls... a few stories high on either side...where the road had been carved out in the hills... this was nothing like most of the winding, tree or grass lined highways in New England... It sank in. I was really in a new land, where people speak a new language... and I was about to buy shampoo in a shop where nobody speaks English.  My host took me to his apartment where I met his wife. I was struck by how welcoming and warm they were. She lent me two towels and a pair of tweezers... to help me get through the several days I expected to wait for my luggage. I was so very, very tired. I could barely form complete sentences or think at all. I really needed their help, I realized. Even though I'd prided myself on being self-sufficient, and had most of what I needed in my purse & carry on...  moving straight into an empty apartment is completely different from touring and ending up in a hotel... where there are at least towels. So. In my bleary state... I made  it to the new building.... still being finished. I was one of the first people to inhabit that building, and it felt strange. Everything was modern and new. In New England, everything was old... wood. Here, synthetics and ceramics and tiles and.... surprise... no shower curtain in the bathroom! Woo hoo... it was going to be an adventure trying to figure out how to adapt and build a new nest for myself in a new land.

2. New terrain. My first walk at the university near our apartment was with two colleagues. In semi-sleep deprivation, we ambled around the campus.. uncertain of who we were talking to... uncertain of where we were. The curbs of the sidewalk seemed at least twice (and sometimes 6xs) higher than in the U.S. There were different patterns.. and we marveled that the district's name was painted on all of the trash cans. Yes, I even took a photo of the unique "trash can design" on my first week.

3. Attracting Police Attention. I wandered around my neighborhood wearing an Indian smock.. trying desperately, and misguidedly, to fit in and not stand out...  well, my smock was better than my American tank tops and shorts, but... after about 20 minutes of wandering around the neighborhood and taking a few photos (just a few, I thought discretely) of the unique architecture of all of the modern new high-rise apartments... the police pulled up and started asking me a lot of question. In Turkish. I kept smiling. They found a cell phone at the nearby coffee shop and called someone who knows English. Meanwhile I decided to ask the police to please take my photo in front of the coffee shop so I could send it to my "anne & baba" (mom and dad) using mime to supplement my then 15 or so words of Turkish... they burst out laughing. Suddenly they weren't so official seeming, and they took my picture, which in fact I did send home. The guy they got on the phone spoke English and he figured out that I was there legally, and I wasn't some roaming vagabond for the police to be worried about.  

4.  The wild dogs and the gypsy music in the woods....  these two themes captured my imagination in my early weeks here in 'Antep. I made sound recordings. I was fascinated. There were three kinds of dogs roaming the area. Pets, often with tags in their ears. City street dogs, who stayed often near dumpsters and were harmless if you didn't interfere with their food source or puppies... and then in the woods.. the wilder dogs.. that could sometimes be heard barking and tussling in large packs... this was the early morning soundscape.

Then at night... I heard in the woods outside the window where I stayed for a few of those early weeks... some stringed instruments and drums... this was overlaying the local hotel's wedding performers-- a Turkish-style band featuring a dramatic, soulful woman singing what must most certainly be a very long, sad love story indeed... But when that music ended, from somewhere in the distance I heard what I determined in my imagination was gypsy music. Ah.. the romance of travel... I made more sound recordings from my window of the gypsy music.. narrating in awe...  I couldn't believe it. I told the English-speaking staff member (who befriended me and walked with me.. and got me to work on time the day I almost forgot my computer and missed the bus). He smiled, laughed, and took me on a walk not far from the outdoor lawn area where they served food.. and showed me the speakers.. where I could hear the music... I was embarrassed. He asked me, smiling, if I saw any gypsies. Nope, just speakers.. installed at the edge of their property, next to the woods... It was all just part of the marketing.. and I fell for it!

But then.. several weeks later a miracle happened. I was walking with a new friend in those same woods... just 100 or so yards further in the woods... away from those speakers.. when we saw sitting on the picnic tables.. a bunch of old guys.. with musical instruments.. playing... what sounded to me... like gypsy music!!! So who knows what I heard, but suddenly the romance of travel was back again. And I felt just a little less silly. I learned just a few more Turkish words here and there.. and started to see how the different parts of the city and outlying areas connected. I was starting to make inroads. I had the basics. My luggage had been back in my possession for weeks. I was making 1-step-forward/two-steps backward progress... and sometimes it felt like two-steps forward/1 step backward...

5.  Getting the bike. That was my over-arching concern, worry and goal consuming my first month.. in addition to sorting out my apartment. (I will never forget one morning, while in a state of low-grade fever and mmmm "travelers' sickness" to put it politely.. I purchased my first 10 TL carpet... it was admittedly a bit garish.. but in my on-fire state it exclaimed a sort of Deee-Lite/Groove-Is-In-the-Heart design... with orange and yellow semi-evil eye protection patterns that others later complained made them dizzy... I later replaced it with something subtle, soft and home-ier...)

