The Tuesday Report--extraordinarily ordinary days

Tuesday, 12 November 2013. Antalya, Turkey. Language students.

This time when the alarm played its tune we found ourselves in the bed of friends who are away for a season. We'd driven the three hours to Antalya Monday morning and this would be my first day to resume study in an intensive language course. I studied at the same school for four weeks last winter, and Curt had started his first level course the week before. At 9am I would join a year-long class that is just now up to my level. Showers, no time for food, coffee poured into travel cups, and we hoofed it out the door. We'd learned on Monday that it is a 35 minute walk from this apartment to the class. No ambling allowed. The weather continues warm and sunny, and even at 8am I felt no need for more than a light blouse and ankle length trousers. 

Our walk lay through the busy city center just as it was waking. We traveled along the outer wall of the ancient Kale İçi with its massive stone work that dates back to before Paul walked this region. Simitçiler, men carrying great wooden trays the popular bread rings covered in sesame seeds still warm from the ovens, shouted their arrival so that folks could come down from apartments and out of office buildings to buy. Students headed to high school and university buildings, the tram and public buses. Restaurant and shop workers cleaned in front of their spaces and prepared for the day. 

As always, Fadime Hanım greeted me warmly. Just my age, she is a foot shorter and Turkish housewife-heavy, and wears dark traditional clothes and headscarf. We look like we come from different planets. But she is kind, and we both love our grown children, delight to hosts guests and love on young people. We laughing. She longs for a grandchild, so I share mine with her. 

Though barely on time, I was the first student to arrive. Gradually the others came in. Five students total, from five countries, with five different native languages. Tasha from Ukraine, Abla from Morocco, Husam from Syria, Tom from Germany, and me. And Seray, our language teacher, native to Turkey. To get my head back into classroom study, well.... I was glad the class was working on something I'd been exposed to before. By the second break I could see that the others aren't putting much into it. Flirting, some giggling, papers with nothing written. But they are young, and for all Turkish is their third or fourth language, so things stick in their heads so much better. And Tom seems one of those bright ones who gets everything right without trying.

I love this small school. And all that it reveals of family life and community. The director/owner Mehtap. At 30, she holds a master's degree in language teaching and also does translation as well as directing TESL courses and tuturing students via Skype. She is trim, professional, personable and efficient. Murat, who is 27, handles logistics and maintenance. Fadime Hanım greets people, makes tea, and gophers. She chatters away at every break, pushing us to use the language we are learning, pretending she speaks no English. All three host students in their homes, and the home-stay environment augments the community feel of the school for students who have come from other places. 

Mehtap is Fadime Hanım's daughter, and Murat's big sister. A family providing for themselves together, something that goes on a lot in Turkey. In Kaş we know a family with nine brothers. They've created two or three restaurants around town and another in Marmaris. Another family of three brothers operates two shops selling beautiful things crafted in Turkey. The folks from whom we rent our car occupy a row of shops in the old market square and all manner of extended family rent cars, lead tours, provide drivers, build and rent villas, cut hair, make and mend clothes, and repair shoes. Businesses created and grown to provide jobs for family.

At 1230 we finished class for the day and Curt met me out on the street so we could hunt up a quick lunch before his class at 1pm. I sat outside for some time, and then returned to the school to study until 4:30, when Curt's class ended.

We scouted the area around our friend's apartment for a place to eat, but there was nothing. Tall apartment buildings all around, so loads of people must inhabit the area, but there were few on the street, and no one greeted anyone else. No sidewalk cafes where friends and neighbors linger over coffee, backgammon and conversation either. All felt cold and sterile, and I was grateful for our small town where people take time, greet strangers, and chat with shopkeepers. In the end, we hopped in the car and drove to a mall for groceries and a meal. Feeling a tad lonely.

Community. The community of families that stay together and provide for one another, that share resources so that all can live comfortably. A dear one told us yesterday about his sister who lost both her husband and her son, and how he is sending money to help her. Another starts a new business and his friends loan him needed funds. Yet another loves to manage construction projects in part because it provides work for his father and brothers who are skilled craftsmen. 

Community. Friends who are away and allow us to use their apartment for our studies. Others who look out for our house, and pick up cargo if it comes while we are not here. Yet another who uses our apartment in Kaş for a season of intense work on his doctoral dissertation. Still others who will join us at the language school later in the week. 

