Getting back to Konya and a different type of civilization

My bus is late and I decide to collect my luggage from Nari, my couch surfing host, tomorrow. So when I get to the otogar I get down the bus through the middle door, to avoid the large crowd engaged in what seems to be a loud celebration at the end of the platform area, and I head to the tram station. My right knee hurts so bad that I now have a limp and I know I have an infection.

When I get off in the city center I ask this tall, pudgy young guy if he can speak English. Yok, he replies smiling. I don’t give up and I take out my phone to show him the address of my hotel . He checks it out and then takes out his phone and shows me the route on Google maps. We try hard to have a conversation, I’m using my hands a lot and make all sorts of faces, while he just smiles impassibly and speaks Turkish. When the scene gets crazy enough, we both stop and sigh, smiling powerlessly to each other.

 Then his face lights up as he takes out his phone again, opens Google translate and we start passing it between each other. He decides to come with me the whole way and walk me to my hotel. We pass this small group of young, thin, gay guys, looking gratious and cautious, we discuss the weather, how old I am, how old he is (19), his favorite place in Turkey (Istanbul), if I like Turkey, why I am here, where my parents are, where I come from, where he has traveled (Turkey), how far the hotel is, why I stay at the hotel. 

Suddenly he stops and grabs both my shoulders, puts his head close to mine so I can feel his tall hair brushing my left temple and points somewhere ahead of us. I squint and, on the right side, across the road, I can see the name of my hotel in bright pink letters. He then takes me across the street, carefully telling me to stop or walk as he checks if cars are coming, as if I could not see for myself and I am grateful for all the care. When we get in front of the hotel, he opens the door, gets in and I follow. He stops next to the door on the left, straight and tall, looking  down at me and smiling as the two dark haired men in the lobby, the receptionist and the bell boy, are watching us, waiting to see what happens.

I position myself in front of him, look up straight into his green eyes, smile back, stretch out my right arm and we shake hands. He looks proud and handsome, like a sultan. Daniela. Fatah, I believe he replies. Tesekkur ederim, I add. Rica ederim, he retorts a bit disappointed as he releases my hand and heads for the exit. Gule gule, I add and turn to the receptionist. Merhaba.

The bell boy takes me to my room. I am so tired I don’t mind anything anymore. We get to the door and the boy follows me in, kneels on the side of my bed and then stretches, pressing his palms on the white sheet, reaching for the remote control and, despite my faint protests and repeated sighing, he insists to show me how it works. It takes him a while because it doesn’t really work. I have to tell him several times “yok TV” and start making desperate hand gestures to help him understand before he finally stops and leaves the room.

 I take a hot shower and attend to my knee. Just as I’m getting into bed, at 00.00 sharp, there’s a loud knock on the door. I get up and open. The bell boy has brought a plate of fresh fruits and a steaming coffee. I swallow my comments because my Turkish is not that bright and colorful yet and his English is as illusiory and volatile as democracy in his country, so I know I shouldn’t rely on it. I let out my ‘oh’ and watch him as he walks past me into the room and finds the best place to put the treat: on the chair, over my cardigan.

 Tesekkur, I blabber and he follows immediately with the right lines and leaves the room. I say something in Romanian about drinking coffee all the time and start missing my place. The room feels cold and loud and the street noise and the noise coming from the neighboring rooms make me uncomfortable. The silence in my cave house hotel was truly wonderful. I want to go home…

PS I wrote this last night and am posting it today. My account on my last day in Goreme is postponed because of the political situation in Turkey. I see myself forced to live the day. By the way, I have no access to Facebook, and WhatsApp anymore, as they are not working in Turkey today.

Leaving the safety of the caravanserai behind

The car is cutting through the darkness like a big, hot, round-shaped meteorite falling from the sky. The sema is still shaking its earthquake inside me as my eyes, right one still wet, are wandering among the lights of a distant town.

“You are engaged to be married, I say pretending to be outraged at the passes he’s making on me, like an innocent, naïve eastern European. (Does that even exist? I wonder). “Can men in Turkey have several wives?” I ask, putting on a curious face.

“Well”, he says pausing and leaning back in his seat, ” No. But they can have several girlfriends. Secretly…”

“Oh, I see…” I reply and, although I have absolutely no interest in him, it is finally so clear to me that I never want to be anybody’s secret anymore and don’t what my life to be about secrets. So I giggle as if I received his answer as an innocent joke between buddies, wrapped up in a thin, golden layer of flirtatious attention. 

“I see you are writing sometimes”, he says.

“I am a writer.” I swiftly reply and, for the first time in my life, I feel comfortable saying that and I know it’s true, not something I am merely pretending or aspiring to be. This is it.

“Really? I hope you don’t write about me. Or I’ll come to Romania and…”

“You need a visa for that.”

“No, actually, I don’t. I’m a special citizen.”

“Really? What makes you so special?” I ask, inviting him to impress me.

“My father”, he says hesitantly. “He is an imam… You know what an imam is?” he asks and continues without waiting for my reply. “The leader of the mosque.”

“So your father is an imam and you aren’t a religious person…”

“Yes. I pray, I believe I God but I am not a religious person. It is not important. I will tell you, you should know three the things about Turkish men: firstly, they are aggressive. They are nice in the beginning , but when they know you are theirs, that they have you, they will show you their anger. You know, we cannot help it. It is what we have seen our fathers do…”

“Are you saying this because of my purple eye?” I ask, trying to make a joke because I would hate to have to take this seriously.

“No, I am serious. Secondly, they are very jealous. And, thirdly, they are not good in bed.”

At this point I’m laughing.

“Really, because we are not allowed to have sex, we can’t be good. Maybe some of us are born with a good potential, but since we can’t practise, we are bad. I don’t know about your experience…” he adds and pauses for me to answer.

