Hey, didn’t see you there

Whoa! Hey there old friend, blog. Long time eh? We barely got to know each other before I went absent for a month. Sorry to play deadbeat boyfriend to your loyal, shining face, but I have been busy, ya know? For starters, I am illegally employed, so I spend A LOT of time running from the Polis while wearing a comical hat and sexy sunglasses. I have also had some visitors, of the mother and “friend from previous travels” variety. On top of that, I’m pretty sure I have a tapeworm because my appetite has become insatiable (fingers crossed for tapeworm and not pregnancy) which means I have to spend a good deal of time consuming food, and not to mention….we just found a frisbee at the hostel. It took many hours but I have perfected a move where I throw the frisbee in between my legs and straight into Honeybear’s face.
So excuses aside, I came to work today thinking about all that has happened in this month and thought how my fingers were aching for some typing. Seems like a nice morning for blogging. And since I do not feel like making grand observations about things like gender relations in a muslim country or how to combat the forced child labor of toddler panhandling, I will simply get anecdotal. So here is some sugary storytelling, served up hot and sticky like the pistachio baklava I had for breakfast.

On Making Others Less Cultured by Proximity:
A few weeks ago I was invited to dine in a Turkish home—the kind of thing backpackers creme themselves over, with the homemade food, feeling of inclusion in a foreign land, and of course the idea that we can go home and say something like “well traditionally in Turkey, they would all eat from the same plate. How do I know? Oh yeah did I mention I got really close with some locals in my extensive travels?”
The evening was pretty great actually, enhanced by three rounds of dessert and face and back massages given to everyone at the end of the meal (hostess with most mostess). The night would have gone down in my blurry memory books as one of delightful gluttony and the warm feeling of “human bonds break borders” blah blah. And then they had to go and ruin it with their mean spirited singing.
Here is some important information: the couple who was hosting us (myself and two others) are both classical Turkish musicians. With nothing but crazy finger snaps and their voices, they can produce a full-on show. The other two in attendance weren’t too shabby themselves, one guy from France, a professional musician as well who was in Istanbul to study under our host, and the other an outgoing German guy who was not a musician, but was big and smiley and could do nothing but light up a room. And then there was me, the girl whose musical experience is limited to drunk, poorly executed renditions of Billy Joel songs during Karaoke. But in a joyful, culture-sharing manner, everyone decided to start taking turns singing a traditional song from their country, A Capella. Dear god no.
Naturally my turn came up, and my initial resistance was ignored–I knew I was going to have to sing. After everyone else belted out their beautiful old folk songs, all eyes turned towards me. As they sat, four unblinking sets of eyes trained on my red face, I smiled too widely while panicking on the inside. What the fuck traditional American song was I to sing? Not the anthem for chrissakes. Um, Amazing Grace? A little too much to tackle for my first live performance. Itsy Bitsy Spider? Ah shit this is not good. After I could stall no more, I finally opened my mouth, and much to my chagrin, out spilled the words “Billy Ray was a preacher’s son and when his daddy would visit he’d come along……” Are you serious brain? Dusty Springfield? She’s not even from the States! I choked through it, voice wavering the whole way, feeling like an amateur stand-up comedian–you know the kind that are so bad it is almost more uncomfortable for the audience to watch than it is for the performer? I finished without a bang, never really finding that “I’m so bad it has become fun” kind of thing. And afterwards we moved along quickly to the next singer, everyone ignoring the fact that we all felt very awkard for a looong minute and a half when the only sound in the room was my strangled-kitten wailing. Needless to say I was not asked for a repeat performance.
So next time I am sitting in a house full of singers and I am asked to perform, I will be armed with a fabulous and meaningful song that expresses the pain of my ancestors and conveys hardships through metaphoric storytelling.
‘Billie Jean’ anyone?

On Wanting What You Can’t Have
Here is a twist I didn’t see coming: I have recently developed a huge crush on a devout Muslim boy that looks just like Enrique Iglesias (yes the reference is a bit dated but minus his queer style and voice, Enrique is a good lucking piece). The main problem with this is that he spends a lot of time studying religion (while wearing cute cardigans) and not hanging out with me. How many ice cream cones can you buy someone before they realize you want to marry them and convert them to the dark side of hedonism? The answer I am unsure of because I have yet to buy him enough ice cream cones to get him to start drinking or giving me hugs. But that is fair since he can’t even wear cologne that has alcohol in it–he probably shouldn’t be touching a girl whose veins are pumping with beer. Anyway I’m two seconds away from buying a headscarf and an ‘Islam for dummies’ type instructional manual. I don’t know if he would buy it though, he is pretty smart (yes that’s right. He is also very smart even though he makes the most darling pronunciation errors in English). Because underneath it all I would still be the same sleazy American girl trying to prey on poor, good-smelling, doe-eyed Muslims. A little guidance please, Allah?

Okay actually feeling a little lazy now and might end the quick bout of storytelling. Look for later postings covering more interesting things, like ass beatings, fire jumping, political rallying, inter-hostel fighting, new roommates, more crazy street perverts and cops who don’t give a shit, expiring visas, fooooooood, and how if you don’t speak the language properly, the hairdresser will think you wanted your hair dyed explosive red and not normal, golden brown. But that is for a different day.
But it was really good seeing you blog. Maybe we can go for breakfast soon or something. I don’t know, I’ll call you.