Everyday Treasures

I buried a dear friend today.  Okay, perhaps “buried” is a strong word.  “Said a few words on the way to the dumpster” might be more accurate.  

Five years ago, when we moved from Istanbul to where I live now, my roommate Leigh* and I were both in relationships with guys we thought we were going to marry.  It was fun to share that season of our lives, taking turns claiming our bedroom to Skype our long-distance boyfriends and talking late into the night about our exciting futures.  The fact that we had “significant others” was convenient as we moved into our new neighbourhood as single girls.  Whenever a well-meaning Turkish mother started to ask if we might be interested in her son, we could smile sweetly and say, “Sorry, I’m taken.”  And whenever some local casanova made us uncomfortable, my Turkish-speaking boyfriend was only a phone call away.  

When, about a year into our relationship, it became clear to me that this was not the man for me to marry, I took the very painful step of ending things.  This began a season of tears as I nursed a self-inflicted broken heart and grieved the loss of someone I cared for deeply.  Ending a relationship means not only letting go of someone who was dear to you, but also letting go of the dream of the life you thought you were going to live.  With my broken heart came the unwanted realization that I was now single in Turkey, and might be so for a very long time.  

My new status of “bekar” (“single”) changed my life drastically, but it was the subtleties of the change that sometimes hit me the hardest.  I had to get used to feeling somewhat defenseless against would-be-mother-in-laws expounding on the virtues of their sons and feeling vulnerable when taxi drivers would ask if I’d consider marrying a Turk.  And I had to accept the idea that the house I lived in and the community I was a part of - both of which I loved but had always thought of as temporary - were turning out to be a lot more permanent than I’d anticipated.  

In Istanbul, I’d lived with my Turkish family and then housesat for someone else for the remainder of the year, so I hadn’t really purchased anything “permanent” in terms of furniture or household goods.  When we left Istanbul, Leigh and I had moved in with another friend, Charlotte*, who already had a fully furnished house.  Figuring we’d be setting up households of our own in the near future, likely in different cities, we didn’t want to buy anything we’d just have to move cross-country later.  Two beds, two wardrobes and two nightstands for 300 lira at a second hand store and we were good to go.  

Now that I wasn’t going to be moving into a house of my own, shopping for his and hers towels and picking out silverware, I knew I had to start thinking of this place as my home.  But with all the emotion still churning around in my heart, this was a hard reality to swallow.  

Shortly after Leigh’s boyfriend flew in from America to propose to her at a rose petal-strewn table with a view of the sea, Charlotte’s blender broke.  The sweltering heat of our Mediterranean September wasn’t ending any time soon, and besides that, we were about to start a long fast.  Translation:  there was no way we were going to survive very long without a smoothie-making apparatus.  Charlotte suggested that, since I am the passionate cook of the household, maybe I’d like to buy a blender/food processor as a replacement.  Stuffing my heart’s objections of “this was only supposed to be temporary,” I agreed.  

She and I headed to Migros to check out the options available.  There were either your bells-and-whistles blender/juicer/food processor combos for hundreds of lira, or your run-of-the-mill, gonna-break-in-a-month blenders for 20 lira, but nothing in between.  Suddenly this felt like a big commitment, and I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to spend on quality and how long I wanted this gizmo to last.  This was about so much more than a blender to me, and in no time, I burst into tears.

We sat down on a bench in the mall and I let it all out.  So much of my hesitation came from the fact that I didn’t want to “settle into life here” - I wanted to believe that Prince Charming was going to make his appearance any day so I should keep my options open.  As long as I was “temporary” I felt like I was still living in hope.  Doing things like buying small appliances felt permanent.  And more than that, it felt like resignation.  I was starting to panic at the thought of becoming one of those women who has fancy dishes and a cat she talks to, but no husband.  That was NOT the life I’d dreamed of.  I don’t even like cats.

I didn’t want to make an investment in the “transitional single girls’ house” we were living in - I wanted a house of my own.  Hadn’t that been the plan?  Leigh and I were going to be bridesmaids in each other’s weddings, a few months apart.  We’d come back to Turkey, our husbands would be great friends and we’d homeschool our kids together.  Now, instead, she had a ring and I was getting a blender.  It seemed like the cruelest of consolation prizes.  