“Well, a lady never tells.”

“No, a gentleman never tells. And I am a gentleman. So I never tell about my experiences. All my friends like to brag about their adventures, but not me. But I can see your potential. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Really? What do you see?” I take a risk and push him and, although he is not touching me, I can feel the boneless and fleshless and skinless part of his right arm already pushing against  my left shoulder and his hand sliding down the inner part of my thigh. I gently push them away. 

“You are an amazing girl. But not to date. To marry!”

“How come?” I ask laughing.

“You are too good.”

“Damn, I blew it again”, I add pushing my head back and laughing even harder. 

” No, really.”

“OK, it’s good you already have a fiancé then. I am safe.”

“Well, I like dating and I am interested in relationships. And girls. Not just to have sex with them, you know. But to know them. I am interested in their body. I have books at home about the woman body. Their shapes, functions, you know… Red hair would look good on you, by the way.”

“Really? Did you get that idea because we are just crossing the Red River?”

“No, I am good at this. Trust me, I have seen many people… I live with my family. But when I want to be free I go to a hotel, you understand me. Do you live with your family or alone?”

“Alone.”

“That is good. You are free. You can date several guys.”

“Why would I want to date several guys?”

“You see, I told you you are too good.”

Mevlevi Sema in Saruhan, a 1249 caravanserai on the old silk road

“Hi, captain, let’s go.” Samet says picking me up from my hotel.

Although I remember resorting not to trust him, his company is somehow predictable, his English is good, so I feel comfortable and think I can handle him. When my red tour of North Cappadocia finishes (long story, so I will probably break it up and post it later from my laptop), the minibus drops me in front of Angelos Travel and, as I sit down and have the cappuccino  Samet gladly makes for me, I ask him to check if they have the sema tonight and where. As he’s taking his seat and starting making calls for me, I simply tell him:

“Make me happy.” 

We negotiate the price and when I finish my cup he accompanies me to the cash machine and promises to pick me up from my hotel  twenty minutes later. 



On the way, as I am admiring the beautiful view, taking photos and notes in my notebook, he is happy to give information and tells me about the caravanserai where the sema will be performed tonight. He tells me it is one of the oldest in Anatolya and that on the silk road there is a caravanserai every six kilometres. That is the limit for camels, he explains. In the old times, he tells me, traders would get shelter, food and women for free for two days in the caravanserai. “Everyone is happy in the caravanserai. Because they are safe.”







I get such a strong feeling of freedom as we arrive at the caravanserai. The gate, “we call it a portal”, Samet insists, is amazing and I can’t help thinking how many people have walked through it, from so many places, shrouded in so many stories, so many connected lives like the colorful threads in a carpet being woven by so many hands all at once.

We visit the rooms that used to welcome traders, now waiting rooms for tourists and guides and I am taking pictures as my private driver and guide walks around feeling important. When I get into the large hall at the end of the yard, where the sema will be performed, I feel I should whisper or be silent. 


I sit down on the left of the ‘stage’, in the middle of the second row. My guide informs me he will wait for me outside, since he has seen the sema too many times and doesn’t want to get bored. I am grateful for the space and take out a tissue, since I already know I will cry and want to avoid making noise during the ceremony. The other people in the audience all come in and sit on the right side if the stage, opposite me, leaving me the only one on my side. 

The dervishes come. Three sit at one end if the stage and sing and play musical instruments and I let the Sufi music fill me as my legs can finally let go and abandon their weight on the bench. We are an audience of 10: 9 on the right side and 1 on the left – me.

Three dervishes whirl and the oldest one keeps his black ‘cloak’ on and remains a witness, walking among the others or just standing. The whirling is prepared and waited for. They begin by paying respect. They all lign up facing me and bow several times. My body remains still, but the rest of me bows, touching the ground a few times, my forehead kissing the floor where so many steps have carried their weight. 

Never in my life have I seen men doing anything more beautiful. My right hand finds its way to my heart, hides it fingers in the damp warmth of my armpit and rests there like a blessing, soothing a very old pain. I have been carrying it for too many lifetimes. On my silk road I make a stop.

Right before the ceremony ends, I am shaken by an earthquake and I get dizzy and a bit nauseous. So I close my eyes. I can feel the movement with my whole body. And, suddenly, I remember. I don’t know whose memories these are. But I remember. 

At the same time, my right eye starts crying. The purple eye. The bruised eye. The swollen eye. The left one, like the old dervish in black, remains a silent witness, open and still, holding it together so that the other one can feel free to lose itself in the experience. 

A guy comes and announces ‘Now you can take picture’ and, for a moment there, I do not understand what is going on, I do not understand the language. And then the meaning of the words lights up in my mind , but I do not understand what he means by the announcement. The audience raising their phones all at once, in a synchronised dance in the side opposite mine help me remember. 


When they all bow in the end, my right hand still over my heart, I bow too. My brothers, I missed you. My brothers… And I remain silent, still shaking and crying as they are leaving. My cinnamon sorbet is getting cold next to me, as I am lost in the empty space in front, around and inside me. I cannot move just yet. As everyone leaves and lights are going off, I convince my body it is safe to move even with an earthquake inside and so my feet push against the hard floor, helping my back lean forward, my legs stretch and knees straighten and then the weight if my head leans backward and my whole body comes upright again. 


“How was it, lady captain?” Samet greets me outside as I am the last one leaving the place before the lights go completely off and the door is locked. I am still carrying my earthquake, so my voice is a bit shaky as I am staggering for an answer he would not ask me to explain. 


Outside the caravanserai the night is cold, the sky is sharp and clear like the blade of a scalpel, shining in the amber light of the moon, which is resting between two major surgeries. 

More about the way back and my last day in Cappadocia in future posts. 

