Kindness of Strangers

Friday, October 31, 2008

Today is Halloween, and I’m really bummed to be missing out. Not only is it my favorite holiday, but it falls on a Friday night this year, making it a particularly sad year to be gone: we undoubtedly would have held a big bash. Halloween isn’t a big deal in Australia which surprises me, given the fact that it’s an excuse to party (not that the Australians need one). So I won’t see any sweet kids dressed as black cats, witches, scarecrows, or devils. I can’t pass candy out at the door as the young ones shriek, “Trick or treat!” There won’t be any pumpkins winking at me as I drive through the twilight neighborhoods. And I won’t get to wear a costume, which has always been my favorite part of Halloween; an opportunity to be someone other than who you are. Since this trip has turned into a quest to (re)discover who I am, maybe it’s not a bad thing that I’m missing out on dressing up.

Since there won’t be any sweets to gnaw on tonight, I’ve discovered a new vice: iced coffee in a carton. Ben and Colleen introduced me to this saccharine, caffeine-crazy drink, which can be procured in any grocery store, restaurant, or cafe. In South Australia, iced coffee is wildly popular, outselling Coca-Cola! Rather than spending a princely sum for a dressed up concoction at Starbucks, I can enjoy the same beverage for a fraction of the price. And with summer just around the corner – at least in the Southern Hemisphere – it’s the perfect sweet treat. It’s no substitute for good old fashioned Halloween candy (why do the little packets always taste better?), but it comes pretty close!

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Maikael and I always take any opportunity to go on outings with other travelers. It’s more fun, it helps our budget, it opens us to new experiences and, most importantly, it keeps us sane. When Paul and Ishara began discussing a trip to Tirta Gangga and Sideman Road, we had no idea where or what these places were, but we said we were on board. Paul set about hiring a driver for the day ($30 for eight hours!), of which there is no shortage in Bali. Everyone you pass on the street calls, “Transport? Taxi?” as you pass by, some even pantomiming turning a steering wheel in case you are deaf or don’t speak English. The lazier ones half-heartedly prop up a sign on their knee as they rest on a stoop. One side reads, “Do you need transport (taxi)?”, and when you invariably say “no,” they flip the sign which reads, “Maybe tomorrow.”

We set off for Tirta Gangga; I had absentmindedly flipped through my Lonely Planet guide the night before and learned that it means “Water of the Ganges,” which I could only pray was cleaner than the real Ganges in India, and that it is a water palace. I didn’t know what a water palace was, but was excited to have two folks in our stead who had visited Bali multiple times between them and would knowledgeably create the itinerary for the day.

On our way we stopped at Goa Lawah, which Ishara kept referring to as The Bat Temple, but which I preferred to called The Bat Cave. As our van pulled into the temple’s parking lot, which was packed, we noticed a line of people, decked out in their Sunday best, snaking their way down the beach towards the sparkling water. A row of Crayola umbrellas bobbed along in the brilliant sunshine. There was obviously something special taking place today.

We wrapped colorful sarongs around our waists, mandatory temple garb, topped off with a bright yellow sash. The scene inside the temple grounds was festive and merry, not at all like the somber affairs that I usually associate with religious occasions. I stood in a shaded doorway watching groups of smiling Balinese gather for family photos. A gaping cave stood at the the front of the courtyard, where lines of people knelt and prayed before the mouth. Bats screeched and hung like coal stalagmites at the edge of the dark abyss. Incense loomed heavy in the air as parades of devotees wound their way around the courtyard, carrying baskets heaving with fruit and other offerings.

As we made our way through the scene, we noticed a woman who must have been the high priestess making blessings under a great thatched roof dais raised high above the crowds. Her scarlet hat was gilded with gold and topped off with a dazzling crystal; more crystals studded her finery, creating epaulets over her shoulder. She looked simply grand. As we admired the scene, the only non-Balinese wedged into the crowd, a woman caught my eye and placed her palms together in prayer. I did the same and nodded to her, preparing to take my leave. Suddenly the mass plopped to the ground, and the woman pulled me down with her. I realized that she had been asking me without words if I’d like to pray with the group.

