The glory of denial

I'm walking home from work the other day and this all-too-familiar pain is radiating down my legs, my right leg this time, down to my toes. I breathe into it and keep on walking... convinced if I ignore it, the pain will eventually go away. But ignoring it I can no longer do. I have actually tried to get this problem sorted in two different countries so far: the good ol' USofA and Poland. Pelvic inflammation – ah yes, nothing like the throbbing, radiating pain of an inflamed uterus, ovaries and cervix to add to the adventure of life. Antibiotics are apparently our friend, but sometimes they aren't always strong enough... sometimes we need Ukrainian-vodka strength antibiotics to really kick a problem in the ass.
Nevertheless, I enjoy learning these lessons the hard way and as I am keeled over in unbearable pain, I realize, it's time for that dreaded doctor visit I have been putting off since the last day of my Polish antibiotics, when the pain began to creep, un-welcomed back into my life. So I made a few inquisitions into English speaking gynos... called, made some sort of loose appointment – and with a vague idea of where I was headed, I took off early Thursday morning on my bicycle (well actually my flatmate's as mine was in the shop – long story). Surprisingly, it took me 10 minutes to reach the clinic I was told was the correct place to go. Wow, with 20 minutes to kill, impressive. With the name of my doctor clasped in my nervous hands, I walk into the clinic, only to enter into strikingly confusing mayhem. There are old, traditional, headscarf cladden Turks everywhere; waiting in hallways, crowded outside doors - my panic receptors spike and I have a strong urge to flee. Fuck the pain that is radiating throughout my body, I want outta here!
I am being watched curiously by the waiting patients, I can see their wonderment at my presence in this little clinic. I have no idea where to go, so with my minimal Turkish I approach a random desk and point to the name of the doctor that is written in my planner. Happily, a look of understanding appears on the young woman's face and she manages to communicate to me that my doctor is working at the hospital today. A wave of comfort flows through me at the word 'hospital' and I ask where 'said' hospital may be. She hands me a pamphlet with an address and points across the street, and I think she says something about taking a green bus.

I scurry across the street and wait... no green bus. I ask every bus driver that comes by; “bu gidimiyorsun?”, and point to the address on the pamphlet. “Yok” is all I understand of the responses. REALLY? Nobody goes there? “For Christ's Sake!” I frustratingly let blurt out of my pomegranate lip-balmed lips. Bike it is then... I WILL see a doctor today, if it is the last thing I do.

Having received a fully functioning 3G Kindle for Christmas from my father, I google the address and examine the streets that will hopefully lead me to the allusive address. Where AM I? Is this map to scale? Gazi Boulevard seems to be my destination point – so I jump back on the bike and peddle North? Or West? Who knows... But it doesn't really matter, as I eventually found my way – and like a beckon of radiant heavenly bliss, there it stood.... the 'hospital' (clinic) I had been searching for. To my happy amazement, as soon as I walked in, a lovely young woman approached me and asked me how she could help me. I smiled brightly and told her the name of the doctor I had come to see. Ah, English she speaketh. :-) She led me to the office and a shocking hue of died burgundy, pink hair greeted me and invited me in. I had a seat and sweaty from the bike ride, guzzled down a bottle of water I had picked up along the way and began my lengthy explanation of why I was sitting in her office. She listened with brief interruptions and I prayed she understood what I was talking about... she had me go into the next room – I looked around the small, stained examination room, the chair fully equipped with stirrups and a bowl of what looked like iodine or the wax used at the salon for all that unwanted, pesky hair... the gooey liquid had dripped down and left splashes on the floor, next to a bucket of used 'tongs', waiting to be disinfected. Ok, I calming reassured myself as she demanded I take off my pants... remember, you are used to America's unnecessary obsession for all things 'sterile'... I am sure this is perfectly sanitary and totally ok.... Breathe deeply my nerve-wrecked girl, all will be fine. She quickly examined me and handed me an impressive list of antibiotics... “take these for seven days and come back in a week”... I can't argue, and take the list and head to the pharmacy (ezcane) that I am directed to. Three men approach me as I walk into the bustling pharmacy and hand them my prescription. “Türkçe konuşuyoruz?” (Speak Turkish?) “Yok”.... I say in return. They grab my vast array of little white boxes off the shelves and begin to draw pictures on them of when I should take them... a moon for night and a sun for morning. I don't have the heart to tell them that yes, in fact I DO know these words... their drawings are so thoughtful and kind. They package up my medication and send me off on my way. Back on my bike, I cycle home, and thirty minutes later, collapse into my warm bed, too exhausted to do anything else but sleep...

I'm not sure who you think I am, but I do believe you have mistaken me for someone else.