There on that bench, as hundreds of shoppers streamed by and stared at the foreign girl with the tear-stained face, Charlotte shared some of her own journey as a longer-than-planned single woman that really gave me some good perspective on my own “plight.”  She reminded me that, single or married, I am a woman.  And I’ll have the same “nesting and nurturing” desires as every other woman.  That’s not something that only happens once you’re a wife.  She told me not to deny my femininity and live in a perpetual state of “temporary” just because I was single.  Buying a nice blender, which I would totally use, was not tantamount to giving up my hope of marriage and resigning myself to living in this house forever.  It is possible to live in hope and have a quality of life at the same time.  She is proof of that.  

I went home that day with a 200 lira does-everything-but-make-your-coffee blender/food processor set.  I chose to believe that, instead of this purchase sealing my fate as a terminally single woman, it was an investment in my future.  One day I would marry a man who wanted to live in this 220 volt part of the world, and I wouldn’t even have to register for a blender.  :)

A few months later, Leigh left Turkey to go home and plan her wedding.  (Ironically, a friend and I went in together and got them a blender as their wedding present.)  While I miss having her across the room to talk to whenever something comes to my mind (thank goodness for a good international texting plan!) I do appreciate being able to use her old bed as an extra surface on which to organize all my piles.  My heart has healed more thoroughly than I never thought possible, and I’ve come to see this house as my home instead of as a prison of hopelessness.  Every year I’ve grown more attached to my roommate Charlotte and all my crazy neighbours.  And I’ve since acquired two bookshelves, a desk, a rug, a scooter, a deep freeze, a coffee grinder, a cheesecake pan, multiple spatulas and enough mugs to open a cafe.  

I quickly got over my resentment of what my blender represented and it became one of my favourite tools in the kitchen.  In the past four years, that thing has whipped up hundreds of exotic smoothies, countless batches of soup (from lentil to broccoli cheese to curried pumpkin) and heaps of hummus, eggplant spread and my famous sun-dried tomato dip.  

Somewhere along the way, I learned (courtesy of a few cracks) that you shouldn’t mix hot soup in a plastic blender, so I started to use the hand mixer attachment instead.  Last year, glass blenders were on sale at Real for Mother’s Day, and I bought one because it could handle soup.  It was an ordeal to get that big clunky thing in and out of the cupboard all the time, though, so we kept using the main part of my original blender for smoothies and just got used to the fact that it leaked a little.  This year, just weeks after the warranty expired, Blender #2 quit working and I haven’t made the time to take it to someone to see if they can fix the motor.  We were getting by fine with the old one and the hand mixer, so there was no rush.

Until today.

This afternoon, I was roasting pumpkin to make pumpkin curry, and I wanted a little pick-me-up to tide me over until dinner.  I’d recently seen a recipe for a banana-spinach milkshake that sounded yummy, so I pulled some frozen bananas and spinach out of the freezer, poured in the milk and vanilla, and added a couple of ice cubes to give it some crunch.  No sooner had I hit the “turbo” button than there were globs of not-yet-milkshake flying everywhere.  I stopped the blender and checked to see if I hadn’t had the lid on tight enough.  

And then I saw it.  One of the ice cubes must have hit an already weakened crack at just the right angle, and now there was a two inch hole blown out the side of the blender.  Hearing my, “Nooooooo!!!!!!”, Charlotte came down the stairs and found me staring at the mess of banana and spinach now coating the microwave, the kettle, the coffee grinder and the curtains.  When I told her what kind of milkshake it had been, she laughed and told me this was my just punishment for wanting to drink such a vile concoction.   

So, my beloved blender has truly mixed its last.  The wand still works, so I can use it for the onion chopper and the hand mixer attachments.  But I guess I’d better start trying to figure out where one goes to get their glass blender fixed.  After all, soup season is upon us and I’ve got all kinds of new recipes I’m itching to try out.

After I’d cleaned up the mess and thrown the broken blender in the garbage, Charlotte asked if I wanted her to take it to the dumpster so I wouldn’t have to do the deed.  But, as one who thrives on ceremony and closure, I wanted to be the one to do it.  