Turning Turkish on my first night in Cappadocia, Goreme

I arrive in Goreme just as the muezzin is performing the adhan. I look around, trying to guess the direction to my hotel from the description on booking.com, but I soon realise a better idea is to get help, so I head towards the most populated area. I soon find out Goreme is a village, so the populated region is a group of small shops. 

In about two minutes I find myself in front of this travel agency, where a guy in his mid twenties is just finishing a conversation with an Asian tourist and I see in his eyes he’s getting ready to fish for me. I am too happy to hear he speaks English to care about anyting else.

“Hi there. I am looking for my hotel. Do you think you could help?”

“Of course I can. But come in, I can offer you something to drink and we can talk.” he says, pronouncing every word clearly and separately, carefully and as convincingly as he can. 

“Thank you, that’s very kind. I’ll come back later, now I just need to find my hotel and check in first. It’s Mystic Cave House Hotel. Do you happen to know where it is?”

“Yes. It is very close actually. Just go round the mosque and to the right and you will find it.”

“Really? Are you sure? I mean I just came from there and didn’t see it.” 

“That is because it looks like there is nothing there. But you will find it.”

“OK, thanks, see ya then.” I reply, feeling little bit discouraged by the involuntary unflattering description.

“Wait! What is your name? he says, coming down the steps into the sidewalk in front of me, his right hand reaching out.

” Daniela.” I smile and shake his hand.

“Samet”, he says, stressing the ‘a’ and making it stretch like chewing gum, one end between his teeth and the other one tightly squeezed between his fingers. 

“Where are you from?”

“Romania.”

“I traveled to Romania two months ago. I love it.” he says, all the time keeping eye contact, his eyebrows tensed in a little frown from the constant concentration. 

“Oh, really? I’m happy to hear that. OK, see you later then.” I add, resolving not to trust him. 

“OK. I am waiting. I can offer you some good deals on tours. Better than your hotel. ”

“Tesekkur, we’ll talk about that later then.”

“Oh, you can speak Turkish. You look Turkish, too.”

“Thank you. I can only speak a few words, I am not very Turkish.”

When we finally manage to say good bye, I go round the mosque, which is maybe 50 m away and past a public toilet and see my hotel on the right. I like the stone walls and think it looks good enough, but I am still expecting the worst, on account of the very good deal I got on it. (That’s another thing: I tend to expect things that seem good to go bad – just another virus I need to clean from my system.)


The reception, a small kiosk-like space next to the entrance, looks rather unwelcoming and the receptionist – an agitated guy, light brown hair, bruised face (!?) that seems never to have known laughter or even smiling, rough hands and dirty fingernails – is very unfriendly and gives me the impression of a newly escaped convict planning a revenge. He never says ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, but keeps ordering me around.

“Are you ok?” I ask, looking for his eyes. 

“Yes.” he quickly replies and seems to stop there for a moment, surprised by the question.

“You seem very busy and tired.” I insist, looking for a small doorway to his heart. I don’t find it this time, but I am determined to try again on our next encounter. 

He takes my backpack and leads me to my room. But for the small, covered, high window, everything looks good. The bathroom (which is not a separarate room, but a corner enclosed by glass walls only a few centimeters taller than me) is an interesting surprise and I can’t help thinking about how it would be to have to share the room.



I take off my coat and rest for a while, send a few messages, then take a long hot shower and when I get out again it’s dark. I wonder if I can still find the travel agency  open. I go round the mosque and the call to prayer starts again, making me wonder if all my arrivals and departures are to be blessed like this on my entire trip. 

Before I get to the travel agency, I get the feeling that being out after dark on my own around here is not the best idea, although I have never been afraid of that. I find the guy sitting outside and, when he sees me, he quickly invites me in. We take our seats and he offers coffee, but I politely decline on account of the late hour.

“I have hot chocolate. Do you want hot chocolate? he insists, so sure of himself.

“Thank you, I think I’ve had too much chocolate today, actually.”, I tell him, remembering my lunch on the go.

I look at him and I see he’s becoming offended by my refusals, so I decide to make him feel good.

“Do you also have water? I would really love some water. I feel so thirsty!”

“Yes, I do have water!” he quickly replies, clinging to the question as if to a lifebuoy.

“You look so Turkish, you know, really. Are you sure you’re not a little bit Turkish? ” he says as he’s bringing me my water.

“Oh. Thank you.” I laugh. “Who knows? Maybe I am.”

“What happened here?” he asks pointing to my right eye. And I realise he is actually the first person to ask openly about it since I left Bucharest.

“Fell off my bike.” I quickly reply and right after I close my mouth I bite my lips to stop myself from answering what he didn’t utter out loud. 

“When was that?” he insists.

“Friday. So it was my birthday on Sunday and this trip is my gift.” I continue, changing the subject so that he doesn’t get kicked in the balls before I get a deal.

” Really?! Happy birthday! Great gift. Who is it from?”

“Thank you. Myself.” I reply and see clearly what he is thinking: I got beaten up by my jealous husband because I cheated on him, so in a fit of anger, I took off my wedding ring, flushed it down the toilet (or just threw it in a drawer, his mind is not decided about this detail), took all the cash in the house, packed the bare necessities and ran away from home. 

I smile to the image and let him have it, petting my left knee as I convince my leg to stay put and leave my foot on the floor. 

“I like your style of clothes. It is European. Don’t ever change that.” he continues checking me out and making remarks as if voicing lines from an inner dialogue while weighing an item in a shop right before purchasing it. Or stealing it.

“I like you. You are a nice person.” he continues, convincing himself the merchandise he’s got his eye on is a good choice. 

“You’ve just met me, I just walked in here five minute ago. ” I reply somewhat indignantly, perfectly aware that it is all a strategy meant to open myself up, feel comfortable, be friendly and get ripped off. And it doesn’t bother me, I can tell it’s what usually works for him. I just realise one more time how much people really need to be seen, to be appreciated, noticed and valued. So much so that they are willing to pay through their teeth to get the illusion of it. 