We knelt on the ground, my batik sarong next to her lovely raspberry one. She smiled and led me through the prayer, the women next to us giggling as I bumbled my way through each step. First she handed me a square cup fashioned out of pale banana leaves and filled with wilting tropical flowers. She plucked a fresh one from the cup and placed it behind my ear, doing the same for Maikael who sat to her right. Spindly sticks of incense were passed through the crowd, and she instructed me to place mine over the flowers. We then grabbed bits of flower from the cup, waving them over the incense, and brought them to the tips of our fingers placed in prayer. The priestess rang a rhythmic bell as the crowd prayed in silence. I asked for peace and purpose, the same things I always do.

Between stages of the prayer she tried to talk to me, despite the language barriers. I said I was from America. I pointed towards my wedding ring, and then to Maikael, and everyone sighed a collective, “Ooooh.” Then it was the woman’s turn. She pointing towards my shirt, saying something in Bahasa that I didn’t understand, and another woman down the line leaned over. “Beautiful,” she translated. I was wearing a ratty old T-shirt, and she was wearing a lacy top that looked like delicate pink sherbet.

When the prayer ended, we were swarmed. “Where you from?” everyone wanted to know. Pictures were taken, and I shook the woman’s hand who had pulled us into the prayer. I’m not sure why she decided to include us, but I felt intensely grateful for the experience, and to her.

On the road to Tirta Gangga we encountered numerous processionals in multiple villages as people made their way to temple ceremonies. Traffic crawled to a stop to allow the parade to pass. Women expertly balanced towers of fruit of their head as they power-walked up steep hills, looking nonplussed. “This must be our lucky day,” I said.

We arrived to Tirta Gangga later that afternoon, which felt like stepping into the Garden of Eden. Huge pools of water criss-crossed the courtyard, each containing something beautiful. My favorite was the pool containing large stepping stones, where one can walk amongst ornate stone statues as gigantic koi swim underfoot. When we arrived kids were running on the stones, giggling like mad: can you imagine a water temple as your playground? At the center of the lush gardens sat a lovely emerald fountain, which spouted mist so fine that it looked as if the entire thing was swathed in soft light.

There was another ceremony occurring when we arrived, and a mass of people was crowded around the temple under the shade of an ancient banyan tree. We scurried up to the restaurant and grabbed a table to admire the ceremony from above. “Why all the ceremonies today?” we asked our waiter. “Preparations for the full moon,” he said. Within minutes the ceremony ended and the recessional snaked its way right in front of our table: we couldn’t have picked a better seat or a better time to be there.

On our way back to Ubud we ambled through Sideman Road, where terraced rice fields stretch as far as the eye can see. We traipsed through the rice paddies, forming a processional of our own, picking our way over the narrow green lanes. As the light began to fade, we came upon a field in which they were harvesting the rice. “I’ve never seen that before,” said Paul, a man who has seen his fair share of rice in traveling around the world so many times. We watched this field of workers, letting rice dance through their fingers as the day glowed amber.

The whole day – and my whole experience in Bali – was an exercise in remaining completely open to whatever may happen, and if I could take that back to my everyday life I’d be the better for it. I didn’t know anything about Goa Lawah. Tirta Gangga wasn’t on my agenda. I had no idea that we had planned our outing for such an auspicious day. In short, had I tried to craft such an experience on my own it never would have happened.

I constantly hear people talking about what a special place Bali is. Some call it “vibe.” Others call it “energy.” But whatever it is, there is something that keeps people coming back. It’s not uncommon to meet people who have been here 15 times, who come twice a year, who stay for six months. It’s just the kind of place that casts a spell over you. I’m really sad to be leaving today, to be released from Bali’s magic and all the wonderful people I’ve met here. But more than any place we’ve visited, I know I’ll be back.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

I came to Bali – and to Ubud, for that matter – for all the wrong reasons.