As I walked down our dirt road to the garbage can, decked out in my şalvar pants like a true village girl, I thought about how much I love my life here.  I’ve got half-a-dozen “aunties” who all keep track of my comings and goings, any of whose doorsteps I could show up on at dinner time, say, “I’m hungry” and be welcomed at the table.  I’ve got a greens guy at the Thursday veggie pazar who knows what I want each week and starts to fill a bag when he sees me coming.  When I call to order water, I don’t even have to give my address because the girl knows my voice.  I’ve got treasured friends I’ve laughed with and wept with who treat me as a member of their own families.

I certainly thought that by thirty-two I’d have a new name on my passport and be on my third or fourth kid.  I’ve gotten better at handling the marriage proposals from mothers on buses and guys at the pazar, but that’s not to say my heart doesn’t twinge every time some well-meaning lady asks me, “Don’t you think about getting married?”  (“Yes, teyze, every day - thanks for the reminder.”)  Still, on the day I bought that blender and every day since, I have planted myself here and invested my life in this place and these people, and I have no regrets.  

My singleness has now outlasted two blenders.  (Four, if you count the ones I had when I lived in the States.)  I have an ever-growing collection of doilies and towels that neighbours have given me for my çeyiz (dowry) that are sitting in my closet, just waiting for a home.   Nearly every night in the summer I hear wedding fireworks exploding somewhere nearby and race to the window to catch a glimpse, all the while longing for the day when those will be my fireworks in the sky.

The ache for marriage and family has only increased with time.  But, honestly, despite the fact that it's had its share of dips and blows, my hope of its fulfillment has increased as well.  This house IS only temporary, and one day (soon?) I’ll have a kitchen of my own and a husband and kids to cook for.  (But, as Charlotte often reminds me, she’ll “give me away” only on the condition that we don’t move further than the next block!)

Tonight I “laid to rest” something that, to me, represented redemption and healing.  It was a stake in the ground that allowed me to say, “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places,” even when this isn’t how I would’ve written the story myself.  It was a symbol of the ability to trust in the goodness of the heart of my Father, even when the evidence in front of me would suggest I do otherwise.  Every time I made a smoothie, it challenged me to live wholeheartedly today, while continuing to believe for the impossible for my future.

So, farewell, dear blender.  Allah rahmet eylesin.  (“May you rest in peace.”)  And here’s to hoping that this next blender be the one that accompanies those cheesy towels and doilies into my next home!  

“People are always telling you that change is a good thing. But all they're really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all... has happened. My store is closing this week. I own a store, did I ever tell you that? It's a lovely store, and in a week it will be something really depressing, like a Baby Gap.”

I’m out in Kadıköy doing errands and thought a little stop in at Haydarpaşa Station would be fun, for old times’ sake.  Back when I lived up the coast from here, this station was a frequent stop for me. Its position on the edge of the Bosphorus means it’s literally the last stop in Asia.  It’s also the end of the line on the Haydarpaşa-Gebze commuter train - the one we used to ride to and from school.  Its ferry dock made it extra convenient when heading across to the European side, and it was an easy walk from the station to Kadıköy’s waterfront shops and bus/dolmuş terminal.

#1 - Blonde Blend in my brown stainless steel travel mug on the way to the airport.  That thing keeps coffee so hot, it’s impossible to drink it in the 30 minutes it takes to get there, and I ended up checking in for our flight all Java-scented with brown spots on my jeans thanks to an airport speed-bump.

#2 - A not-sugary-enough orta şekerli (medium sugar Turkish coffee) when we stopped for a break @ Müze Kahve in Topkapı Sarayı (Topkapı Palace)

April 20

#1 - Iced caramel macchiato with heaps of whipped cream at Cherry Bean Coffee in Galata.  I love the smell of freshly roasted beans (one of the few in Istanbul that does their own) and the true coffee house feel of this place.  French, Italian, and 40’s swing music, low tables and stools, with a full wall of windows looking out onto a narrow street with those classic Beyoğlu balconies.

#2 - Orta şekerli at Coffee to Go in Galata.  Literally a “hole in the wall” at maybe five feet wide, ten feet deep.  There’s a teeny table for two squeezed into the back, with two stools at the coffee bar inside, two more outside, and just enough room for one barista to fit behind the bar.  Ladybug magnets holding up pictures of neices and nephews (?) on the wall, with Christmas decorations hanging from pegs below.  The equipment = a super fun shiny red espresso machine and another one that made fantastically foamy Turkish coffee.  I’d swing by daily if I lived here....maybe twice if the waiter were cute.  :)

April 21

#1 - An orta şekerli at Cafe Sultan in the Grand Bazaar.  It was super crowded, so we ended up sharing a table with a couple holidaying from Germany and, as a show of Turkish hospitality, we treated our guests to their çay.  