“Don’t get me wrong”, he continues, waving his thick ring in my face. ” I am engaged to be married. I am leaving to America in two months. My fiancé is there.”

“That is wonderful! Congratulations!”

“So if you come to the USA, I can be tour guide there if you wish to visit the Grand Canion. I will open a travel agency there.” he adds and I am not sure if I can believe him.

“Good luck! You are starting a new life. Great! All the best to you!” I sincerely wish him. “So, what have you got for me then? I am here until the day after tomorrow.”

And we start discussing options and prices and I know from Hamodi – my dear Syrian friend in Istanbul, whom I met when he was working in the Grand Bazaar – never to settle for the first price. So I negotiate and eventually we manage to shake hands on a tour for the next day. 

I get out and check the name above the agency. It is Angelos Travel. I like that. The dark,  empty street is no discouragement for my desire to explore the new place. Nor is the man kicking a stray dog in the middle of the street, out of the blue. So I walk to this shop opposite the agency and get bread and olives for dinner and then walk up this narrow street and get to a beautiful hotel on the left and then to this small, dusty shop and I go in.


“Merhaba.” I say to this old man as the door opens and I just love hearing my voice saying that. I feel like repeating it and, when I see this older lady wearing a hijab watching TV in the far end corner, I say it again: m e r h a b a (careful about every sound, laying the stress on the ‘e’, rolling the ‘r’, pushing the ‘h’ upwards toward the back of my throat and finally letting the end if the word be released from between my lips like a sigh.

The shop has all possible souvenirs, but I am drawn to this wall displaying handmade necklaces – silk and beads. The lady joins me and explains she has made them all and I can sense, as I’m touching them, that she’s being honest. She helps me try a few of them on before I decide which one is mine. I don’t really need one, I’m thinking as I’m running the tips of my fingers over them, but I look at the old couple and I know they need me to need one, so I decide I can afford it. 


“Cok guzel”, the woman says, admiring her work against my skin and I know she is right. She offers a fair discount and we are both happy. The energy it carries, of the strong hands of a woman who has lived through the hardships of life and never gave up, is a priceless bonus she is not including in the final price. 

“Tesekkur ederim. Gule gule!”

“Rica ederim! Gule gule!”

And, at the end of the day, I am a little bit more Turkish as I head back to my hotel, listening to the adhan again and passing through this empty carpet shop on the way.


And one more stop before my hotel:

Settling karma and travelling to Goreme

I wake up after about four hours of sleep and I am greeted by the golden light of the sunrise. There’s this sharp pain in the middle of my back, as if I’ve got ‘stabbed’ again. Since I am on holiday and quite far from my current city of residence, it comes as a bit of a surprise. Still, I remember last night had a very special part about getting even (a settlement of accounts between lovers from a previous lifetime).


 I am grateful for it and giggle as I am putting the pieces together and the complicated scenario that was so carefully orchestrated behind my back, casting me as a special guest star, seemingly in the very last minute, is stripped of all its secrets. And my crystal clear mind sucks all the charm out of it at the same time, too. (Just like I do with the creamy white foam on top when I have my latte on Thursdays, getting white, sticky, sweet milk drops on my lips, only to let the tip of my tongue remove them skowly. By the way.)

Former pride and old karma are so blissfully replaced by amusement, inshallah. And everything right after Rumi and Shams. By the looks of it, we agree we are even now and happy with the new settlement, so we can move on. You know those Mastercard commercials? Plane tickets checked etc, etc, etc. The newly conquered freedom… priceless! So another perfectly good former lover is free to become a good friend, if he will. (I did warn you about my special talent.) No hard feelings. No hard  anything else anymore, for that matter. Tesekkur, canim, yok benim. 

I take a cold shower (literally because I need to wash even if there is no warm water and metaphorically because I am a writer and I need a more or less clear perspective on the facts), do my nails, apply makeup and admire the unique combination of purple, yellow and pink surrounding my right eye – a signature blend that has my name on it. A friend says it matches the golden Konyan sunrise, so I like it even more. My left cheekbone is wearing blush. My right one doesn’t need to.


I take my luggage, leave my host’s key downstairs, on the doorman’s reception desk, and go to the otogar to catch my bus to Goreme, where I will be staying till the day after tomorrow, when I am coming back to Konya right on my mother’a birthday. I get on my bus and feel satisfied about the comfort level, so I relax. The new trip fills me with a sense of contentment and I start feeling the stillness that accompanies the newly created space to be conquered by fresh experiences.


“Oh, I want to travel” says Nari this morning, as she’s getting ready to go to work and I am watching the sunrise through the glass wall of the room downstairs in her apartment, where I spent two quiet, pleasant and safe nights. “You have so much energy when you travel, you have a fresh perspective on things, your senses are awake, you pay attention to everything… When you just work, work, work every day, you get tired and sleepy and lost in the routine. Why do people have to work?!” 


The bus starts and, as it leaves the clean neighbourhoods, with their new apartment buildings of Konya behind, the view gradually changes dramatically and I start thinking of Syria. I feel so close to her now. I have not been to Syria in this lifetime, but the scenery on the way reminds me of her somehow and I take a few pictures, wondering if Syria can ever be a travel destination for me. I take out my tablet and write, but then the air becomes so hot I think I am going to die and I cannot keep my eyes open anymore, so I take a nap and am awaken by the painful sound of my phone landing between my feet and, when I look up, I see we are in Aksaray. Here I have my luch on the go: chocolate candies and plain water. 