When most people think of Bali they conjure images of expansive beaches, boozy iced beverages, swaying palm trees, and South Pacific views. While this is most people’s idea of paradise, I didn’t have much interest in this part of Bali which, while beautiful and relaxing, gets a little boring after a few days.

I was really after the cultural aspects of life here, which are rich and vibrant. Hindu-Bali temples greet visitors around every corner – even the smallest towns seem to boast multiple temples, and most family “compounds” have a personal altar in which the family can worship. Imposing statues of religious icons grin ferociously at you through gnashing, stone teeth, their bottom halves swathed in black and white gingham, looking more like something out of the Scottish Highlands than the tropics. Every household and shop readies small offerings of rice, placed on delicate banana leaves, throughout the day, a seemingly never ending task.

Spirituality is everywhere. There are temple ceremonies constantly, and we happen to be in Ubud for one of the biggest ceremonies of the year. We caught a temple procession our first evening in town; parades of women in traditional clothing balanced towering pyramids of rich fruit on their head on their way to the temple. Their ankle-length sarongs swished below their lacy off-the-shoulder tops as long, colorful sashes perched askew on their waists. Lines of men, wearing the typical gingham sarongs and breezy white tops, the cotton headdress tied neatly around their skulls, balanced large red umbrellas and banged ceremonial drums. All of this in the midst of rush-hour traffic.

I had planned to spend my time in Ubud taking all of this in, to understand the ins and outs of temple ceremonies, to visit countless religious sites, but upon arriving here I felt my interest diverted to the numerous spas and healing centers that line Ubud’s narrow avenues. I found myself pouring over lists of spa menus, wondering where I should go, what I should do, and how much I could cram into 10 days. Where was this coming from, I asked myself?

This trip has caused me to spend a lot of time with myself, and I’m sad to say that I don’t often like what I see. The Indian astrologer hit the nail on the head when he said, “You feel empty inside. People think you are fulfilled, but you are empty.” He kept saying it over and over again, empty, and the word reverberated and hung in the air like a loud bell that wouldn’t stop ringing. I am empty, and I’m not quite sure how to fill the hole.

I have tried for years to improve myself and my life in any way I knew how – from career changes to geographical moves – and still I feel empty. I can’t even remember what makes me happy anymore, and I am far enough into this trip and out of my everyday routines to see that most of what I do is out of habit, not choice. But not quite sure what I should do differently now, I find myself beset by a certain sense of helplessness. What’s the point of being here? What’s the point of going home? How will my life be any different then?

Maikael and I sat down yesterday on the lovely veranda at Ubud Bungalows where breakfast is served each morning. A few wooden tables were scattered under a great portico, lending a view down the tumbling hillside. Birds chirped happily, and small vases of tropical flowers, which would cost a fortune at your local florist, lounged casually in simple glass jars atop each table. We were surrounded my mossy stone walls and lush tropical plants, and yet I found myself slumped at the table.

A woman approached, dreadlocks piled atop her head, some of which were streaked electric blue, shocking pink, glaring lime, and bright purple. She was barefoot and beaming, and immediately began talking with us. I felt an instant connection to her. We learned that, after having worked in corporate Australia for most of her adult life, she decided to leave it all behind when she had a spiritual awakening. It took her five years to leave her job, but she eventually became a Reiki master and has been traveling on a spiritual journey the past three years.

We spent the next two hours talking about all manner of things, spiritual and otherwise, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I needed to hear what she had to say, that I had met her for a reason. Her message boiled down to this: you can keep striving towards discovering your true self, or you can give up and go back to the way things were. I suddenly realized that I had all but given up on myself and my life, given up any promise or hope that things could be different. I asked her what she was doing in Ubud for two months, which essentially amounted to spiritual healing. She suggested a number of different spas and treatments which she felt were beneficial for quickly becoming unblocked, and I immediately felt a surge of energy and excitement race through me.