#2 - Caramel macchiato as an afternoon pick-me-up at the Starbucks in Sultanahmet.  I smiled brightly as I asked if I could use my expired coupon and got my drink for free!

April 22

#1 - An orta şekerli @ Yoros Cafe just below the Yoros Kalesi (fortress) in Anadolu Kavağı, accompanied by a great köy kahvaltısı (“village breakfast”) spread and a superb view of the Bosphorus.  Following our feast, we climbed the hill inside the fortress (after having to beg permission from the surly security guard) to see the spot where the Bosphorus meets the Black Sea.  Gorgeous.

#2 - Caramel Macchiato @ the domestic terminal Starbucks in Atatürk Airport while waiting for our delayed flight home.  (Confession:  I snuck a Stroopwafel from the tray of the guy at the table next to us when he left for his flight.  He hadn’t touched it and I wasn’t about to let it end up in the trash!)  We amused ourselves by watching the rise and fall of emotions amongst the entirely male crowd of football fans crowded around the only TV in the terminal to watch the all-important Galatasaray-Fenerbahçe match.  Of particular interest were the poor waiters, shopkeepers and security guards who were torn between doing their jobs and running back and forth from their posts to the TV every time a cheer erupted.  I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one illegal water bottle made it through security and a couple of chocolate bars went missing from the gift shop that night.  :)

Nov. 1 - Anniversary Blend in my Istanbul mug (hitting the road for the golden city tomorrow!) during my QT; Seattle’s Best with real cream x 2 @ a gathering at a friend's house.

Nov. 2 - Anniversary Blend @ home/in car on way to bus station in blue travel mug; Nescafe 3 in 1 x 2 on Pamukkale bus to Selçuk, Cafe Verona with milk and sugar that I fished from my bag (there was none in the kitchen) with Jess at the pansiyon in Selçuk.  (Always carry extra sugar packets in your bag - you never know when you’ll need them!)

Nov. 3 - Cafe Verona w/ Jess @ breakfast at the pansiyon, layered latte macchiato w/ Jess @ St. John Cafe in Selçuk (chatting and enjoying the breezy autumn day at a table on the sidewalk); surprisingly good coffee @ Burger King in Izmir airport before flying to IST.

Nov. 4 - Orta şekerli Türk kahvesi (medium sugar Turkish coffee) @ Fazıl Bey’s in the Kadıköy Çarşısı at the wobbly table upstairs by the window; a second Türk kahvesi at a chilly but atmospheric sidewalk table @ Brezilya Kahveci in the Balıkçılar Çarşısı (fish market.)

Nov. 5 - Orta şekerli Türk kahvesi @ Tiryaki Cafe in the Balıkçılar Çarşısı at a low outside table, watching the Bayram (holiday) shoppers rush by (I’d hoped to have it “közde” - done over the coals - but he hadn’t fired them up yet); a smooth and creamy yet highly overpriced latte (10 TL) at the Kafka Kafe upstairs in the Kahve Dünyası bookstore in Kadıköy, chocolate cheesecake on the side.  :)

Nov. 6 - Late night 3 in 1 Nescafe at home with my Turkish mom after a long day of Bayram visits and crunching çekirdek (sunflower seeds.)

Nov. 7 - Frothiest Türk kahvesi I’ve ever made...though it was a bit on the watery side...with my Turkish mom and her sister-in-law on 2nd day of Bayram.  They’ll make a gelin (bride) of me yet!

Nov. 8 - Orta şekerli Türk kahvesi @ Fazıl Bey’s as I sit down and attempt to be a focused writer  (Three hours, one sahlep and one çay later, I think I’m getting the hang of it!);  one more orta şekerli at Brezilya, just cuz I can’t say no to a sidewalk cafe and a book.

Nov. 9 - Pre-flight Caramel Macchiato @ Atatürk Airport domestic terminal Starbucks in hopes of warding off an impending headache.  Three kids behind me crying all the way home cancelled out its effect.

