That carpet guy in Cappadocia was apparently full of shit about a few things - ABC Carpets, for example, apparently buys from other vendors than just his. And it appears ABC isn't the only store in America that sells real Turkish carpets. Although the guys who told me this information are carpet salesman, as well. So who knows.. and really, who cares? They're carpet salesman. Shreds - or shards - of truth in all steroetypes. But Sincey did speak the truth about a few other things.
When enjoying our tea and spliff, he told me about the realities of a majority of the poor Turkish population, specifically the Kurdish community as I'd mentioned my friend Mehmet was a Kurd who grew up in Mt. Ararat. He spoke of families where it's often quite common to stop sending their kids to school at 9 or 10, maybe 12 or 13 because they need them to work and support the family - he, himself, stopped at 15 or so. And he said, in that part of Eastern Turkey, the Kurds may not even have a house, maybe only a room, a few beds, maybe which which they share, amongst other sad details. I wondered if that was Mehmet's life growing up... When you meet someone you connect with, someone who is a thoughtful, curious person - one that speaks your language (like the couple I met in Ephesus), you could learn a lifetime about a person in a day, a night. Especially when traveling, as it's easy to share when you know you'll probably never see them again. But when there's a language barrier, the freedom of delving or actually even knowing how intelligent or curious a person is, how, what or if they think, let alone details about themselves, their families, their lives, their desires and their frustrations is limited at best.
If we lived in the same city, it is certainly possible I may have met Mehmet just as I did - at a cafe I hung out at (or more likely a bar in New York) - but in all honesty, extremely doubtful that I would have ever befriended him or become intimate, to the extent we did. Aside from the somewhat socially inappropriate age difference - him being somewhere in the 1/2 my age range - it's just different, safer when you're passing through, knowing it is short lived, no matter what. It goes without saying at this point, we come from and live in completely different worlds, and even more so than what I thought initially. I do have many friends that run the gamut... from middle agers, super educated, smart and highly successful in ways most would use to judge to 20-somethings, living hand to mouth, actors/waiters/bartenders, some educated and hungry for betterment, others not at all. But this goes even beyond that.
I noticed Mehmet the first time I walked up to Kafeka, on my first day in Istanbul. Handsome as hell, a sparkle in his deep black eyes, a body that moves - me, and a smile that kills. But he wasn't the one who spoke Enligsh well, so it was his friend Gokhan who really pulled me into the fold, offering to show me around Istanbul that following day. But when I arrived at the cafe in the morning, he had stood me up, and Mehmet filled in. I actually almost turned down his offer to spend the day because the effort of dealing with the language thing for an extended period seemed too exhausting. But we went off and connected, as people just do. We shared an energy, a physical attraction, and had an ease of just being - hanging out together, often times with long moments of silence, especially on that first day - not just because we didn't know each other, but we also hadn't figured out a few tricks around the two languages. Which was even more suprising, as most often those silences between people are incredibly uncomfortable, even when that space could quite easily be filled from a huge vocabulary of words.
I knew from the beginning he was young, and poor, and probably uneducated. Certainly unsophisticated. And as I got to know him better, I understood that visions of a better life wasn't something he really thought about, dreamt about, not really. Because that wasn't something he could afford either. Any conversations about 'hope' included America in the sentence. But it felt to me it was always said in the same kind of vain that I might say, "In my next life I will come back with really long, sexy legs and be naturally thin." Finding out about him has been through dribs and drabs - a little here, a little there. Most times we tried to put things in the simplest of terms so we could both say " I understand, I understand." And to be clear, Mehmet and I weren't disucssing literature or politics here. On the more 'complicated issues', topics that couldn't be described in a few words, or as we got to know each other better, actually trying to pose real questions to each other, one of us ususally got frustrated or bored, or both - even with the help of one of our many translations books (which all suck) or with online translation sites. (Which was more amusing than helpful, as much of the time they only inched us along towards understanding, or further away.)
But the picture that Simcey, the carpet guy from Goreme had painted for me, very cleary became Mehemet's past. Mother from Iran, father from turkey, 1 of 10 kids, no money, much of the time little to no food, no clothes really to speak of, him and his brother Omet, also at the cafe who I've met, were sent here to Istanbul for a better life, to make money for the family. It was devastatingly sad to hear. When we first met, I initially hesitated having him see the apartment I was staying in, didn't want him to confirm what I already knew he was thinking. But he apparently was hiding too. It may have been difficult to communicate, but he also chose what to share - and what not to. As he described the real reality, the look on his face said it all, "bad, very bad."