Turkey looks so clean and cold, hard, shiny and dangerous like the freshly polished pipe of a loaded hunting weapon being held by the big, strong hands of a psychopath with the sharp mind of a genius. Its people are still wearing golden rags of former glory, busy making ends meet and shattering distances at any costs. No one is alone here. Ever. Pain is hidden under the hijab or crushed in clenched fists, stuffed with sugar, smoked, washed down with cay or coffee and, secretly, alcohol. See, nothing separates us. We are all the same. Fear is no more than a virus we get while navigating news channels, never while traveling the world. 

All of a sudden, the view outside the bus window tells me I am in Cappadocia and in a few minutes the bus stops and I am told to get off. I am the only traveller getting off here and I am so surprised at the amazing view that I take small steps, to be able to take in the whole beauty and not change anything by making sudden moves or taking too deep breaths. 


It is my first stay in a cave house hotel and my hotel room is also much better than I taught myself to expect for fear of being disappointed. A nice surprise. On the other hand, the first contact with the people here tells me they work a lot and are underpaid and seem less friendly that their brothers in Konya. That gives me a little bit more understanding for my own brothers and sisters back home. 


And so my first day in Goreme, Cappadocia, can now officially begin. Since absolutely nothing on my trip so far has gone according to plan, I now have no plan and will just let life take it from here. So here we go!

First cry in Konya

The stress falls on the “a”, while the “n” is dipped in melted chocolate, so it is softened and slippery, like the way people in the  central region of Romania pronounce it (only they usually prefer to smear it in pork fat; the smoked kind, with a crushed garlic crust).


Konya is very clean and well kept, well organized and somehow seems to have a clear head. (Though the strict rules about sexual activity often seem to make people a bit frustrated, confused or even obsessed. By the way, how come two of the most open minded and free people ever are buried in the strictest city in Turkey? Isn’t it ironic?) Anyway, she is nothing like Istanbul. So that makes me think Istanbul is not typical for Turkey, just like London is not like the rest of the U.K. and Bucharest is a different world than the rest of the country. 


I leave home late today because posting from my phone and tablet takes forever. But when I get out, I can finally smell the winter air. That is one more thing: it is colder and windier than Bucharest. And it’s got hills!


I get to the train station and I ask the security guy about getting to the city center. Although I got good instructions from a smart Turk back home, I ask for confirmation about the direction. Of course he speaks absolutely no English whatsoever. But he takes me to this girl and leaves me in her care. She doesn’t speak English either, except for a few words. 

I start thinking whether here it is considered a form of betrayal of your own culture to learn foreign languages or what. I guess if I moved here and worked as an English  teacher, I would either get filthy rich or go bankrupt. 

The girl makes room on the bench where she is sitting and, with a determined gesture of her hand, has me sit down next to her. I realize I have been very submissive since I arrived and I am comfortable following orders and being looked after. That is something new, and I carefully study the phenomenon. 

So when the train comes, she signals I should follow her and I do. Once on he train, she gives me another signal and I follow her to the route map, so she shows me where we are at and where my destination is. I tell her I want to get to the Mevlana museum. 

“Mev’laa’ana”, she repeats as if rolling a spoonful of whipped cream on her tongue and then on the roof of her mouth, like a cotton candy cloud getting stuck up there for a fraction of a second. 

She then points to a seat and makes me sit down, takes out a piece of paper and her phone and, a minute later, she hands me the paper with my question translated into Turkish, showing me the screen of her phone at the same time – it is on google translate and it reads “show to authorities”. I am impressed by the effort and I thank her, happy that not every kind gesture in Turkey hides a sexual frustration, as I have been warned and refused to believe. 

She then starts talking Turkish to this girl I am sitting next to and I understand she is saying her phone battery is almost empty. I am not sure I should pay attention to them, but I love listening to their conversation and, for the first time ever in my life, Turkish sounds so beautiful and precious, like a necklace of small, natural pearls, irregular, sensitive and expensive, being polished by a the lips, tongues and teeth of an entire nation. 

The girl next to me lends her phone to her. She makes a call and hands me the phone. I am surprised  at the gesture and put it to my ear. 

“Hello! How can o help you?” A male voice greets me. “Mev’laa’ana”, he repeats, rolling it on his tongue and then pushing it down between his teeth  and cheeks, like a hamster gathering food for later. 

I get to Rumi’s museum about an hour later and I am struck my the smell of roses and I postpone walking to his tomb as much as I can (just like I usually postpone gratification in any form, to enjoy the pleasure surrounding the special moment). I sense where it is, but I don’t look, either. I just feel. And listen on the audio guide to the expalanations about other exhibits. 


When I finally let my feet take me to him, my eyes start stinging from the light. I mimic the receiving gesture of the hands I see at he people around me and close my eyes. My chest becomes hot and my head sends out a prayer, pausing after each line, allowing it to wash me like a warm sea, wave after wave:

Let Your light flood my eyes 

Let Your wisdom guide my thoughts 

Let Your words fill my mouth 

Let Your music come out of my throat

Let Your love laugh in my heart 

Let Your kindness rest in my hands 

Let Your courage inspire my deeds

Let Your road stretch under my feet

Let me become your home 

Fill me

And, as the muezzin is performing the adhan, I get goosebumps and I almost run to Shams’ tomb, which is in another mosque, not far from Rumi’s. The rush makes me realize it is him that I have actually come here for. 

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When I enter the mosque, having taken off my shoes and put the hood of my coat over my head, I can feel the same smell of roses again and I want to run directly to the tomb and throw myself on my knees in front of it. But I barely catch a glimpse  of it before this kind man in his mid fifties approaches me and gently leads me to the women’s section upstairs, on the right.


I submit again and, although it still hurts, I get down on my knees and, hidden under my hood, tears start rolling down my cheeks and onto my blue shawl. I cannot contain them anymore. 