It was then that I realized why I had come to Ubud. It had nothing to do with temples and everything to do with beginning my own healing process. I know I won’t be able to accomplish everything in the week I have left here, but I feel that it’s going to set me on the right path to at least begin the journey. For years I’ve followed someone else’s successful path in the hopes that I would garner the same results for myself, and growing defeated when it didn’t. I’m ready to make my own roadmap and embark on my own journey.

For those of you who are reading this and rolling your eyes and wondering if I’ve gone completely mad, New Age, or Santa Fe, don’t worry – deep down, I’ll always the slightly neurotic Elizabeth you know and love.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

We read that a highlight of a trip to Jordan is spending the night in a traditional Bedouin camp in Wadi Rum.  The Bedouin are desert-dwelling tribes who have inhabited this region for thousands of years, and a good camp experience can provide insight into a traditional culture and way of life that is increasingly threatened.  Unfortunately, many of the camps are rather commercial, and finding an authentic one can be difficult.  Luckily, going to Wadi Rum is one of Kristi’s favorite pastimes, and she enthusiastically referred us to Mzied Atieg, a Bedouin man whose father founded one of Rum’s first camps. 

As we walked towards the Visitors’ Center at Wadi Rum Village, a young man approached.  “Are you here for Mzied?” he asked.  How did he know?  “He’s my uncle,” he said.  Out of nowhere, a deeply-tanned man with striking coal eyes appeared.  His wavy hair fell loosely below his ears, with tinges of gray dabbing his temples.  He looked impossibly cool, a Bedouin rock star.  A firm hand emerged from the sleeve of his olive-green robe.  “I am Mzied.”

He led us to his mud-spattered Toyota Hilux, the modern day camel, making a quick stop for snacks.  “No food for me,” he explained.  “Ramadan,” the answer for everything these days.  We dropped two men off in town – more relatives.  We quickly learned that Mzied, and most of the people in Rum Village, have lived their entire lives there, and everyone seemed to be related in some way. 

Maikael and I were the only two people who would be staying at the camp that night.  “You’re my guests, not tourists,” he said, railing against the many camps that had sprung up in Wadi Rum that provide a mediocre experience.  Mzied specifically keeps his camp small.  We bumped and swayed our way into the desert, the morning sun still low in the sky.  Soon we were spewing heaps of deep orange sand in our wake; there are no roads.  I asked him how long the Bedouin had inhabited this area.  “We were born here,” he said simply, as if I had inquired after the obvious. 

Our Lonely Planet guide promised that Wadi Rum boasts “some of the most dramatic desert scenery you will ever see,” and it didn’t disappoint.  Mzied drove us to a towering arch, where we walked to a table rock that lent panoramic views of the desert below.  He rested in the shade to save his energy, checking his cell phone for messages.  We could see huge sand dunes in the distance, and hear nothing but the faint twitter of birds as a line of camels ambled by.  This was the land that Lawrence of Arabia rode across, and aside from the cell phone, it was easy to picture. 

Mzied was excited that it had rained the night before, and wanted to take us to sights where we could see “the waters” and stay cool in what promised to be a scorching day.  The Bedoin are noted for their adaptability:  given the harsh desert climate they call home, they have to be.  In the cool crevasse of a canyon, we saw ancient pictographs of goats and camels dating 2,400 years old – the same animals who inhabit the area today. 

We spent the heat of the day in a shallow canyon, where amethyst walls gave way to a small pool of water and a patch of cool sand.  Mzied drew shapes in the sand with his fingers that looked curiously like the cave drawings we had seen earlier in the day.  We snoozed and read while Mzied prayed.  Eventually, another guide and two young men quietly entered the canyon.  “My brother,” Mzied said, gesturing towards the guide. 

As the heat of the day waned, Mzied suddenly declared, “It’s time to go shopping!”  On our way back to the village, Mzied stopped every few meters to collect firewood that had washed down from yesterday’s flash flood.  Once in town, we stopped at his family’s house, a one-story structure painted in earth-toned leaf patterns.  When we pulled into the driveway, some of his seven children were playing in his Land Cruiser.  We waved, and they grinned and waved back.  They tentatively shook our hands, smiling shyly.