The first day we spent together, I of course offered to take him to lunch, as he was being my guide. Through our first translation book we bought (I bought), I figured out how to say "my treat," or "on me." I was naive enough then to think he might have had something in his pocket other than a cell phone, and I was just being appropriately kind. But they were completely empty, except for his Metro pass. As we continued spending time together, anything we did that cost money - mostly transportation and food - I paid for. Towards the end of the first week, it was his birthday, so I framed a picture I'd taken of him that he liked along with splitting the cost of a cheap pocket camera. Even though it was the camera we had much conversation over (and an interesting time purchasing, as I negotiated the cost in a very local electronics distict there), it was the picture, that he was clearly touched by. Then one day, the following week, we wandered into the Nike store on Istiklal Cadessi. I'd been (continually) commenting on the incredible smell eminanting from his feet - and sneakers - which became something of a running joke. (Seriously, nothing quite like it actually!). I knew what he wanted without any words. He's not all that subtle. Which in the big picture wasn't a bad thing, as nuance doesn't really help when there's a language barrier. He had wanted to pay for some of the new sneaks, but I wouldn't let him, even though I was feeling a bit uncomfortable about the whole 'money thing' now. Although we spoke about these "gifts" in a joking kind of way, I wasn't as amused anymore. Was I being hustled? Is this what this was about? Not that our "it" was anything, but a little summer "under the boardwalk" month, but still... Was it me and my own uncomfortable relationship with money? Or was it my New York back, skepticism and cynicism taking hold? Maybe it really was him? Was he just a Turkish hustler, a carpet salesman, "using me" and I was just now seeing it?
Keep in mind these 'gifts' are hardy large in scale or in dollar figure, but I still felt uncomfortable, slightly. Not enough to stop - stop hanging with him, stop paying for things. Because I think deep down, I knew that this simple, good natured kid, although raised in the land of the hustle, just didn't have it in him to be that coniving, that cunning. When the two of us spent an afternoon in Uskudar, a small village on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, there was a kid (a real kid) - maybe 11 or 12 - who guided us to the mosque I wanted to see. I could have found it myself with the map, but Mehmet is big on asking directions - go figure. So while I zoned out, fell behind taking pictures, Mehmet and this kid chatted away,. (Istanbullas are just like New Yorkers that way - they stand or sit next to each other and conversations just start and continue.) When we got to the mosque, the two shook hands and then Mehmet went to give him a few lire. The kid didn't want to take it. But Mehmet insisted. It was probably the only change he had in his pocket that day.
We live in a consumer-driven world. How consumer driven is Istanbul, is Turkey, compared to the States? Hard to know. Being that I can't read or understand the language, the media pulse and innundation of advertisements, radio, tv, billboards, magazines, was something I wasn't able to really experience, or take in as much as I would have liked. But I know it's here in good form. Istiklal, the main shopping street in Taksim, lined with inexpensive clothes shops and eateries one after the other, is his central life, his walking strip. He sees things he wants and needs everyday, but can't afford them. I know he sees my things - and saw the apartment I'm staying in, and he thinks I'm loaded. In reality, I know that I'm not. I know this trip is tapping me out and many of the "responsible" people in my life couldn't fathom how or why this trip made sense, because of those financial and professional concerns associated with me taking off for this long. But the real reality, that middle ground, is that in America's terms - New York terms - I may not be poor, but not even close to well off. Here though, not only am I rich because of what I've seemingly got in my pocket or on my back or in my knapsack, but I am because I've got an education and professional experience and the means and ability to find a job and make money, make a living, make a life that I want for myself, when I come home, eventually. And Mehmet - and many others like him, here and at home (all over the world, obviously) can't say that. After having a video chat with my father one night, about this topic, somehow it made it all clearer, and relieved me of any of the remaining uncomfortableness I was having. It's not that I didn't know it, but hearing and saying it out loud, "you are rich to them" - just made it click in my head. Allowed me to see Mehmet as he is, instead of something I thought he might be.
So what's charity? The rich go to fancy gala events, give large sums to organizations or foundations. Maybe if they're lucky and really involved in a cause they'll see the fruits of their dollars - be able to actually see their good deeds realized. But most, probably not. So why not 'give' in a more personal way, why not see that joy in someone's face when receiving something they're grateful for? I know what it's like to want, both what I don't need - and what I really do. Seeing thing others around me have, things that I'd like to have as well, but can't afford. Believe me, I'm not comparing our situations, even remotely. I just understand the desire, that hope that what you want will come your way, somehow. I saw that in Mehmet's eyes, felt it in his body - hope, maybe desperation. So what's wrong with me giving to him, for him, if I could with relative ease? I decided nothing. Yes, I have a budget, one I've been pretty dilligent about sticking to. But a couple hundred bucks in the long run - this week, this trip, in the scheme of life - does it really matter? Certainly a hell of a lot less to me than him. And I think that's the point.
Hearing the full scope of his reality, his background, just about broke my heart. It's a good thing the restaraunt was dark. Or he'd have seen my eyes well up. It's possible he may not have wanted to share all this information before, but in all fairness, I probably didn't want to really know the truth either. I had gotten over my uncomfortableness of the consumer purchases. But as I sat there listening, I thought, buying a pair of sneakers, or a meal, means nothing. It's just a moment, a new purchase sense of glee, a smile, the satisfaction of a full stomach. And it did give us both pleasure. But those things aren't going to change his life. Can I help him do that? Even when I had just met him, I thought what he does, what him and his friends do at the cafe, the "Turkish hustle," it's actually applicable and useful in a variety of professional ways - and ways in which there is good money to be had. But he doesn't know anything about that, or how to go about getting it if he did. I stopped short of going there when we first met because not only of my inability to actually articulate anything that complicated, but because, well, it's none of my friggin business. It's not my country, or my culture. Who am I to say anything, presume what he should want, or what he should know? Or make him feel awkward and embarrased that he doesn't. Of course, I couldn't help myself from thinking about it though. But now, over the course of almost a months time, we've grown closer, more comfortable with each other, and somehow I felt I could.