But back to the bike!!! I couldn't inhabit this earth without one. So after weeks of trying to figure out how to get around the city, and triangulating my way on maps looking for a bike shop.. finally, I found one by chance. I saw the perfect used bike... a hybrid... nothing fancy.  Later, I brought my friend to walk the bike back with me-- and we drank Chai "tea" with the guys as part of the sealing of the deal when I finally rolled it home... complete with a new seat and a lock. The photo you see at the top of this entire blog is the happiness and joy of me finally finding a bicycle--  in Turkish (sort of) in Turkey (definitely).

The beginning of my journey had turned into the middle, as my work load started to get very busy, and those weekend rides became all the more important for maintaining my fitness, balancing my life and finding my perspective.... and transported me beyond this old & new-world city, and into the villages. (See previous posts).

Bloomin' Bikin'

    I have been composing this post mentally for months. Each time I sit down to write about riding through the hills, farms and villages surrounding my Urban Village... I feel I am not worthy of the job. But I will try to write more than a few posts that do at least semi-justice to what has become my favorite ritual since last October. 
     My Turkish colleagues told me they "used to bike" when they were children-- and I saw a few amused glances when I queried for recommendations on bike shops when I was fresh off the plane from "America" (nobody here says "the U.S."). After weeks of scouting around my new Urban Village for a suitable used bike, in October I found and purchased a used hybrid from a small shop run by a bunch of very kind-hearted older gentlemen. Including a new seat and a yet-to-be-needed lock-- the whole thing cost 100 Turkish Lira. A bargain.  One of the shopkeepers professed to be an MIT graduate with a daughter living in Boston. Later, I ran into one of my students at the store, who helped me to translate something.. and he told me he didn't think that was true. But I still believe him.

     My bike is very utilitarian, and all about sturdiness. I haven't tried to look stylish at all on these rides. In fact, the opposite. I knew from the beginning that  a woman on a bicycle is an uncommon sight here, especially in the villages. In the beginning, many people would ask me why I bothered doing this at all. Concerned villagers would stop their cars or trucks and offer me a lift. I'm not really sure why I do this, but I know I love it for the doing of it.  It is all about seeing what's on the other side of the next hill, around the bend from the next village, and in the fields of the next farm.  A sleek racing bike and outfit would be all wrong for the bumpy, often gravelly or muddy roads-- and the rural village sensibilities.  

      So, wearing my helmet, an orange mesh safety vest, a lightweight Indian smock to cover my hips, black leggings, and socks-- I cross the boulevard and make a beeline out of town. Within minutes I am riding past tractors on the outer offshoots of the boulevard... sports cars careen from the highway to the country lanes, donkeys pull carts, tractors motor into town from the village. Once I'm far enough out, I keep my eyes open for farm dogs guarding their turf, roosters pecking just inches away-- and completely unconcerned by my tires speeding past. Goats and sheep often amble across the village roads in the early weekend mornings.  Sometimes the shepherds are older gentlemen in caps, blazers, pantaloons and boots. Other times, small boys or teenagers manage the whole process themselves.
     This is a truly independent set of people.  Just last week, a little girl who was maybe 9 years old was trying to fix the rusty bicycle chain that kept falling off of her younger brother's bike. I stopped and helped.  After fixing the chain, I touched the black grease on my chain, and then pointed to her brother's bike. She smiled and nodded with confidence. I have a feeling some kind of grease has been added to that chain since our mime-chat. Her mother was clearly proud of both of her children, and asked me the usual "Where you from?" questions in Turkish... After walking with them for a while, I rode off, remembering that this was the very first village I'd found on my very first ride back in October.  