Nov. 10 - Looking backwards with nostalgia - Anniversary Blend in my Istanbul mug on the terrace during my QT;  Nescafe with my neighbour's daughter as she explained to me why she suddenly decided to wear the headscarf.

It’s sort of a joke among my friends that every year I set out to “entice autumn” by wearing jeans and long sleeves and drinking Oregon Chai long before the weather warrants it in hopes of enticing my favourite season out of hiding.  I am so done with summer come October, but the Mediterranean sun doesn’t seem to have much sympathy for my cool weather cravings and the days are more suited to AC and ice cream than to sweaters and apple cider.  

I’ll admit, I get a little jealous when I read friends’ Facebook posts about heading to the pumpkin patch, baking pear crisps and drinking pumpkin spice lattes.  It makes me miss the days of autumn in Tennessee, with the trees in the back field turning into a cacophony of colour and the smoke from the tobacco barns filling the air with the sweet smell of hickory.  Allrecipes.com and all the food blogs have turned their focus to cinnamon and nutmeg, butternut squash and cranberries, pumpkin pie and apple crisps, and it’s got me wishing I didn’t live somewhere where “fall foliage” doesn’t appear til December.  

I imagine this is what a North American transplanted to Australia must feel like when Christmas rolls around and everything online is snowscapes and gingerbread houses, but everyone around them is headed to the beach.  

Despite the fact that the temperature is currently 30 C, we HAVE had a couple of phenomenal thunderstorms over the past few days that have given me hope that fall is on its way.  In an attempt to encourage Mother Nature to get her buns in gear, yesterday I pulled out my “autumn mug,” sprinkled a little cinnamon on my morning coffee, and had a downright autumnal breakfast of yogurt and homemade pumpkin spice granola (complete with the last of last year’s frozen pumpkin) with apples and cranberries on top.  YUM!

Thanks to the recent opening of a Bath and Body Works in my city (woohoo!!!) I’ve got my Creamy Pumpkin and Pumpkin Caramel Latte candles going, and I’m having fun planning for my stock-the-freezer cooking weekend.  It’ll still be awhile before pumpkin makes an appearance at the pazar, but I’ve already got a stack of recipes ready for when it does.  Here are some of the ones tempting my culinary imagination - hopefully most of them will make an appearance in my kitchen in the coming months.

(Happy salivating!)

Creamy Pumpkin Pasta

Apple Caramel Cheesecake Pie

Spiced Butternut Squash and Apple Soup

Pumpkin Fluff Dip with Gingersnaps and Apple Wedges

Pumpkin Pie Macarons

Pear Cranberry Crumble

Carrot and Ginger Soup

Pumpkin Pancakes with Nutmeg Whipped Cream

Oatmeal Cranberry Sour Cream Bars

Curried Butternut Pumpkin Lentils with Yogurt

Aug. 30, 12:15 PM - Waiting for the shuttle from the Zurich airport to the hotel to drop bags off

Ravenously hungry and so very tired.  Should’ve been just about home by now, but my last flight was cancelled, so now I get to wait til tomorrow.  I’d actually been hoping for this when I knew I only had a one hour layover and thought I might not make it.  In my fantasy, though, the airline was paying for the hotel.  And it wasn’t raining.  And I was much more awake.

But...it’s Zurich!  So I have to go into town, at least for a few hours.  How ridiculous would it be to be in this beautiful city and spend the whole day in my hotel room?  Jetlag can wait.

........................................

Embarrassing side note:  As it turns out, there was actually an email in my inbox explaining this change in my itinerary all the way back in June, but I’d kinda sorta scrolled past it and dismissed it as “Orbitz junk mail.”  Oops.  My mom had even asked me if I was going to confirm my flight before heading to the airport, but I’d dismissed her with a confident, “Mom, no one does that anymore” roll of my eyes.  Yup, this is me - experienced world traveller.  I guess even experienced travelers should listen to their moms sometimes.  :)

On the plus side, the fact that my flight had been changed to the next day means I actually would’ve been spending the night in Zurich anyway, and I just didn’t know it.  So I can’t be mad at the airline, and I would’ve had to pay for a room anyway.  I just would’ve known it ahead of time and have been able to pick my hotel from the comfort of my own laptop instead of in an airport tourist info office with a fuzzy jetlagged brain.