Community. A small town where people have time and take time to be. To sit beside. To listen. To stop by. To drink tea, or share a meal. To know their neighbors, and to provide help when needed.

Community. This Tuesday's blessing.

The Tuesday report--extraordinarily ordinary days

Once more the day dawned clear and still. At 7am I padded downstairs and savored the solitude of a house with only me in it. Curt is doing an intensive Turkish course in Antalya (a large city three hours drive from here) weekdays over the next four weeks. Though I hope to take a class at my level while he is there, this week I'm recovering from a cold, expecting a guest Wednesday through Friday, and hoping the painters show up. The exterior of our five story tower of a house needs some repair and a fresh seal against the weather. But so do a lot of other houses, and so we wait our turn.

I was excited to try a coffee creamer I'd made the day before. The internet recipe claimed it a fabulous substitute for Carnation's French Vanilla, which I love but can't get in Turkey. I also made the sweetened condensed milk, not available here either, from fresh cow's milk I bought from a neighbor. Disappointment and chagrin. The stuff tasted vile and left a worse aftertaste, so down the drain it went. Sigh.

I took coffee, ipad, Bible and journal to the top floor to try out the new easy chair we brought back from Antalya. Curt and I both enjoy times of prayer in the various nooks and crannies we've created for meditation and reading. Gives us awareness of the spaces and reminds us to pray for those who will use them. The new chair and ottoman replaces two smaller chairs on the landing at the top of the house. Positioned next to an east-facing window, the view is towards the rocky hillside behind the house, dusty green with olive trees and red-brown with clay-stained stone. Sunrise cast bright beams on the stairwell walls. Yes, I think the framed poster of names for Jesus in Turkish should go just there.

Ezekiel, the unknown writer of Hebrews, and David whisper truths about God that stand in tension. The God who judged Israel; the God who came in flesh to woo a remnant back to Himself. Magnificent, terrifying, gentle and loving pursuer of humanity. Prayers for our kids, this place, Curt's study, our nation, our dear one here who is losing his business, the guests who will sit in this space. 

By 9am the ironing was finished. 11 shirts. Household ironing, pants and Curt's t-shirts had been done the day before, and sheets a couple of days before that. One thing about hanging laundry outside on the line: more ironing. On the other hand, what a lovely smell of fresh air and sunshine. And this morning I celebrated a new Rowenta Pro Master that gives the best and fastest press. By far the best iron I've ever used. If you care about such things.

Ironing finished, dishes done, house tidied, and I was tidy, too. Dressed still in crop pants and a light cotton blouse for the mid-70's weather. Ayşe had arrived and was throwing energy into her weekly top-to-bottom clean, all the while chattering to me in fast village Turkish I mostly don't understand, and calling down questions about what to do with Curt's cardboard pieces and other bits left out on the rooftop terrace where he has been revarnishing window frames. The next hour or so was spent at my desk doing who-knows-what (you know, email, net searches, bill pays, filing) with one eye on the clock.

Ayşe last spring when Lia and Cait visited

From time to time there are meetings for foreigners. Once the village chief asked for input. A couple of times the mayor of Kaş did the same. We've never been around, but at 11am this morning the British Embassy would host a meeting concerning a newly created agency that will preside over immigration and visas. Because Curt drove to Antalya, I caught the 10:40 dolmuş for the five mile trip from our village. Dolmuş are brilliant little buses that provide public transit. The one I caught would take 14 passengers. One makes the run to Gökseki every half hour and costs 2TL (about $1). I love it.

The meeting venue was packed, mostly with Brits, who are the majority of the expat population. About 100 foreigners turned up from towns and villages up and down the coast within an hour or so drive from Kaş. No surprise that I knew very few. We spend most of our time in the Turkish community or with Spa guests. I had to refuse a dinner invitation from some "yachtee" friends because I don't like to walk home alone in the village night. No particular reason, but the potential for stray dogs or wild boar in my path...what can I say? I'm a wimp.

First order of business was to inform us all that the Turkish official we were there to hear from would not be coming. Then a run-down of the history and purposes of the new law. Then questions which all had the same answer: "We don't know yet." Thirty minutes in I left, grateful I sat near the door. Smile. Walked down to Halil's for a bite to eat by way of the ATM.