     I thought about how much had changed in that time.. and how comfortable and welcome I feel now. They have grown to expect this funny looking cyclist-- but in the beginning I elicited a lot of giggles from the village kids. The next group of kids on the lane invited me in for chai with their family, and took me on a walking tour of their farm-- past a horse tied up behind their house, and a couple of sleeping farm dogs... we walked through waist-high uncut weeds and brush, to the open fields... where I had ridden past since October. They'd grown used to seeing me come through, and gradually, over time, the village has been welcoming me more and more.  On my first ride through that village, my own chain fell off because it had too much grease, and a kind pregnant lady walking with three kids managed to describe to me (despite our lack of a common language) where I could go wash it off of my hands. Then, on my way back an hour later, she was standing on her roof, motioning for me to come into her house. I did... and that was the beginning. Her kids brought out their English books. She served me bread and a hazelnut spread... mmm.
      I think I'd like to tell you more about these rides.. and all of the warm, generous souls I've met along the way... But for now, I'll end with one final note... in October, the colors were all golden, brown and grey, with small patches of green. In November, the green was mostly gone, and more grey had replaced the brown. By Christmas Day, the colors were of mud and dirt and gravel... this continued until March... when more buds of green started to appear again.. and in April, I saw many flowers. I thought to myself, on each ride in April "I'm so glad I caught these flowers before spring is over!"... and then, each week since-- there have been still more flowers, vines and trees awakening my senses, and providing a lush recital hall for flocks of singing birds... Often, the fragrance of honeysuckle and some kind of pink flower induces me to stop riding, and actually stop. Yes, I actually stop and smell the flowers!  Everywhere I look, peddling sometimes all day-- as far as the eye can see purple, white, yellow, pink and red wildflowers grow on all sides...  and I say thanks for all of them as I ride past. Now, as May turns into June, I see blue skies. Rich, red, irrigated soil, green cypress and olive trees, roses, wildflowers and poppies. After months of exploring one village after another... and getting to know many of its warm, hardworking, residents-- I feel like I have finally found the beauty I have been searching for all of these months. The making of this flower blossom ride was right there all along-- just waiting to bloom.

Just how different is it?

     When I lived in Boston, I lived about a two-minute ride from a bike trail where I could ride along... and park at the locked bike cages near the subway (if I was planning to stay out super late). Or I could just pedal on to Whole Foods, and then woosh my way up and down the hill on Concord Avenue, past the mini-woods of the former observatory and into Harvard Square. The journey would take about 25 minutes door to door, including locking my bike in the well-ventilated, air conditioned parking garage where I worked.  When I finished work, I could throw my skirt and blouse in my backpack and  just hop on my bike wearing my bike shorts & a tiny tank top. Or, in cooler months all the way through January-- I could roll up my pants, plop on my helmut, zip on my rain pants over my work clothes. Then I could light up a couple of Frogger lights and go... wherever I felt the urge to go-- home, downtown, over the "Mass Ave." bridge by MIT to the bike trails on the other side of the Charles River... to watch a play, a movie, take a yoga class, go to my friend's dance performance, go to the French library or Kenmore Square-- the options were limitless. But I didn't realize that back then.
     Here in 'Antep, I also bike some. I also spend a fair amount of time near two local universities, and there is a mini-woods nearby. Those are the only similarities to my old life that I can think of... even the teaching is completely different. (More on that later). I haven't been to a single play or watched a single movie on the big screen. I haven't taken any yoga classes. I did take a Turkish folk dance class for a few sessions on the solid floors of an old historic building in the heart of the city... the semi-dishevled but elegant old building has changed religions many times. (More on that later). I found the teacher to be fun, and adept with teaching non-Turkish speakers and enthusiastic folk dancers of all ages and ability levels. It was by far one of the most fun things I've done in Turkey.  I found the floors to be.... as hard as stone. After a few classes, I stopped going. I had other parts of Turkey to see. Routines such as a weekend dance class have been too much for me to add to my 22-26 classroom hours of teaching and my intermittent touring of the country. And I have yet to bike to work a single time-- as determined as I was to keep up this 7-year-long routine before leaving the U.S. -- it just hasn't seemed like a good idea here... (more on that later).
     So what do I do instead? I am not sure. I guess part of what I write about here will explain just how very different life is here. Part of the difference is living in the land of a new language. Simple things like buying food become an adventure..  Part of it is the culture... and part of it is just the sheer exhaustion factor of my teaching responsibilities. Instead of waking up, showering, dressing, gathering my supplies and a change of shoes in my backpack and speeding into the Square on my bike-- picking up that day's fresh salad lunch and coconut yogurt on the way-- I actually prepare and "get ready"for more than an hour each morning...checking messages, preparing for class, doing yoga alone in my living room, washing dishes (more on that later) and finally throwing together my "teacher outfit" (more on THAT later) and going to work via a small bus,  along with all of my coworkers. Every morning, we tromp our way down the echo-y stairs of our modern cement apartment buildings and across the pediment, such as it is, at pretty much the same time each morning.  Our time is spoken for between 7:45 a.m. and 6 p.m. every workday. The roads, as I have mentioned, are chaotic-- and there is no established bike lane on my work route that I could cling to during rush hour. (Yes, I realize that is too much to ask for in most parts of the world, including the U.S. in fact, but one can hope! Not all the world is the Netherlands!) Plus, the air is billowing with dry-earth dust and filled with auto exhaust, especially during commuting times-- not great for a cyclist. There is no shade along the way, and it would be highly inappropriate for me, as a woman alone in southern Turkey, to ride along morning rush hour traffic in biking shorts and a small tank top. I suppose I could still towel off in a ladies room-- but there are no private ones at the school (that I am aware of).  So, I no longer ride my bike to work every day, and that is by far the biggest single change I've had to adjust to this year.
     I do ride some when I'm in town, though, when it isn't rainy-- but only on the weekends when the roads are more peaceful... and I have tons of wonderful things to say about those rides. But for now, I am thinking about how much my daily life has changed. I still try to eat healthy food, but I find the range of  fresh, high-quality produce is more limited than what spoiled American me had grown accustomed to in Boston. I haven't had a single bubble tea or coconut milk yogurt since I've arrived last September. This was my decision, though. I decided to leave behind the variety and extravagance of a major city in a more developed country... in exchange for the raw exuberance of a part of the world that is still in various stages of development, and still shows off a lot more traditional, old-world ways. I look forward to sharing more about the benefits of my decision to move here in future posts... but for now... I am missing Bubble Tea (Jasmine, less sweet, less boba, less ice).  :-)  I wonder what I will dream about tonight...