....................................... 

Aug. 30, 2:34 PM - Window seat on the train into the city

On the train now to the Hauptbahnhof (monster-sized main train station).  Over-priced and over-salted fried noodles at the airport at least filled my belly.  I’ll stop in at Sprüngli for coffee and macarons and, after that, I’m sure I’ll be ready to take on the world.  

My main goal is to tour the Grossmunster - Zurich’s famed landmark church.  I didn’t get to see it when I passed through in June and the view from the towers is supposed to be amazing.  That is, if I can drag my weary body up all 197 stairs to the top...

I bought a Zurich card (20 CHF, includes free public transportation and entrance to all museums and most attractions) thinking I’d be up for a boat ride up the Limmat River to Lake Zurich, but with the weather so dreary and me so sleepy, I think the church had better be it.  And coffee.  Not in that order.  Then bed.  Definitely bed.

Aug. 30, 3:22 PM - Sprüngli, same window, one stool over from where I sat last time

This was the historic place where I tasted my first macaron two months ago.  Thus began a mild obsession with these airy treats, and a series of macaron photo cards, calendars and coasters.  I purchased several batches this summer from a couple of different patisseries and gourmet shops - shooting them from every angle and then happily eating the models.

I have to say, I definitely prefer Sprüngli’s macarons to the cakey Parisian ones from Thierry in Vancouver.  These have the texture of clouds (or so I like to think), their appearances daintier, their surfaces smoother and shinier.  

So far, I’ve just eaten the mocha one and I’ve got a chocolate and a salted caramel left.  (Will it be as good as the Canadian Bacon Salted Caramel I picked up at Edible Canada on Granville Island this summer???)  

But first, my cappuccino.  Yes, I am coming alive already. 

Aug. 31, 6:51 AM - Swiss Airlines flight 8176, Seat 33A

Sometimes just getting on a plane feels like a colossal victory.  Today is one of those days.  

I went to bed last night at 7, fully exhausted, and slept all the way through til 1 AM....and then lay there wide awake, wondering what to do with myself.  I thought about getting up and reading, or documenting my day (all two hours I was awake for) in Zurich.  But then I decided that a day of flying, speaking Turkish again, grocery shopping and trying to get phone and electric and internet turned back on was not best begun at 1 AM.  So, I forced my mind to slow down and went back to sleep until four when my alarm would go off.  

I awoke just before four in a panic because I’d had one of those crazy stress dreams in which I was running way late and the friends who were taking me to the airport were in no hurry whatsoever and were more concerned with chatting with hotel staff than they were about getting my bags to the car.  I was SO grateful to wake up and find out that my alarm hadn’t even gone off yet!

Two kind businessmen who also had to be at the airport hours before dawn let me share their taxi, getting me there a good twenty minutes before the shuttle would have.  And they refused to let me pay a thing!  I was so thankful for those extra twenty minutes when I got all the way to my gate, only to find that the gate had been changed....to the terminal I’d just taken the train from!  I rode all the way back, went through security AGAIN (and let me tell you, when you’ve got your own laptop plus one  you’re bringing back for a friend, several canister-candles that look suspiciously like explosives, one metal coffee tumbler, and assorted electronics and camera-related items in your carry-on, security is no quick event!) and still got to my gate with two minutes to spare for a trip to the bathroom.  Victory!

So, my day in Zurich didn’t turn out exactly how I’d pictured it, what with the rain and me being exhausted out of my tree and all.  But, really, when it comes down to it, I didn’t come to sightsee.  I came to eat macarons and truffles.  And those didn’t disappoint one bit.

After my salty noodles, my train ride, and my fortifying sweets-and-caffeine experience at Sprüngli, I set off to tour the Grossmunster.  I walked back to the train station and, remembering that the #4 and #14 trams were the ones I’d taken from various places back to my guesthouse in June, I hopped the #14, thinking it was the one that went up the Limmat River towards the church.  Turned out I was wrong.  A few stops out of the main station, it swung right back up to Lowenplatz, where I’d just come from.  I decided not to interpret it as a sign to head right back into Sprüngli for more sweets and set off for the church on foot instead of backtracking all the way with the tram.  