Maybe it's because I'd opened up my wallet? Maybe because now I was actually leaving? Maybe because he actually shared the grim reality of it all? Or maybe just because I saw this good kid, with a good heart who I wanted to help have something better. I don't know. All I know is that me giving him these 'gifts' aren't going to help him figure out how to buy them for himself one day. But what, in reality, could I really do to make any real difference for him? I'm leaving, I've already left. I can't help him change the way he thinks about things? Or open up his eyes to the opportunities that might actually exist for him, maybe not in Turkey - but in other places. I can't change the fact that he has no education and will have to lean heavily on his charm and good looks to get anywhere. I know I can't give much, and I know there's so much more that I don't know than I do about him and his own limitations, let alone societies' shut doors for people like him - here and everywhere else in the world.
But what I do know is that he needs to learn how to speak, read and write English fluently. That without that, his opportunities are more than limited. And then, that night as I was falling asleep I remembered the woman I met on the bus trying to get to Bodrum, an English teacher. Is that something I can give him? Maybe I can help that way? Maybe that will make a difference? Maybe with a pretty, young girl as a tutor he'll figure a way around his insane schedule of work and sleep and try to figure out how to do it? In all honesty, I really don't know if he has that drive, even if it was given to him on a silver platter. And even if I could help in this way, would it actually make a difference for him? Would he do something with it? I really can't say. But I know it's probably one of the few things he can try to do for himself, with my help, that might inch him along. I just left Istanbul and am fully aware that I will never see Mehmet again. It was a moment in life. And as nice as it was to meet him, spend time with him, to see the joy - and relief - on his face holding a bag with a new purchase he could never afford, it would make me a hell of a lot happier to help him actually figure out how to have a better life. If I can figure it out for him, even if I won't be able to see the resulting happiness on his face, maybe at least, our conversation on Facebook will flow a little easier. I've been messaging back and forth with the woman about it. We'll see...
Let's face it. Giving to others, giving to charity isn't wholly altruistic. We give because it makes us feel good, it makes us feel good to see someone receive joy because of our money, our ability, our actions. We feel better because we can, and we do. The world is an incredibly unfair place sometimes - that a person's lot is so dicated by where they were born, who they were born to and raised by and the luck of the gene pool, just pisses me off. And if I can help to redeal those cards for someone, someone who means something to me, in my own little way, my own fuck you to the cosmic order, I'm there. I know he's appreciated the things I've been able to give him, as well as the time we've spent together. Of course he says "Tanks, Susie" many times (that's not a typo in thanks, by the way), but it's his eyes that say it, not his words, and so I know. But it's there for me too, looking at that beautiful face, those eyes, into his kind heart, thinking about the good company he's been for me the last month here, the silly fun we've had, the last day and night in Istanbul we shared... didn't I get something too?
I didn't set out to meet someone, to meet some poor kid to 'save.' But, I did. I connected with a good soul, a person who I think should have more, deserves more, who could use a helping hand. We all need that sometimes, and maybe somehow, I was just meant to be here, to be his now. (If you believe in that kind of thing). Unfortunately, money - and giving - can be a weird and awkward thing. It's probably why people give anonymously and not one to one. But Mehmet happened upon me, I guess as it turned out we happened upon each other. What started out for me as uncomfortableness, I somehow embraced. How far it will go, I'm not sure at this point. But even if it stops here, the gifts have already been exchanged.
.
Plate of noodles and a plate of lotus root. They offer small, medium & large portions, which I like, good for tasting. I got the noodles, because everyone seemed to be eating them, and the lotus root because I love them. Noodles better than vegggie, but both good - could have done with spicier noodles. Not sure what exactly it is, but whenever I eat the Chinese food, I always crave the ice cream, so I went looking. But instead found a stall with Indian fare. I really had been wanting to try some and this looked like the right opportunity, good smells and seemingly a popular joint... I couldn't help myself. I ordered a melange, thinking I'd just 'taste'. One order of beef satay, a coconut rice and one fried chicken wing (seems to be part of the standard fare.) I really did just wanted to taste. But I ate almost all of it. I couldn't stop, it was so damn good. The sauce for the satay was incredible, as was the coconut rice, which is served in these cone-shaped paper with a tangy-spicy sauce on top. And now, needless to say, I'm completely ill. But it was worth it - awesome. And the cost - 8 ringgits - the equivalent of about $2. 
Liked. didn't love. some stories better than others. his writing style felt up and down, inconsistent. in general, provided an interesting subtext to "they would never hurt a fy," but while I couldn't put that one down, this one i breezed through the last few stories, as I was ready to move onto something else.
