Turk Everlasting

A woman fainted on the bus today. She was standing a few bodies away from me, holding onto the rail with a glazed expression in her eyes, as was I.

But that’s beside the point. I wanted to write about a quintessential Istanbul day: I ventured out on my own and bought some reeds for my friend’s Zurna (a Turkish musical instrument). On the way back I finally discovered where the famed freshly squeezd pomegranete juice is sold. I then finally made it to the Blue Mosque and Hağia Sophia, two of the most important sites that I am embarassed to say I have not yet visited in my three months time here. I bought some generic postcards, a pair of pants from a Nepalese imports store, and... and a woman fainted on the bus.

I can only write about the woman. Turkish buses are beyond crowded. When it is hot outside, it is hot in the bus. When it slightly less than a summer's day, Turks blast the heat, and therefore it is hot on the bus on cold days. I am lucky to find a pocket of fresh air to breathe, much less a seat.

I was lamenting my own tired feet when I saw a person laying in the narrow aisle. I didn’t hear her fall, but I felt a human wave flow toward me as bodies moved out of the way. One minute she was standing, the next she was not. Those surrounding her looked down at the body, the up at one another, giving each other the universal look for “oh shit.” Some people helped her up and place her in a seat. I wished I had saved my water bottle. I wished I knew more Turkish.

I did not know whether to look away. I was too close to ignore what was going on, too far to actually do something. I assumed that it was a routine faint, the kind to be expected from standing in traffic during rush hour on an overcrowded bus. I imagined seeing a look of shock, confusion, or perhaps even shame or embarassment appear on her vapid face when she came to and tried to explain to others what happend. Would she be the type to soak up all the attention, or would she feel ashamed and try to modestly brush it off?

I would never find out. A minute (or was it two? Or five?) and she was still unresponsive. She had her eyes closed, mouth hanging open, face catatonic and pale. There was a second round of confused looks when old buxom women who brushed her face with their wet-naps and gently slapped the apples of her cheeks could not elicit the slightest response.

There is always one: The hero. Nondescript, balding, public bus rider hero. He made is way calmly to the back of the bus. He held up a mirror to her mouth to see if she was breathing. I didn’t see it fog up. Other than that, he didn’t do much besides pat her on the cheeks a couple of times and orchestrate the passing of napkins and empty water bottles. He made a call on his cell and said something in Turkish that I didn’t understand.

It was a state of controlled chaos. My first reaction was to do something. My second was that I had no idea what to do, and if I did, how could I communicate that I was trying to help. I wondered if I should do CPR. I learned it, but could I remember it? Then again, maybe she was breathing. It looked like the man had the situation in control. People kept asking for water, and calling to the bus driver to make a wrong turn and go the direction of the hospital.

I had geared myself up for tune-out mode. Try not to bump anyone or look strange men directly in the eye. Don’t get pressed to death when the automatic doors swing open. Be ready to pounce on the first seat that opens up, unless there are frail looking old ladies around. I had successfully entered into the zone where I amthere but not really there. I was abruptly adusting to the fact there was a crisis playing out before my very eyes. I was surprised by the dramatic nature of it, but also the calm, as if we had rehearsed it and merely took our places: Woman passes out hankies, man calls hospital, girl in back stands and stares, thinking.

The bus took a wrong turn toward the hospital. The hero took of his leather jacket, scooped her up as if carrying a bride across the threshold, and barreled down the stairs of the bus as he presented her to the hospital, where medics were waiting with a stretcher. A number of people from the bus, including myself, followed him in to see what was going in. As soon as she touched the stretcher, they started wheeling her towards two swinging doors. The man shrugged his shoulders, and since I couldn’t understand what he said, I’ll pretend it was this: “What can anyone do now? My job here is done.”

Taking his cue, the rest of the passengers walked out, and we all went our separate ways.

I wanted to describe my glorious day off in Instabul, but a stranger's mortality got in the way.

Breaking Bread

This weekend I did something I thought I’d never do. Never in my wildest imagination did I contemplate something so delectable, so savory, so satisfying.
I baked bread. Ha.

Well, I had help of course. It started when my department head suggested that teachers (meaning the single females) come over for a day of bread baking. Although the idea seemed quite random, I was up for a challenge. The alterior motive of bonding and beating the blues of rain days in Istanbul just before the break made it well worth it.

I've baked bread a few times before: Once on a junior high whim with a friend who thought it would be fun to make the teddy bear bread recipe she found in a book, and a few times with my sister in an attempt to make challah for pseudo-traditonal Shabbat dinners. However, I certainly would not go so far as to say I actually know how to make bread. It always seemed like one of those esoteric skills known only by grandmothers who came from Eastern Europe or Martha Stewart types who always had matching napkins and placemats. Although my past attempts tasted good, they certain wouldn’t pass a taste test by a more refined consumer. Bread baking certainly did not enter the realm of modern woman who has only recently learned to use a chopping knife.

Alas, this was no Betty Crocker bakeoff. There were no aprons or hair nets in sight (okay, there was a rolling pin) it did not feel provincial or trite in any way. Along with my English teacher counterparts, we brought our ingredients to the spacious kitchen of our fearless leader. We had spent the week contemplating which type of bread to make, and by chance covered all the taste buds with our selections: sweet cinnamon raisin bread, savory garlic and herbs, aromatic olive, and my own simple challah.

We took our stations at the kitchen counter as our leader circulated and gave us pointers. “You’ll need a little more flour to compensate for the extra water” or, “put oil in the bowl so the dough doesn’t stick.” Cooking has both the creative satisfaction and the instant gratification of playing with an easy bake oven, making it pleasurable on multiple levels. I felt a carthasis of sorts as I kneaded the dough with the palm of my hand and, after it rose, deflated the sticky bloated dough paunch with my punches.

Baking bread is one of the activities I could just as easily do back home. I suppose there is noting intrinsically Turkish about spending a Saturday with friends baking and eating. Yet I cannot imagine standing in my friend’s kitchens in their small walk-ups or studios doing much else besides drinking wine and taking. I have come to discover my ability to discover here, to find new things not only in the cultural nooks and crannies but also amid the human connections I continue to form.