Seriously, what was my deal with not asking for directions yesterday?  I took a rather roundabout route to Sprüngli the first time around, too, heading off in the right direction but off by one street.  I think I was trying to act the part of the capable tourist who knew where she was going cuz she’d been there before and didn’t even need to look at a map.  I sure proved that wrong, if only to myself.  

Crossing the river on foot was pretty, even if I did get rather wet.  Seemed everyone around me had an umbrella, but I couldn’t see where they were getting them from.  Home, I suppose.  It seems very Swiss to be prepared for a change in the weather.  Had I been in Istanbul, umbrella sellers would’ve appeared out of the woodwork the moment the first drops hit the ground.  I guess in Switzerland you have to fend for yourself.

When I got to the church, even more than climbing its great towers for a (cloud-covered) view of the city, I was excited for a bathroom and shelter from the rain.  In the end, I only got the latter.  The church was closed to visitors for a funeral and when I asked if I could still go up the towers, I was informed that it was “impossible.”  

I was disappointed, but I still enjoyed a reprieve from the wetness as I took in the solitary beauty of the recently renovated cloister garden.  It would seem that the restoration was done with a goal of a “vague spiritual meditation area” as a goal, rather than a place to meet with the Living God, as evidenced by the various zodiac signs and animal heads mounted on the courtyard walls and carved into its stone pillars.  Slightly creepy, but dry nonetheless.  

Despite the rain, I took a little walk through some of the hilly cobblestone streets of Aldstadt, the Old City.  I so love all those tall houses and colourfully shuttered windows lining the skinny streets.  At one point, I paused outside a window to listen to a violinist practicing inside, and I felt like I’d been transported back to the world of Elisa Linder, the Viennese violinist in the novel I’m reading.  Switzerland wasn’t full of Nazis like Vienna was, but I imagine it looks much the same, and I could almost imagine the sound of jackboots on the cobblestones....  Perhaps not the best book to be reading while traveling through German-speaking Europe!

By 5:00, my eyelids were drooping and I knew any more exploring might result in me falling asleep in a puddle, so I headed for “home.”  I actually knew where I was going (for real this time) and confidently hopped the #4 tram back to the Hauptbahnhof with three minutes to spare before the next train back to the airport.  

I wanted to grab some light snacks for my dinner and early morning breakfast, so I went into the Migros at the airport train station - the same one where I met that sweet elderly Turkish couple back in June.  My exhaustion seriously hampered my decision-making abilities, but I finally settled on some apple-mango yogurt, a couple of waters (took me forever to figure out which ones were sans gas - not bubbly), two Gala apples and some cheese that was on sale.  I was embarrassed to get to the front of the checkout line and be told I had to go back and weigh my apples, but glad to have just enough Francs left over to pop into the Sprüngli next door and get myself a Bailey’s truffle and a salted caramel macaron to take back for dessert.

I kept company with my Viennese violinist while I ate, all curled up in my bed with the heat on to warm up.  (Yes, in August!  Turkey is going to be a shock to my system....)  The cheese turned out to be too stinky to be enjoyable, but rest filled me up before I crashed at the ripe hour of 7:00.

Couple of notes on the plane trip this morning:

* I am grateful that, all these years later, those A’s in French class can still order me coffee and apple juice without too much embarrassment.  (Ask me anything beyond my drink order and I’m lost....)

* There’s a family across the aisle from me who look Turkish but are speaking German to each other.  You can tell mom and dad must lapse into Turkish when they get upset, cuz these little assimilated kids can still produce a perfectly accented “Of yaaaaa” or “Oha!” when they’re unhappy.  :)

And....ten minutes til we land!  Ready or not, I’m home.  Not sure my heart has switched over yet, but I know it will the moment I slide into a taxi and start speaking Turkish to the driver.  And if some neighbour arrives at my door with a plate of dolma, I shall consider myself truly welcomed home.

Sitting in O’Hare, Terminal 5, Gate 12 on a green bench painted with alphabet blocks and chubby naked babies.  A conveniently positioned crack prevents any inappropriate visuals.  Must be some sort of sit-able art exhibit, since the terminal is full of them.  

Sipping some mediocre (but delightfully cheap) coffee from a Metropolis coffee cart.  Apparently this is the ONLY place to buy coffee (or snacks, for that matter) once you pass security in the international terminal.  Not even a Starbucks in sight.  The other terminals are amazing, with their Pretzel stands and frozen yogurt stalls and fancy restaurants and that migraine-inducing musical light show corridor, but if you’re flying overseas, you’d better be okay with gas station coffee.