These are the words that run through my head sometimes as I pay special attention to my feet as they carefully traipse over unstable, jagged rock. If I am lucky - with eyes averted and white headphones clearly visible, I will be left alone. Left to make my way to my intended point of destination without aversion... perhaps to even catch a glimpse at some tapestries or scarves as I pass... paying meticulous attention to the mens every movement and quickly turning away when my presence in their vicinity is detected. Not that I am really all that hostile to their ceaseless banter as they entertain the idea of Italian dinners made to perfection, or long conversations over çay, but some days, I just can't be bothered. My introverted CBB-ness kicks in and the ceaseless banter becomes increasingly exhausting and time consuming. Some days however, I give in and partake whole-heartedly, like a game of cat and mouse... I let them believe they play the roll of the cat quite well, as I take mental notes on their every gesture and the infliction in their tone of voice as they tell me about the relative they may have in the US, or how beautifully alluring my sea blue eyes are, and would I please just sit and talk for a little? Please, just for awhile... so I can charm the pants off you... or at least get a small kiss... perhaps here... just so, to the right of my slippery-tongued mouth, just so I can feel your soft lips grace my skin and send shivers of joy throughout my body... No? Well, I suppose a nice smile will do. You come back and visit me now. I am here every day. Here, why don't you take my number... call anytime.

I walk away, usually with an entertained smile on my face, yet however relieved to be back on my way to wherever it was I was going. I have gotten to the point where I allow a few more minutes to get someplace, just so I can factor in these brief encounters. Trust me, they can not be ignored. Really, these men have their charm down to a science, it is incredibly hard to simply brush them aside and continue on your merry way... no matter how much you might like to. The charm Turkish men exude is said to be diabolical – yet I suspiciously abandon any and all belief of sincerity. While everyone glows in the glorious rays of flowing complements, my cynical nature questions EVERY motive behind EVERY nice word spoken or action taken... ah, but it doesn't mean I can't have fun with it... and so I play the game, only unbeknownst to them is that they are also players in MY game as well. While the rules are still in the developmental phase of the experiment, these Turkish men seem to be pleasantly oblivious to their roll in my dubious game.... and that is just fine.

I often feel as if I exist in a world of contrasts and living in Turkey only adds to this perplexing state of consciousness. I am constantly attempting to become a more dynamic, self-assured woman of the world and yet I am living amongst a society where women are more often than not, praised for their insecurity and lead around by the fingertips in their male dominated complacency. Half of the women traipse about in thigh high boots and orangee red lipstick and are ignored by the men they are trying to allure – where I show up with my blue eyes and ankle boots and am the dream date of every man this side of the Bosphorous. I realize it's due 100% to my western allure – again, the stereotype of loose western whores follows me like a dirty beggar relentless for spare change. Part of me chuckles at my cultural misfortune while the other knows all to well that us foreigners play our rolls all too well. Foreign women have a rough time of it you know. While we trek across the planet singularly, we are still human and have wanton desires as well as our male compatriots. Seems so unfair that they are given a free card to sleep with 75% of the women in the city or town they may currently be residing in – while for us, we sleep with a mere handful and are considered all things biblically unholy. Half the time, the men get married to a beautiful 'native' girl, and the women? They keep getting older... while the men they sleep with somehow manage to stay the same age...
This isn't exactly a future roll I particularly want to envision myself playing – but to stop living the life I am living, just out of fear of a future me I have every power to make certain I do not become seems a wee bit insane and illogical. Nonetheless, I will joyously express my vexing frustration and rant about the unfairness of it all throughout the glorious world wide web until I am all ranted out... which as of the moment... is about... now. More on this troublesome subject soon, I am sure.

prose for the wicked

I want to grasp on to the beauty of your core
peel away the jagged layers
the ones that are frayed at the edges, burnt by the fire that shines so brightly inside all that cynical melancholy flowing through you like blood and oil

I want to fall deep into a vast, cavernous abyss – feel my body sway, as it soars hawk-like through the dark emptiness of the time and space continuum
my eyes closed as I fall, deeper and deeper into you, I fall
free-falling, free from the insecurity that follows becoming too familiar with the feel of ones newly formed imprints on memory and flesh
the touch, as it becomes chiseled in body and mind too quickly and then disappears too soon

I want to wrap myself in your sorrow - sew it into the patchwork of my own – name it and forever call it home
to live within its walls, dream-like and untouchable - as the days turn into nights and back again, in a trustworthy consistency which allows for us to sleep restless and wake with nothing lost
worry no more, these tears I've shed will no longer haunt me here
you've shown me the simplicity of the light, so I no longer fear the complexity of the dark