Halil and Gül face some challenges just now and his distress was heavy this lunchtime. He sat with me, quiet, face stern and eyes dark. This dear "son" just four months younger that Caitlin, with wife and five-year-old daughter to care for in this difficult economy. Prayers renewed for grace, endurance, and a soft and open heart; for prosperity and hope. 

I sat with them for more than an hour. Wanting to lend my presence and love, to come alongside them in their pain. Chatted about a trip several of us plan to take together to the east of Turkey, about his daughter, and the trip they took on Monday to the Greek island. Wanting to distract.

A few groceries and then the 1:25pm dolmuş back to Gökseki, overfull this time with women and children and one old man who could barely walk with the use of two sticks. The small daughter in the arms of my seatmate fell asleep with the rumble of the bus. "She has a cold," her mother told me. Women helping one another one and off, managing small ones and shopping bags. The whole bus emptying at the stop in the village square and the uphill walk to Spa for the Soul. It was a bad day to wear flip-flops. New tar and crushed rock covered half my uphill distance, ending, oddly enough, just after the home of the village chief. Smile again.

Ayşe was down to the main floor (only the art studio is lower) as I hauled in the groceries. She'd even washed down the 40 stone stairs from the road to the front door and sprayed the fallen leaves from the lower terrace. I put the food away, chatted a bit, and walked up the two flights of stairs to our space. Time to dig into Turkish.

After several months of not studying the language I sit in confusion, not knowing where to start. I review, but without enthusiasm. I stammer through conversations and friends comment that my Turkish is less good than in the spring. Last Tuesday Ankara friend Josh mentioned that two years of 30 hours a week language study brought able students to a level of converse that still fell short of discussion of ideas, philosophy and spiritual matters. Downright depression sat in. Which I noticed as I sat again with no idea how to go at it. 

Hebrews reminds me that Today is the Day, which is true on so many levels. Somewhere in the muddle I found backbone. I called up materials for self-directed language learning. I'd glanced at them before but felt overwhelmed. I found an article about using a language helper. Read again the scary stuff about how I would not only need to study, but would need to direct my own study, to plan and create exercises and venues for practice, to make up questions I want to ask and answer with native speakers, to hunt out audio reading materials, to write stories and dialogues. I heard Çiğdem call me from her balcony and leaned out the window for a chat. Deep breath to gather courage. Invited her for tea Wednesday morning and said I had something I wanted to talk to her about. I shoved the big rock of fear off the mountain and it gathered momentum, becoming unstoppable. I returned to my desk to outline a plan for 90 minutes of work with a language helper, narrowing my confusion to a few practical pieces of reading, review, vocabulary, and conversation. We would walk through the kitchen and name everything, and I would jot new vocabulary on the whiteboard. We would review the new vocabulary. We would each read aloud for five minutes from the Turkish The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I would listen to her pronunciation and inflection, and she would listen and correct mine. I would ask her where she was from and what her life was like before she came to this place; and I would have her ask me the same so that I would have practice listening and speaking.

Çiğdem and her husband and son. We made the tallest jenga tower I had ever seen!

I made plans and thought through the Turkish to explain to Çiğdem the role of language helper: not a teacher or planner, but someone with good use of the language who is willing to spend time doing exercises and repetitive practice, and to help me learn through conversation, by correcting my pronunciation, grammar and word use, and to push me to speak beyond what comes easily and faster than I want to. I would ask her to give me 90 minutes three times a week as a job for pay. And emphasize that this is an experiment. We will try for one month, and then the "job" may end...or not, as seems best to both of us.

And I signed up for a 10 week internet course on self-directed language learning and emailed a possible coach.

It took hours. Ayşe finished her work and came up to say goodbye. I paid her regular fee and gave her an extra 50 TL because I neglected to let her know of our trip to Ankara and she showed up last Tuesday to find the house locked and empty. She balked a bit, but I insisted. I want her to know that I take her seriously and that when I make a mistake I take responsibility. And I enjoyed giving her the pretty throw I'd brought for her from Ankara because she lit up with ear-to-ear delight when she saw it. She left. Lost in my plans and exploration, I worked on. Night fell. Popcorn for dinner as I watched half of The Fellowship of the Ring in Turkish with Turkish subtitles. Because one tip I'd turned up was to watch and/or listen to something I enjoy several times, as many as I can stand, gleaning new words, grammar and expressions with each pass.