Thankfully (and, unbeknownst to me, wisely) I ate my (long overdue) lunch in the domestic terminal where I landed.  It’s sort of tradition for me to have a hot dog for my first meal upon arrival and my last meal before departure, since I’ve either been missing proper hot dogs or are about to miss them for a very long time.  (Once this backfired on me when I landed in Chicago and boarded what turned out to be a very turbulent flight to Louisville....yeah.)  

Today’s farewell dog was at America’s Dogs, where they doctor the dog by city - baked beans with bacon and onions for Boston, BBQ sauce with pulled pork and cole slaw for Memphis.  I went for the Green Bay - cheddar cheese is something I’ll be missing soon, too.  I was a little disappointed when they handed me a hot dog smothered - I mean, the entire bun was literally drowning - in that fake-o cheese they put on nachos at the movie theatre.  Not precisely what I’d envisioned - and it took a whole lot of napkins to recover from it - but yummy nonetheless.  So long, North America.  :)

I thought I had an encounter with a celebrity this morning at the Vancouver airport.  In fact, I’m still convinced I did and he’s just denying it.  “Oz,” the Turkish ambulance driver on the Canadian show “The Listener” is played by a guy called Enis Esmer, and I was SURE I saw him ahead of me in the immigration line-up this morning.  I paid attention to what he was wearing (a fresh-off-the-cruise-ship “Alaska” hoodie” - not so movie star-ish, but to each his own) so I could stalk him once I got through.  And, lo and behold, there he was with his wife, having coffee at Tim Hortons.  

I was super excited and went up and asked him if he was Oz, and he acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about.  I told him about the show and said, “You look just like him - you’re him, right?”  But his wife said his name was Andreas and that they were from Texas.  I kept pushing, though, cuz even standing there, looking him in the face, I was SURE it was him.  He had this amused twinkle in his eye that kept me thinking he was just pulling my leg, but when I said I was from Turkey and he still didn’t bite, I figured I’d best just give up and leave them to their Timmy’s.  Still, I swear it was him....  I’m gonna ask Google.  

(**Post Script:  when I Googled him, he came up not married.   Maybe I should contact the real actor and let him know he has a Hispanic twin out there impersonating him in airports....)

I stopped in at the Swiss Airlines counter a few minutes ago to try to get a boarding pass for my Zurich-home flight and get my bags checked all the way through, which thankfully they were able to do, even though the United lady in Vancouver insisted it was impossible.  I was both grateful and disappointed - grateful cuz it means I have a shot at making my next flight, even though I only have an hour in Zurich, and disappointed cuz I’d been excited about the prospect of missing my plane and having to spend the night in Switzerland.  

As I gathered my documents and zipped up my backpack, much to my surprise, the ticketing agent said, “İyi uçuşlar!” - Turkish for “Have a great flight!”  

Didn’t see that coming.  I checked his nametag - “Amir.”  Not a Turkish name.  I switched to Turkish and said, “You aren’t Turkish though - where are you from?”  Turns out he was Iranian and had lived in Turkey for awhile.  (Maybe as a refugee waiting for the UN to place him?  Goodness knows they usually get stuck in the country long enough to learn the language.)  I should’ve asked for his story, but I think I was just all too surprised and so enjoying getting to speak Turkish with someone.  (That and his green eyes were pleasantly distracting!)  

We chatted for a few minutes about my life in Turkey and why I love the country, and then I made my way to security.  I went through smiling, so grateful for that little exchange cuz it felt like the perfect transition out of North America and into my Other World.    Kinda like getting to chat with that older Turkish couple at the Migros in the Zurich airport on my way home in June.  This little gift helped turn my heart in the right direction.  

This summer home was so wonderful, and though I never actually entertained the thought of staying, it was sometimes so tempting to daydream about what my life would be like if I lived in that world full-time instead of popping in and out for visits every year or so.  But, as much as I love the dyke and Stanley Park and seagulls and running in shorts and mango ginger cheese and Thai take-out...a five minute chat with a Turkish-speaker woke up the truest part of my heart and made me so glad to be going home.