My New Life in the "Gateway to the East..."

Consider this to be the slowest-ever-to-blossom blog... my apologies for all delays. It has been quite a year. Since arriving last September, I've experienced late summer, fall, winter and now spring.

I've been living in a land of rapid change. Imagine an urban village. There is a busy, four-lane boulevard. In the middle, there is a newly functioning tramway. Along each side of the traffic, there are crumbling sidewalks covered in light, dry dirt or pale brown mud-- depending on the time of year. Often, motorcycles will abruptly leave the road and head up the sidewalk, or ride against traffic. Women in ankle-length raincoats cover their heads with bright, silk scarves year round. They can be seen perched on the back or front of motorcycles, in flatbed trucks, behind the wheel of their own car, riding mini-buses, or sometimes walking in groups, often with their families.   Farmers from the nearby villages send their goods in to town with their horse or donkey drawn carts, riding along the same busy road.  Honking is a constant, 24-hour phenomenon. I pity those horses and donkeys, and residents with a roadside bedroom in one of the painted cement high-rises-- many recently built or currently under construction, especially along the edges of the city.  Rugs, shirts, pants, towels... hang in perpetual ornamentation of the large, cement apartment complexes.  From balconies and window ledges, people dry their laundry in the dusty air, polluted by auto exhaust-- and, in winter, coal that residents buy from  corner shops also selling vegetables, soap, newspapers and other basic household supplies.

People drive up for the day to shop here-- usually Syrians... or folks from the village.  Near the university, there are many trees-- olive, cypress, and pine trees. Upon approaching the city center, pistachio groves and the Jandarme Police compound flank either side of the boulevard. One block set in, there is a giant park... surrounded by older blocks of concrete and sometimes brick apartments.  The park is the place to go on the weekend for peoplewatching-- children, teenagers speeding on bikes, packs of runners in uniform steer through the pebbly paths past old people lounging near fountains or bar-b-ques. During the holy holidays, the smell of cooking meat is ever present along the entire boulevard and the edges of the park. Heavy-set ladies in flowered pants and bright scarves chase children around jungle gyms and across fields.  Elegant women in long raincoats chat at picnic tables. Everyone comes to enjoy the tall canopies of trees, filled with birds that take over all of the branches at night. A few couples stroll along, often headed to one of the nearby cafes near the Botanical Gardens after a day of shopping. At the far end, the giant, terraced Sanko Park shopping mall presides over the whole area, as the park continues to meander its way past the other side of the mall, toward a Cami (mosque) and ultimately in the general direction of the soccer arena. It is through Sanko Park's revolving glass doors and airport-style security gates and scanners that all of the visiting shoppers pass before they can enter and spend their money. Those arriving to town to buy or sell melons or sheep or mandalinas will opt for the nearby open-air markets in the older part of the city center instead...  where it is still possible to have a suit or a pair of shoes custom made. This is truly an amazing place-- an urban village.

The people are relaxed and usually smiling, except for the tiny, thin old men in Turkish style black pantaloons or boys in jeans who push carts of odds and ends through the street... on foot, shouting their arrival and their wares as they push their way past, sometimes along the sides of the busiest roads. Some of the more well-to-do residents will have an apartment for most of the year, and a small house outside one of the neighboring villages-- for getaways with the family during good weather. The whole spectrum of economic and social status can be seen on nearly every sidewalk.

Interlopers like me stand out a mile. Wherever I go, people always try to guess my country. As one of my co-travelers has remarked, they always make sure I exit the bus at the correct stop. Local storekeepers often offer me tea, which they call Chai. They laugh at my rudimentary Turkish skills, often interrogating me kindly-- mostly in their language. A few ask in English: "Where are you from?"

They smile knowingly when I answer:  "I'm from 'Antep." Even with the language barrier, they know a silly joke when they hear one! It is very, very different from Boston. And this is what I wanted-- I wanted to change everything. I wanted something completely different. This is.