waxing philosophic and majorcan tumbet

The past few days have been strange. A sort of whirlwind of internal spiritual discord, an exhaustion that doesn’t seem to abate no matter how many snatches of sleep are stolen, a bone-deep discontentedness that casts a shadow over every moment. It’s not just me, either; it seems that almost everyone is victim to this emotional drainage that has swept through the program like some cruel, supernatural force. I’m not quite sure why.

Well, no, that’s a lie. I’ve spent enough time in pensive introversion these days that I could offer a laundry list of reasons. But that’s not something I want to expand upon in great detail here.

(I’m more of a think-too-much-right-before-bed-and-suffer-the-consequences-with-crippling-insomnia type of gal.)

I just finished up dinner with Çisil and Seyhan Anne on the balcony — a sauté of eggplant and tomato atop a bed of pilav, side of stewed greens and yogurt and leftover grilled chicken from the weekend — and we went through my final days in the country. It hit me then that this was going to be my last real meal at home with the two of them (tomorrow’s another evening spent cooking with sınıf 16 and M Bey, Wednesday’s a trip up to the coast for rakıbalık, Thursday’s a group dinner with the program, Friday’s a bus ride to Bandırma for the night, and Saturday is off for Atatürk Airport), and I promptly almost had a mental breakdown.

So much for keeping it contained to late-night insomniac musings.

Canakkale4

Continue reading

evenings on the balcony and “farklı” tomato peach gazpacho

This may be the first time in recent memory that I’ve not been with family for Eid. Or at least, in the same country as family. Not that I mind; I gave them a call last night while taking advantage of in-home WIFI access and wished them Eid Mubarak. (I am a good daughter on the odd rare occasion.)

Instead, this is the first time in recent memory that I’ve been in a Muslim country for Eid. Or Bayram, rather. The conclusion of Ramazan, the celebration of togetherness and food and receiving money from older family members. A Muslim child’s Christmas. (And mine, incidentally, since I somehow racked up a decent amount of TL.)

Murat1

I spent my morning at Merve’s, stuffing my face with traditional Turkish breakfast before visiting the neighbors along with her family, which consisted mostly of me sitting in different living rooms, giggling stupidly to any conversation directed my way (which seems to be the equivalent of fluency, in this country), and being force-fed diabetes-inducing quantities of baklava and kadaif. I’m back at home for the moment, sitting on the couch in PJs, indulging in Türk kahvesi and lokum for the next few hours before accompanying Çisil and Seyhan Anne to family’s homes, anticipating a second trip to the ER later tonight in a hyperglycemic diabetic coma. (I will keep you posted.)

Continue reading