I never wanted to come to Turkey. It wasn’t part of our original route, and when I found out we were coming here I was less than thrilled. But now, after having spent four weeks in Istanbul, I’ve fallen in love.
I’ve had more cups of chai than I can count, and the daily Muslim call to prayer has become so normal to me that I hardly notice it anymore. The beautiful Mosques that pop up out of the city always seem to make me catch my breath. I’ve utilized the bidets (google it) and on Christmas Eve the girls and I enjoyed a Turkish bath. For lunch most days I eat a doner kebab, and a few times I’ve been treated to Turkish delight.
The part I love most about Turkey, however, is the Turkish friends I’ve made. At the beginning of the month I met two families who are neighbors in an apartment complex. They don’t speak a lick of English. But somehow, that never seems to matter.
The other girls on my team and I visited these families frequently. We would communicate through body language, drawing pictures, English/Turkish dictionaries, and at times a free translation website (which we promptly stopped using after learning that when we typed out “we missed you yesterday” it translated into “we were abducted yesterday.”) We laughed with them time and time again when we would finally come to realize the true meaning of what someone else was trying to say.
We were served numerous meals between the two families. We never really knew we were invited to dinner until the food was brought out and we were ushered over to the table. The first time we were served liver – I’m ashamed to say I could hardly finish my helping. Other times we had fish, lamb, chickpeas, sour pickles, and milk that tasted like wine. And always, after every meal, we were served chai.
One rainy afternoon my teammate Michelle and I were visiting, and I was extremely tired. Before I knew exactly what was happening, Kadir, the teenage son, motioned me over to lie down on his bed to rest. I did, and as I was falling asleep the mother, Senem, put a blanket on me. That was probably one of my favorite days, because it was when I first felt like I was no longer a strange American, but a good friend.
Last night was our last night to see the families, and it was a lovely visit. We gave baklava, Turkish Bibles, and pictures we printed from our time with them. They gave all of us matching long-sleeved shirts. In addition, they gave me a pair of European hip-hop jeans that belonged to Hilal, the 20-year-old daughter. I plan to wear these pants proudly wherever I go.
We ate dinner together, and afterward we sat on the couches as we drank chai and watched a Turkish reality TV show. Like usual, extended family members came in and out of the apartment (aunts, uncles, brothers in law…we’re never quite sure what the relation is or where exactly they live). At one point I motioned that I liked Hilal’s nail polish, and seconds later the father brought out nail polish remover for me, so I could take off my nail polish and paint my nails the same color. Again, such a moment made me feel like family.
As we got ready to leave, I asked if we could pray a blessing over the families and their homes. After looking up “prayer” and “blessing” in the English/Turkish dictionary, they were delighted and said yes. We held hands in a circle as I prayed in English. I was nervous to say the name of Jesus, but I did, and after the prayer Grandma communicated that God was close to us. I liked that.
When I hugged and kissed Grandma goodbye, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “Turkey, again. Turkey, again.”
Who knows, Grandma. I never imagined I’d be in Turkey once, so maybe life will happen to bring me here again. If so, I know exactly where my first stop will be.