Some reading--finished The Secret Rescue, an interesting new book about American nurses and medics trapped behind German lines in Albania during WWII. And to sleep.

The Tuesday report--and how we got there and what happened next....

Already it is Saturday and this has been rattling round my head. I stood earlier to pray as the mosque singer called. And marveled that we get to live in this place in this season of life. Late fall means perfect days with all windows flung open, the lightest of breezes, and a flat-calm sea below. As I savored the quiet this morning something moved in the corner of my vision and I turned to meet the eyes of a stray cat passing through the living room with wary eyes fixed on me. Deservedly wary as I hissed him out. Olives ripen, though this is their off year in the two year cycle. For which I am daily grateful. The bumper harvest lasted for months last year and my back bore long witness to the daily bending and reaching to gather from our 14 trees. Sure enjoyed sharing the oil we made though.

This Tuesday found us far to the northwest of Kaş in Turkey's capital Ankara. We were there to visit Özer's family before their move this week to Kayseri. Özer is the man who oversaw the renovation of Spa for the Soul and became a dear friend in the process. 

Özer and Özlem

We rose early, dressed and packed, and said our goodbyes before climbing into our packed-with-city-shopping car. Rich with afterglow of days of sharing life together. The evening before extended family had gathered to watch our just-purchased Turkish language Lord of the Rings. Four of the flats in their building are occupied by family--Mom and Dad, and the families of three brothers. From six to seventy-five years old. The men all worked on our project and we have been lovingly taken in by the whole group. Monday evening we gathered on the covered terrace. Some sat in chairs. Others, including Curt and me, sat on cushions and leaned against the wall. Plates of roasted chestnuts hot from the woodstove, fruit, and sweet glasses of Turkish tea. As much chat and gentle laughter as movie watching. Some teasing over my efforts in Turkish. We hadn't been with these dear ones for almost two years. The everyday community of three generations who have made their way living separate-but-together. There we were tucked in the corner savoring the beauty of it, warmed by our inclusion. 

We were across the city to Josh and Sarah's home before 8am to share breakfast with their family. Though American, Josh grew up in Turkey and Sarah came to live here in her early 20's. Both are fluent in Turkish and a wealth of help and information. Since we first met them, Sarah has born two delightful children who played and chattered through our visit as we adults talked politics, shared about our lives and good books and people we care about and things we are working on. So rich. Josh's mind for detail, Sarah's wise and gentle mothering, and the loving hospitality and servant hearts that ooze from both of them. A prayer together and by 10:30 we were off for a quick stop at IKEA and then the nine hour drive home.

Curt and Alı Ulaş play chess in a shopping mall

I'm not sure what happens when we who live in a village get into big shopping places in cities, but the quick stop for a few candles turned into a four hour wander that included an electronics store and coffee at Starbucks and more bags to load into our already packed car. We finally were on the road a bit before 3pm. 

The route home was through high dry hills golden in the late afternoon sun. We plugged in a thumb drive of music by Turkish believers that Josh had loaded for us. The deep peace of a road trip. Non-stop beyond necessary toilet breaks and a fast-food meal. At 9:30 we stopped at a solitary gas station out of Elmalı. Not far from home in distance, but two hours of torturous downhill winding on an empty back-road still lay ahead. Five minutes and we were back in the car. Which did absolutely nothing when Curt turned the key. Hmmm...long day, late night, loaded with purchases, middle of nowhere. Time to roll with the punches.

We don't own a car in Turkey. Since we are not here peak season, we are able to rent from local friends who are happy to see income from a few of their hundred or so cars during the quieter months. For less that it would cost us to own we drive late model cars, and we don't have to worry about maintenance and insurance and registration and emissions testing and what to do if the car breaks down. So. We called Fahti. 