We were invited into the house for Bedouin tea, a sweet black brew that is best slurped while piping hot.  We weren’t sure what was next on the agenda, but soon we were off, stopping back in the village for supplies with his second oldest son in tow.  Maikael was desperate to buy the bag of potato chips emblazoned with what looked like a photo of Arabic soap opera stars. 

“The children are excited about the rains and want to play in the desert,” said Mzied.  On our way back towards camp, we stopped at a sand dune that we had seen earlier.  “You want to climb?” asked Mzied.  I’ve always had an inexplicable desire to race down a sand dune, and my moment had come.  After the arduous hike up, we blasted down the sandy pyramid, giggling uncontrollably all the way to the bottom (Maikael won by a nose). 

Out in the desert, Mzied built a campfire, placing a grate over the coals to grill crispy pieces of salted chicken and roasted tomatoes.  Steaming pots of soup and rice stayed warmed next to the fire.  This was typical Bedouin fare.  Mzied sat next to the fire and placed his youngest son in his lap.  He punched a row of holes with his thumb in the sand, then used his pointer finger to quickly dash through the holes, making a goofy sound as he went.  His son squealed with delight:  Mzied was clearly a master at sand games.  I watched his other children effortlessly climb rock facades like mountain goats, as I struggled to haul myself up.  The desert was their backyard. 

We gathered around the fire on a huge jute mat, devouring our feast.  Liters of soda and juice were consumed in a flash.  It was iftar, and most people hadn’t eaten or drank anything all day.  After dinner, one of his sons tended to the campfire, showing skills that only the most adept Boy Scouts have mastered.  “I think your children would survive better than me out here,” I said.  He laughed, but I wasn’t joking.  

As dusk descended, the moon cast a soft glow over the desert.  The fire softly crackled, and Mzied mentioned that a wolf had killed a camel a few nighs ago.  Camels are a valuable commodity in the desert, and the wolf was promptly killed.  If there were wolves, what else was lurking out here?  “Oh, you got to be careful of scorpions.  But the snakes don’t come out much at night.”  It was time to head to camp, and we were determined to sleep under the stars.  We laid our mattresses out in the open, under a dense blanket of stars that pierced the cobalt sky.  “I’ve never seen Orion so bright,” Maikael said, as we gazed upward.  There were no lights.  There wasn’t a sound to be heard.  Not even a wolf. 

Staying with Mzied and his family was one of the most memorable days we’ve spent on this trip.  It was the real deal.  If you find yourself in Jordan, we can’t recommend this experience enough.  Mzied Atieg offers desert 4WD and camel tours, trekking, hiking, climbing, and Bedouin-style camping.  He can be reached at the following addresses:  Mobile:  00962 777 304 501  Email:  mziedco@yahoo.com    Web:  www.mzied.com

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

To say we have eaten vast quantities of food while staying with our lovely host family in Istanbul is an understatement. Inci, our Turkish mom, is a fabulous cook, but the portion sizes are gargantuan! We often protest to additional servings, but as her son says, “My mom doesn’t understand ‘enough’ in English or Turkish.” An average weekday dinner is a multi-course affair, something most Americans would only experience during the holidays, always consisting of soup, salad, bread, rice, vegetables, meat and dessert.

Maikael has a way of jinxing meals. “This doesn’t seem like so much,” he says, looking at the gozeleme, a Turkish quesedilla, flopped on his plate, not seeing the other two sizzling in the frypan. “As long as I don’t eat anything else I’ll be fine,” he’ll say while stomaching his final bit of rosewater-laced gulac or gooey baklava. An hour later, Inci will cheerfully ask, “Dondurma?” “As, as,” a little, we demure. Then, great spoonfuls of pistachio ice cream are heaped into glass dishes. One evening we retired to our room after dessert number two, groaning loudly. Then, we heard the jangle of silverware against dishes. Our ears perked up, like a dog who’s heard a cat a mile away, and we shoot each other panicked looks. “Maikael? Elizabeth?” we heard Inci call down the hallway. As we creeped into the kitchen, we saw that each place setting was bedecked with a cornucopia of fruit: bananas, peaches, two different types of grapes, and tart green apples.