My love, I miss you. It is you I search for in everyone I meet. I long to be looked upon by your piercing eyes. I long to be burnt by your look. I long to be made ashes. I long for the touch of your voice, my love. It is your absence that leads me everywhere I go, like a wondering Jew, all the time looking only for you.

And I feel everything I am or used to be gradually leaving me, as I let my tears wash your absence off my face. And I kneel before you naked. Do what you will. I am not my own anymore. Nor do I wish to be.

When the prayer is over, I go down the stairs and spend a few minutes in front of the tomb, which is placed in this elevated, enclosed area, like a miniature room with windows and a clock measuring the time without you. Come back, my love. I am here. Find me. 


I then sit on the carpet behind a column and write everything in my notebook before saying one more prayer and leaving, promising never to be a stranger and to come back. Always. 

Getting to Konya

I board my Turkish airlines plane to Konya and I am so happy to find large, comfortable seats and cushions and pleasant music on board. The plane is so much more comfortable than the one I came on from Bucharest and I think Turkish people must really love their own people. I have noticed how their self confidence often borders  arrogance, but I guess it is a healthier form of self respect than the Romanian ever adopted ‘snowdrop position’ or self-sabotaging attitude.


I sit down and take out my tablet to work on my Istanbul blog post. Next to me comes a guy who strikingly resembles my father. Actually, he is an interesting combination between my father and a friend of my father’s.He offers a cushion and inquires about my trip. As we leave Istanbul behind, we are speaking French and I can finally practice smugness and royalty in my perfect French accent again. It has been a while and I giggle inside when words and expressions come to me in ‘la francais de l’ocean’, a language invented with some friends, on the free principle that it makes no difference what words you’re using as long as you are faking the accent with enough pathos.


When I see Konya from up in the air, I feel there is something unique about her. In the evening air, hundreds of amber lights carefully arranged in a closely connected spider web are making me feel I am truly descending into a fairy tale land, all magical and special in its smallest details. I feel so much love curling up like a cat inside my chest and purring silently with contentment. I smile like an idiot again. And everyone who sees me cannot stop smiling back.

 The guy next to me explains he has been living in Paris for the past 35 years and is now visiting his sick, old mother. “C’est la vie”, he adds as I express my compassion. He then offers me a ride, but I decline the proposal, telling him I hope someone is waiting for me.

I am so happy as I get my luggage. No passport control this time. I am home. I search for my ride and do not see the guy. I try calling him and he doesn’t answer and I start thinking he stood me up. A shadow of what could become panic makes itself felt, but it is nothing serious, nothing that can wipe the idiot smile on my face, for sure.


I go for a taxi and the driver, a very big man, quickly comes out and grabs all my luggage, carefully placing it in the car boot. I take out my phone to show him a picture of the address and he simply grabs the phone from my hand and keeps it. OK, I think to myself, Turkish people are not so possessive of their phones. It can’t be bad. He then makes a call from his own phone and I realise he has no idea where the address is. I still do not panic. He hands me his phone and a guy’s voice on the other side is speaking English to me: “Hello, how can I help you?” I laugh and find nothing smarter today than “Can you please tell the driver to take me to the address I gave him?” “Call your friend”, he advises. “The driver needs directions.”

 So I ask him for my phone back. He gets the message and his huge hand passes me my phone. The battery is dying. I try calling the girl I am supposed to be staying with, but the call doesn’t go through. He grabs my phone again, checks the number and says “Ioc”. I know that means no. It finally dawns on me I am completely reckless and start wondering how the heck I am still alive, being so utterly irresponsible and naive. It is not a Turkish number. I do not have her last name. Or her apartment number. And I have no idea where she is from or what she does for a living. 

The driver then stops at this apartment building , I pay for the ride, he grabs my luggage and carries it to the entrance, has a long conversation in Turkish with the doorman, both completely ignoring my presence, and we leave again. He carries my luggage back to the car, we get in and takes me to another building. 

I start giving up and thinking of an alternative. I show him I need my phone to try to make a call and he gives me both mine and his and insists I should use his. I try calling my backup and it doesn’t go thorough. For a moment I even consider calling the guy I initially wanted to stay with, but remember we were not very friendly in our latest communication, after I rejected him on account of (too much) creepy sexual content. It can’t be that bad, I try to convince myself, but my pride awakens and finally makes a positive contribution.

 So I manage to call the guy who said would pick me up from the airport and didn’t show up. I convince myself he doesn’t sound sneaky or creepy and I pass the phone to the driver and they have their conversation in Turkish and he takes me to his address. We stop, get out of the car the driver carries my luggage to the gate and refuses to take any more money from me. 

My new host, a middle aged university professor who travels the world, shakes hands with me, a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth, grabs my luggage and takes me to his apartment. I notice the ‘precious’ Turkish interior design, but the strongest impact is not from the pink armchairs, but by the thick smoke everywhere, making me take short and calculated breaths and my eyes all burn and let out tears.

 Two other people are there, a woman and a man, in front of a laptop, talking and smoking and playing music. We shake hands and introduce each other and I notice how the man a avoids looking at me and looks down as I come close. I am trying my best to be as natural as I possibility can, as if arriving in a stranger’s house, in a foreign country, with a completely different culture, in a strict and religious city, in the middle of the night is the most natural thing in the world.

 I quickly start explaining my situation and also the bruises and my host translates that the woman tells me I am cute. I smile a lot and I laugh to make myself comfortable. He then takes me on a tour of his house and quickly realise he must be divorced. There are traces of a former family, but now he lives alone. I soon regret my choice of clothes. I think about how long it is before my period and I encourage myself that anything can be treated. Though, on top of everything else, as I was saying in my previous post, lack of personal space in interactions with Turkish people should not be a reason for concern. 