Meantime the guys at the station had gathered. Pushed the car a good ways to try to pop the clutch and get it running. Without success. Even as Fahti worked to arrange a mechanic. Pushed the car back up the hill into the station lot. Then they jumped the car. Which, to our surprise, worked. We drove off amid exhortations not to stop until we were home. No kidding! By midnight we had unloaded and backed the thing into its stone niche. Where it would remain until 4pm Wednesday when the Renault mechanic required by the warranty made the hour and a half drive from Fethiye and fixed it in ten minutes. 

Home. Wednesday morning a tad before 8am our neighbor phoned. We'd neglected to tell Çığdem we were going to Ankara, and she wanted to know where we'd been and when we got back. Sensing she was hurt to be left out of the loop, I visited her for coffee. Later. After I was awake. Don't speak much Turkish when the phone drags me out of deep sleep. I'd brought her a gift, a pretty throw from IKEA, and greetings from Özer's family, which was the needed balm. We laughed over her eight new baby chicks and chatted about our adventures. 

I've had my own little hurts of neglect over the past couple of days, from people I know don't mean to leave me feeling unnecessary. Reminders again that I don't always even know what is rude and what is normal in this place--whether on the giving or the receiving end. And so I lean once more into equanimity, that grace that can carry us sweetly through late night breakdowns, the vagaries of life in community, the dark unknowing of opening homes and lives to those of another language and culture, and pain of unintended slights. 

The area around Ankara's ancient citadel is the best "junk" shopping ever. Fascinating sellers, bargains and surprises.

The Tuesday report—a day in the life…

Several who read my description of a Tuesday in our lives at Spa for the Soul commented that it helped them to “see,” to catch something of the meaning of our choice to live as we do. That they found the descriptions encouraging, nourishing.

So here’s another Tuesday. Just for fun.

Last week was the major holiday with many businesses and public offices closed for the whole time. Kaş was packed, the tour and dive boats full, the cars all rented, and the restaurants overwhelmed with diners. Children ran and played in the square while vendors hawked their almonds, ice cream and pretty lamps. Paragliders drifted down to land on the harbor wall. An enterprising village woman wandered among the guests to sell her bundles of fresh sage.

And then on Sunday they all left. Monday bleary-eyed restaurant workers and shopkeepers gave up their cheerful, energetic facades and sat slumped in the sun.

We were weary, too, and I hit the 6am alarm onto snooze several times Tuesday morning, finally coming awake at 7. The house was empty save for Curt and me. I had rushed to prepare our apartment for unexpected guests Monday and laundry lay in the kitchen floor when I padded in to make coffee. Two loads were already on the lines from the evening before. I hung a third load and started yet another. Leaving three piles to go. Sipped coffee in the quiet while I looked at email. Jeremiah, Paul and Moses greeted me when I opened to the day’s reading. Jeremiah full of the pain of presiding over Israel’s demise at the hands of Nebuchadnezzar, and I prayed over parallels to modern-day America. Paul exhorting young Timothy, and I prayed for our kids. Moses celebrating God’s faithfulness, and I once again shook my head in befuddlement at His crazy blessings showered on us, All at once it was time to jump in the shower and get ourselves to Kaş. Halil and Gül had plans for our day. Gül has a spanking new passport and Greek visa and asked me to accompany her on her first-ever trip out of Turkey. She and Halil can’t go together until the restaurant closes for the season.

And with Gül away for the day, Halil asked Curt, who had already been there to make juice during the final days of Bayram, to help in the restaurant.

The adventure out of Turkey meant we would take the ferry for the two-mile run to Meis, a Greek island just off Kaş. Not far, but complete with passport control on both ends and a duty free shop on the island. And a plane to Athens now and again, and a ferry to Rhodes every Monday morning. Meis (Kastalorizzo in Greek) is tiny with a sweet sheltered harbor, colorful Greek architecture, and loads of restaurants because there isn’t much else to do there but eat and drink, and the ferry keeps you there for five or six hours. Truth be told, the main reason for the trip was to buy rakı for the restaurant at duty free prices. Two bottles each allowance. Well worth the price of the ferry ticket. This coming weekend is Turkey's national day. For one last time in 2013 Kaş will be packed with holiday makers who tour and shop and dine.

Gül speaks only Turkish. Like Halil she has adopted me as Momi and we’ve done day trips together before. She was a little nervous to go to another country, one where people don’t speak Turkish much, and thus I was chosen.