It’s an interesting contrast, then, that the end of our time in Turkey fell during Ramazan (also referred to as Ramadan), the ninth month of the Muslim calendar, commemorating the revelation of the Quran to the prophet Mohammed. Muslims renew their faith by fasting from sunrise to sunset for one lunar month, not permitting anything to pass their lips, including food, drink, and cigarettes. We didn’t plan it this way, but we will be passing through the Muslim world during the entire month of Ramazan.

I was a little nervous. Would we be expected to fast, too? Were there special customs we needed to follow? What if we did something wrong and inadvertently offended someone? We watched the news with interest the night before Ramazan started, which contained a 30-minute special segment on the holiday. A doctor was interviewed on how to fast safely (pregnant women shouldn’t do it), and offered tips on how to make it through the day without killing anyone from nicotine withdrawals. They showed footage of the Blue Mosque, Turkey’s most famous mosque, which had a carnival-like atmosphere. Temporary structures, such as sprawling tea gardens, had been erected to minister to the masses that pour into the historic mosque during Ramazan. Inci told us that we wouldn’t be expected to fast (although it is still important to be discreet in public). Our fears were laid to rest…except for one.

I understood that the dinners that followed a day of fasting were often huge. How could the meal possibly be any bigger than Inci’s usual affairs? I was afraid my stomach might split wide open right there at the dinner table. “Are there special meals?” I asked Onur, Inci’s son, trying to be diplomatic. “Not special,” he said, “just bigger.” I gulped. “Like, bigger how?” “Well, instead of one salad, there will be three,” he continued.

Around 4 am the following day, we were awoken by the rhythmic bang of a loud drum. Someone seemed to be parading through the streets in the fashion of a minuteman. Soon the family was up, eating and praying before sunrise “I think it’s starting,” I said sleepily to Maikael, before drifting back to sleep. When we awoke later that morning, the tenor of the household was different than other days. Everyone dozed, conserving their energy, and Inci prepared us a smaller and simpler breakfast than usual, which we felt a little strange eating in front of her, despite her encouragement. When we went out for the day, the restaurants and grocery stores were largely empty, and the world seemed to hum a little quieter than usual.

When we returned home later in the evening, Inci was busy preparing what looked to be a feast. A plate of kofte, grilled beef patties, and French friends were sputtering in a pot of oil, and heaping plates of watermelon, honeydew, and salad already graced the table. Every burner on the stove was occupied by simmering pots. Inci tore off a piece of round bread studded with sesame seeds – special Ramazan bread, she said — and guided me through the long menu.

Onur and his wife, Burcin, came for dinner, and I was relieved when we were allowed to serve ourselves. At the heart of Iftar, a Ramazan dinner, is celebrating blessings, offering hospitality, and sharing a meal with friends and family – biological and otherwise.

Monday, September 1, 2008

We were supposed to fly to Rome on Saturday. However, we have recently made some dramatic changes to our itinerary – for better or worse – and have decided to leave directly to Jordan from Istanbul. The earliest available flight to Jordan is September 2, three days after our scheduled flight to Rome.

Our first order of business upon returning to Istanbul from Cirali was to have our tickets reissued. Although we have reservations for our next flight segments, we have no actual tickets; further, because we have paper tickets, some poor sap has to physically pen our new ones. In order to do so, we had to pay a visit to American Airlines’ sole, inconveniently-located office in Istanbul – the only such office in the whole country.

We took a one-hour metro ride to Kabatas, a part of the city I had never been to. We trudged up the hill, holding a crumpled piece of paper in our hands with the office’s address. Passing number 33 once, we hiked back down the hill. A small brass sign, barely detectable, read, “American Airlines, first floor,” and pointed upward. We squinted at the poky staircase that disappeared into the dark. “This is it?” I asked, incredulously.