I eventually get the WiFi password, plug in my phone and reistablish a connection with my (previous?!) life. It is still my birthday, although it seems it’s been ages since this morning, when I left home, so I have literally hundreds of messages. Nari, the girl I was supposed to be staying with, calls on WhatsApp and speaks to my new host. He tells me he can drive me to her place because they are neighbours and she is waiting for me with a surprise birthday party, so we should go.”Only if you want to.”

 I secretly thank God and quickly  grab my backpack, as the guy takes my suitcase and we head for the door. “Don’t forget your purse”, he says. And the woman brings it to me from where I left it, next to the wall. ” Oh, it’s OK, tesekkur”, I tell her. “There is nothing much in it, really. Just my passport, cards, plane ticket and all my money”. 

The guy again translates that she says I am cute. I start thinking ‘cute’ means ‘idiot’ in Turkish culture. But I smile and thank them with a short bow, hands put together before my chest, as if expressing my gratitude to a spiritual master. 

When I get to Nari’s house, I finally start relaxing. I am so tired I realise I cannot think straight anymore. It has been twenty hours since I woke up in the morning and I have been through too much. I leave the single guy who travels the world and get to this beautiful girl’s apartment, where a couple is also waiting for me, with their adorable baby. It is so quiet and peaceful and I finally sit down and enjoy. They seem such good, luminous people. Nari cooked delicious food and we eat and she takes out wine glasses that she bought specially for the occasion and I take out the bottle of special Romanian red wine that I brought with me and we enjoy the evening together. They keep insisting I should tell them if they look Korean or Japanese, but I cannot think straight and don’t want my hesitant answers to seem offensive. The couple are from Kazakhstan. I just know they look so beautiful. 

Before they take their baby and leave, they make me birthday wishes:

“You seem like a warm and good person, so may you always meet people who are like you. Also, be healthy, have a good career, good luck, happinesses, take care of yourself, find a good husband and start a wonderful family.”

Istanbul, mon amour

When the plane starts descending and I see the sea and the ships and the the city, my heart becomes so warm I have to remove my scarf so that my chest doesn’t start burning, for fear I might become the first Turkish airlines passenger in the entire history of the company to suffer from spontaneous inner combustion. 


And I find it so hard to stop taking pictures and I don’t even try to wipe the idiot smile off my face as the overweight middle aged Romanian guy next to me scans me in amusement. I feel like Alice going down the rabbit hole. 


Here I come, my love, canim benim , habibi, Istanbul of my heart! Here I come, take me, leave no part of me outside your hug, eat me, swallow me completely, canim benim. Your lover is here, feed on me.


Landing is truly like finally feeling your lovers feet touching yours after a long absence. Well, it is only the third time this year… I let out a sigh of pleasure and finally close my eyes as my head leans back in contentment. Yes, baby, I am bere now yes, evet, evet, evet. He seems happy about the reunion and greets me with my favorite views and with that special pinkish golden light,like honey dripping on my skin, healing all my wounds.

As I get off, I almost run to passport control, forgetting all about my painful knee. I rush through the exit gate and I must look so convincingly happy as I am quickly scanning the crowd lined up at the arrivals, that some of the faces there actually start smiling back uncontrollably. 

I do not see my friend. And I do not sense him there, either. So I fool myself into thinking he must be outside, smoking. I rush out. Still no sign of him. Maybe he’s running late, I tell myself as cinvincingly as I possibly can. So I wait. The possibility that he might not show up, right on my birthday, after having planned and looked forward to our meeting for about a month, seems very remote. Like a thought that comes to sabbotage your peace of mind when you are at your best. So I banish it gently and wait, all the time smiling when someone looks at me. 

I decide I am going to wait no more than thirty minutes. I try without any success to connect to a wifi, so I try calling him instead. Only a woman’s voice informs me in Turkish and then in English that this number cannot be reached. Reality forces herself on me eventually and I take the escalator to the underground and come up with a plan to spend my four hours in Istanbul on my birthday today.


I do not worry and, despite the sudden sharp pain in my heart, I do not even fall into despair. I am not even feeling sad. I am thinking rather it must be karma’s way of telling me to let go once and for all. Let go and move on. So I do. 

If before I had absolutely no plan whatsoever about my day in Istanbul except meeting my friend, I now decide I am taking myself out to lunch in Sultanahmet, right across the street from the Blue Mosque. 


I catch the metro and ask for directions and get them in Turkish and then someone offers me their seat. I start talking to the young girl sitting in front of me and she offers to help.

“Come with me, she says, and we both get off and I submit and follow her. Although, I told her I want to walk, she takes me to the train station, pays for my ticket before I can do anything about it, and we both get on the same train and get off together again, this time at the university. 

Nihan (stress falls on i) is a beautiful long haired brunette Turkish girl from Adana, in her twenties, studying political science and dreaming about going to Europe. Loves the UK. ” Are you a student, too?” she asks me. And though I feel flattered, I disappoint her and say I am a teacher. And then I get the same reaction: “Konya?! Why?!”

After we say goodbye, I walk past the university and the Grand Bazaar. Such dear memories tie me to this place. Perhaps it is time to get untied, to cut myself loose from this spiderweb. But now I am here and enjoy the colorful, loud crowd of Istanbul.


As I start recognising places, I remember the bookshop where I bought “The Dervish Gate” by Ahmet Umit, the book that first introduced Konya to me. So I suddenly decide to make a visit and say thank you. I can see the  Blue Mosque in front of me on the right, so I start searching for the bookshop on the left. I remember it is a famous one and only remember the name when I see it: Galeri Kaisery.


I go in and take a look around and when Rhana comes, the bookshop lady, I am so happy I can thank her for the recommendation she made in April. 


“You know, today, because of that book you recommended, I am travelling to Konya!”

“Really?! Today?! You read the book and are going?”

“Yes. And so I felt I should come in and thank you for it.”