As we entered the harbor Gül thrilled over the bright houses that look so different from what she knows. After the formalities of immigration we set off to walk the town. Looked in little shops (very expensive, we agreed), bought some things Güvenç had asked for, looked around the tiny supermarket where she marveled over a dark brown round of artisan bread, and then stopped for a coffee and savored the sharing of a luscious banana-chocolate crepe. As would prove true most of the day, the vendors spoke English but not Turkish and I found myself in a brand-new role as Gül’s translator. Which brought me deep joy, a sense that the investment in learning the Turkish language is well worth it. Gül found the cappuccino extraordinary. We swapped stories about what we knew of Meis and I learned a new word. “Dedekodu” (gossip) can be a problem for the tiny community. After a lazy sit in the sun we wandered on.

Halil knows people on Meis so there were connections to be made and greetings to be given. We walked around the big church hoping to find a door open. Gül had never seen one before and asked whether a church is the same as a mosque. “Sort of,” I answered. David told us about a tiny sculpture garden on beyond the last hotel on the harbor and we explored that. Gül pointed out several smaller buildings scattered here and there and asked what they were. Invariably they were small chapels. More churches. “So many churches,” she marveled and I longed for the language to tell her more. Then lunch at a friend’s place where we shared Greek salad, calamari, and something akin to falafel that she had never seen before. All fresh and local and vibrant with color and flavor.

As we sat Gül asked what I wanted to drink. Looked disappointed when I said water. When I asked if she wanted wine on this special day she said only if I was having. So we did. We sat just at the water’s edge. The walkway between the buildings and the edge of the concrete is, after all, just three meters wide. Talked about the women going about in bikinis, about how women who would never dress that way in their home place would come to Kaş and do the same. We saw a heavy woman my age in shorts and a bikini top. I told her about Eda’s response the first time she met a 60-something American woman in shorts. She still refers to “your friend with the puffy legs like marshmallows.”

Halil phoned many times to direct his wife’s journey, ensuring that she met those he wanted her to meet, saw things he wanted her to see, and, of course, got to the duty free shop in time to buy the rakı. I called Curt once just to make sure he didn’t feel left out. Smile. We arrived everywhere early because Gül didn’t want to mess up. We were back on the ferry 40 minutes before we needed to be. I enjoyed a read while she napped.

For Curt and Halil it was a slow day, an enjoyable time together. Yasemin ran to greet her mother, greedy for what gift she might receive. Halil waited all aglow with delight at this gift he'd give his wife. With Gül back, Curt covered the pomegranate juicing while Halil ran home to shower and change into his evening workclothes. 

Investing. Invested. In people, language, houses and lands and furnishings for guests. Another day of it. Closed with a tasty spinach and cheese pide (Turkish pizza) from the wood-fired oven of the neighboring restaurant. Home. 

A day in the life...

How often has someone said to me, "Your life is so exciting, so full of adventure! You must think my life is boring." Others urge us to send details of our doings often so that they can pray. But when we ask about their lives, "Oh, it's just the some old--you know--nothing much to talk about...."

My normal response is to explain that life is life--wherever one lives. The laundry still needs doing, the car needs gas, the ironing pile stacks up. We hang with friends, shop for groceries, chat with the neighbors and pull weeds. Today it is raining. 

Spa for the Soul
Gőkseki, Kaş/ANTALYA, TURKEY

Tuesday was a good day. I rose at 6am and padded down the two flights of stairs from our room to the kitchen. Softly, because every room sheltered a sleeping guest. Or my sleeping husband. It is still dark at 6, with stars and only the faintest suggestion that the sun will rise. The house was warm, so I opened doors and windows to the light breeze. I molded some dough for the morning's bread and left it on the board to rise while I made coffee and emptied the dishwasher. Oven set to 235C, timer set, I took my coffee to the sofa, lit candles, and settled into the quiet of dawn with Bible, journal and ipad. Email, a bit of news, Jeremiah, Paul and Asaph. Prayers for those in the house, for our kids who need to sell their house, and for the peace and prosperity of the community around us.

Guests turned up for the breakfast of eggs, cheese, olives, tomatoes, cucumber and peppers, yogurt and fresh orange juice. And bread warm from the oven and mugs of strong coffee. By 9am only Curt and I remained. Dishes. Desk time working on some last matters related to my dad's estate. 