Once inside, the agency assured us that our tickets could be easily reissued within a few hours. Meanwhile, we spent a leisurely afternoon exploring Taksim, the city already emptying of tourists in late August We ducked in and out of bookstores, buying Lonely Planet guides for our next legs, and spent a long time chatting with the director of the Sufi museum, who was eager to practice his English.

When we returned to the office later that afternoon, we learned that, not only had the tickets not been reissued, but there were “problems.” However, because the office was only an agent of American Airlines, they couldn’t place a call to the airlines in London without charging us 30 Euros (about $45) per person. “Come back Monday and we’ll get it sorted out,” she said, confidently. Our flight is scheduled to leave Tuesday.

I was beside myself. I’ve never faced the unknown very well, and this trip has only confirmed that. I spent a sleepless night wondering how and if we were ever going to get out of Istanbul. If I have learned anything thus far, it’s that I place my expectations in all the wrong places: I expect situations to work out perfectly most times, and when they don’t (and they rarely do), I panic. But I expect very little from people, tending to be leery and untrusting.

The next morning we called Dunya and Diler, a couple about our age who we met at our hotel in Cirali. They both live in Istanbul and lived in New York City for three years, where they attended graduate school. They were eager to show us Istanbul, and encouraged us to contact them when we got back to the city. We decided now would be the perfect time: we needed to have some fun and distract ourselves from the situation at hand.

We met them back in Kabatas (was there a vortex in this neighborhood?), where we boarded a boat for a tour of the Bosphorous. As the ticket collector came around, we were once again surprised when they offered to pay. “You are our guests,” they insisted. We spent a lovely hour taking in the scenery and chatting. It was Victory Day, celebrating the Turk’s triumph over their many invaders throughout the course of history, and every building was draped with gigantic Turkish flags. Huge swaths of the cherry fabric, festooned with the iconic white crescent moon and star, flapped in the breeze. Some flags bore an image of Ataturk, their beloved national hero, who I think is quite dashing.

I shared with Dunya (whose name, interestingly, means “world”) and Diler our ticket woes. Having lived in both American and Turkish cultures, they were able to offer a helpful perspective. “In America there is a system, and the people are bound to it. When something goes wrong, there is always a responsible party,” said Dunya. While none of our lives are ultimately in our control, I think there is a pervasive sense in the US that most things can be manipulated to our satisfaction if we just try hard enough. In most of the world, this isn’t the case; and while I know this on an intellectual level, I am finding it nearly impossible to surrender that sense of control. I am fighting a losing battle with myself.

After the boat cruise, they drove us around the more modern parts of Istanbul, which we had never seen. We zoomed past the towering skyscrapers that they both work in, and lunched in a chic area of town, which, again, was their treat. As a thoroughly modern Turkish couple, it was interesting to hear their perspective on politics, world affairs, social mores, and cultural norms. We walked around Nisantasi, the Beverly Hills of Turkey, and found the streets to be blessedly tourist-free, nothing like the buzzing chaos of Sultanahmet. We popped into a store that I can only describe as the Crate and Barrel of Turkey, where, instead of a plethora of pillows and plates, one can choose from a dizzying array of raki glasses and tea cups.

We said our goodbyes, wishing that we could repay the favor someday if they ever travel to New Mexico. But tit for tat wasn’t the point. I shared with Diler that I was amazed that, in traveling throughout Turkey, no one seems particularly concerned with “keeping tabs.” There was one day in Goreme where we owed four people money. It wasn’t much – a couple of lira here and there – but each vendor always said, “Next time.” When we returned less than an hour later with the money, people looked surprised. “You didn’t have to make a special trip back here!” they seemed to say. Diler translated. “The attitude is that if you have something to give, you give it. They trust that if you are a good person, you will be back. If not, then you’ll get that money back in your life in some other way. The important thing is to do it if you can.” This was the embodiment of karma and trust in your fellow man, an example of placing your expectations in all the right places. It was as nice of a philosophy as I had ever heard.