“Well, I am happy for you. You know, I feel you need a new book now. This one: “Potrait of a Turkish Family”. Then you will really understand the Turkish people and our history. It is really everything you need to know about Turkish people. After you read this, you’ll be back again.”

She then pulls out this thick file full of feedback from customers about this book, but she really doesn’t need to. I know it makes sense to get it and, even more than that, I know that somehow it is going to change my life. So I get it.

“You know, I am looking for a place with wifi where I can have lunch. Can you recommend one?”

“Oh, go here, on the right, after the kebab.”

We shake hands and I go. And as I get into the restaurant and up the stairs and down at a beautiful wooden table, I am greeted by friendly faces and I remember I was here before and had something sweet.

The waiter, a tall, stout guy in his late twenties, comes and hands me the menu. When I ask the password for the wifi, he simply takes my phone from my hand and keys in the password himself. I feel it is a bit too much, but then I remember I am in Turkey and I relax. Personal space is an overrated form of distance used by smug people in cold, western European countries.

Yalcin, as he later introduces himself, leans over the table, resting on his elbows, takes the pen from my hand and marks our location on my map to show me how to get back to the airport. He is flirting with me shamelessly, totally ignoring my attempts to intimidate him by giving him my most penetrating look. And, even more outrageously, completeley ignoring the bruises on my face. Up to this moment, everyone began any conversation with me by addressing a few words to my right cheekbone, stripped naked of skin now. So, when this guy looks me directly in the eye, as if he were talking to a real person, I finally start feeling whole again.

A Scandinavian would probably have to get himself drunk before even considering doing anything remotely similar. Or would kill himself instead of ever trying.

An hour and a half later, having resisted the Turk’s attempts to convince me to stay till tomorrow morning, I make my way to the tram station. A guy on the tram quickly explains in Turkish what I need to do. Hands free. Smile free. Flirt free. I can’t understand a word, but, miraculously, I know what he tells me, I get the message.


I get to the airport when the sun is setting and rush to the domestic departures terminal. It is so much cosier than the international departures. I feel like I am in a big Turkish home, where everyone loves me.

 
Next episode: my first night in Konya- missing my airport pickup, taxi driver who speaks absolutely no English, not finding the address of my host and not being able to contact  her. The great adventure begins.

34th birthday trip: day  1 – Bucharest to Istanbul

I have a special talent turning perfectly good lovers into best friends. So I am looking forward to meeting one of my best friends in Istanbul today at noon. 

The sky is clear and sunny as I leave Bucharest and, as always, I cannot get enough of the sky view. No matter how often I fly, I still think it is one of the best views you can ever have.

No one on the airport in Bucharest asked anything or made any loud remarks about my face. Nevertheless, in the typical Romanian tradition, everyone was staring and whispering. Absence and distance, a cold and safe net in which we get stuck in mid flight, like in a spider’s carefully woven web.
About Istanbul and hopefully photos, in a later post.

A birthday to remember

a nine year old draws a birthday portrait of his teacher
“This is you. I am sorry I cannot draw better, you are so much more beautiful, actually.” A birthday portrait by Ștefan (9 years old).

I am getting ready to go to the airport as I am posting this and I feel so grateful. And so different than in any previous year. Well, not only am I bruised, I also have a cold. But I do hope my arrogance stayed back on the sidewalk where I fell off my bike the day before yesterday and I can now travel light and strong and happy and full of love. Though, come to think of it, I remember my reply to God as I was trying to pull myself together: “I don’t know what You’re trying to tell me. I’m still going.” Probably halfway through my life journey, it is surely a birthday I will never forget.

“Konya? Why are you going to Konya?” my good Syrian friend in Istanbul asks me when I tell him about my birthday trip this year.
“Erm… Well… Because I like… I want… Because I am crazy.” I finally reply, realizing the long explanation would just confuse him.
“I have no doubt that you are crazy”, he answers and we both start laughing. “Or maybe you are not”, he adds, suddenly lost in thought. “Maybe we are. And you are just living your dream.”

I tossed and turned and searched and changed my mind a few times, but then my decision slowly conquered all doubt. It took a scary earthquake to help me finally decide. As the house was shaking and my fear was skyrocketing, I said: “Ok, God, I’m going, I’m going.” Once the decision made, I could see myself there and became so happy I could not sleep properly for two or three nights.

“My mom says she would not travel to Turkey even if they paid her to do it!”, one of the wisest kids in my class tells me as we’re celebrating my birthday. And I just laugh and I can understand her, but see absolutely no danger for me to go there. In the most strict and religious city in Turkey. Couch surfing. Alone.

Last year my birthday trip was to London, meeting friends and enjoying a beautiful autumn week there, getting all spoiled. Although initially I wanted to go to Istanbul, my UK friends convinced me to give up the plan and not spend my birthday alone, among strangers. (Though, really, I am convinced no one, anywhere, is a stranger.) This year the decision was harder to make. I was dreaming about Portugal, but that didn’t work out. Then Malta, but it was totally insignificant to me. Then I realized I really wanted Konya.

“Konya?” my Turkish date asks, “Really, who goes to Konya?! I mean if you’re a foreigner, you never think of going to Konya!”
“Well, I am going.”
“Why?”
“Rumi and Shams.”

The day before yesterday I fell from my bike flat on my face. So now I look like an abused woman. Yesterday I went to the pharmacy, the pet shop and to the supermarket and noticed how everyone was so much kinder than usual. The pity in their eyes was a constant reminder of my bruises.

Although I can only walk slowly because of the bruised knee and my right eye is black and my face badly bruised on the right side, I am laughing on the phone as I am telling my mom what happened, so her initial fright quickly turns into amusement. “And you know”, I tell her, “when the passport control people and everyone else is going to ask me what happened, I’m going to give them the same reply that all abused women always give: I FELL!”

Happy birthday to me!