Tuesday was Kurban Bayram, the day sheep and goats are sacrificed and shared among family, friends and the poor. And it was Halil's birthday. Halil is dear to us, and just four months younger than our Caitlin. So at 11am we headed for town to sit with him at his restaurant for part of his 20-hour workday. 6-year-old Yasemin ran to meet us as we crossed the square, kissing our hands and touching them to her forehead in the greeting that honors family elders. Similar greetings from Halil and others of those we "mother" day by day. We hugged and massaged sore backs and shoulders and hugged again over the next two hours. Gul and Halil were happy-weary from the heavy load of serving countless holiday-makers. Good business but coming right at the end of the long season--well, they count the days until they can rest. 

At 1pm we strolled over to another friend's restaurant to enjoy their annual art show and a chat in the shade of their garden dining space on the harbor. 

By 2 we thought it time to venture up to the Kocaer family Bayram doings. Fatih had phoned the evening before to invite us, saying they would start at 10am. A phone call told us that our dear Ramazan was covering the office while the rest of the family enjoyed the holiday, so we stopped at Andifli to pay him Bayram greetings. "Did you see Fatih?" he asked. "Just on our way now." "You didn't go yet? But I think he told you they would start at 10. They are finished now. He is not there!" 

Assumptions. Messed up. Because it was a big family do, I imagined an all-day-into-the-wee-hours affair. Done already by 2? We missed it? Ouch! Ramazan phoned Fatih and we all laughed over what we foreigners didn't know.

"But my mother is making food now. What are you doing? Will you come to our house?" Ramazan was eager, and not dissuaded when we said we had our own guests for whom we needed to prepare dinner. So we picked up some veg and some chicken and ran them home, then picked up Ramazan back at the office and headed up the hill to Circillar and his family home. His mom sat before an open fireplace stirring a huge pot of boiling meat while his morning-sick wife Melike good-humoredly stayed as far from the smells as she could. Three goats had been sacrificed for this family's feast and sharing. For us they grilled rib pieces and roasted peppers in the coals. And homemade baklava. Ymmm! Neighbors came and went. All the while packages of meat and plates of baklava were carried to the homes of yet other neighbors. When we rose to leave at 5pm, a huge bunch of late grapes and a dozen early mandarins were plucked from vine and tree as a parting gift. 

Home for an hour of playing together before Curt grilled chicken and vegetables and I made a candlelit dining room on the terrace under the stars. Gentle conversation with our guests, an American couple who work in Ankara and have also lived in Iran and Kenya over their many years together. By 9pm the kitchen was clean and we headed to our rest.

So are our lives full of adventure and excitement because we live outside our home country? We still cook and clean and shop for groceries. We take part in community events. We have guests and are guests. We drink coffee and invest our time and hearts in the people around us. We mess up and receive grace. A mundane existence.

And yet not. I love our time in the US, but I also love this. Things I love: the culture of hospitality and generosity, the habits of spending time sharing and listening and simply being together. I love speaking a second language--well, trying to, studying and practicing and understanding more and more. I love the tenacity and generosity family and friends give one another. I love the simplicity that envelops us: people have less and make do more; gardens are planted with food more than with flowers; public transport and walking are ways of life; chickens cluck and scratch and crow and we enjoy their eggs, and they are not designer birds living in elaborate coops either. Our food scraps feed the neighbor birds. Books are passed around until they are tatty. Things don't get recycled so much as they are not consumed in the first place or they are re-used and re-purposed. Laundry is dried on the line and water is heated by the sun. Lentil soup is our neighbor child's favorite food.

I love our summers in the US surrounded by believers and soaking in teaching, studying together and communal prayer. But at this point in my life I would feel adrift, or maybe just excess, in a land of spiritual abundance. I feel privileged to be Jesus' hands and feet in a place where the magnificence of his power and love are little known.

I wonder if the foreignness keeps us more alive to the beauty and the sorrow around us?Our lives truly are "just life." Not much different. But are we different here? Do we experience the gift of each new day, of every opportunity more fully? Are we more alert, more alive to possibilities, more present and listening? 

Maybe it is not so much the exotic foreign land as it is the clarity that we are indeed aliens and strangers here, sojourning for a season with a purpose to bless.