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The Karagöz puppets visit the Registry of Motor Vehicles – Kenne faints from shock

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registry of motor vehicles boston chinatown red tape

The puppets felt at home with all of the red tape – Turkey is well-known for its bureaucracy and red tape – but they did not some surprise to see the American flag up – Zenne said, nervously, “that’s a bit more Turkish than American in a government palace.”

You know those pop culture images of the absent-minded and pre-occupied professor that you come across once in a while? Well, that’s me. Some, including my beloved M., might just say with a diplomatic air that I am not “the best at details of life.”

And this, dear readers is what led me to stand for almost 2 hours in our local Registry of Motor Vehicles in order to pay a late fine for a ticket I paid late. But no, this is not going to be a raging against the red tape machine kind of post – it is just a post acknowledging that I must be better at minding the details so I don’t subject the Karagöz puppets to the shock and awe campaign that was our experience today.

After obtaining various forms, permissions and stamps from floors 1, then 4, then 1 and finally 2 (the puppets swaying along on my shoulders, purse and hair the whole time, unphased), I set in to wait.  Checking my trusty-dusty iphone, thanks to some pirated Internet as the dratted thing has stopped locating telephone signals altogether, I noted that the Registry of Motor Vehicle’s website indicated an average wait of 1 hour and 7 minutes.  Realizing that I was in for the long haul, with no place to sit, I ambled up to a wall-leaning spot and commenced to chat with whomever seemed most willing to chat back.

Kenne, the Queen of Manners and Maintenance of Ladylike Behavior, while approving of gentle small talk, was simultaneously unsure about whether it was OK to speak with some relatively *confused* and *unseemly* people.  She’s a bit snobby, you know, in case you haven’t noticed.  Esma, the hippie puppet, decided that she had had just about enough of Kenne’s racism and classism – and kicked her out of the open window where she landed on a geranium plant perched on the ledge.  This was, mind you, a relatively rare expression of violence from the otherwise pacifist-oriented little vegan puppet.

Striking an unusually friendly allegiance with Karagöz himself, the base, crass and generally just plain rude puppet, Esma and Karagöz proceeded to feed me lines for all of the interesting conversations I began to have as I ended up helping people fill out forms, gave a distraught woman a kleenex, engaged in collective bitching and moaning with the other middle-aged ladies standing about on sore feet for too long, and the like. The puppet troupe, meanwhile, was so used to waiting around in lines, that they pulled out their books, newspapers, lace-making and the like, and got down to business.  Karagöz raised the question of a bribe for getting to the front of the line – and the entire troupe reminded him we were in the U.S. where this was not so common out in the open as compared to Turkey.  He settled down to observe the crowd, cackling madly at the gangy-gang boys with their low-slung pants and high-minded attitudes.

Yehuda Rebbe and Hacivad Bey nodded approvingly, in a somewhat pedantic and well-meaning white dude kind of way, saying things like “it’s good that you are communing with the masses, m’lady, you need to feed your mind outside of that Ivory Tower you usually reside in.”

Snorting his discontent, Karagöz guffawed “that building you work in – the one with all of the mold? That is HARDLY an ivory tower – oh look – another interesting person is approaching you!”

“Hey there,” a fellow waiting woman said, “you have the number before me – how long you been waiting?”  Sensing a lady who really liked to chat – I extended the small talk and eventually also helped her to fill out her forms.  We commiserated about the challenges of changing one’s name post-divorce and our resolve never to take another partner’s name (in my case, that will be null and void on the Turkish citizenship front – no choice!).  We tried out different leaning positions with attention to the variance on how sore our feet were.

And after about fifteen minutes of this back and forth (punctuated by the puppets’ confusion about how to interpret her southern U.S. accent, most of which I ignored), things got interesting.  Not only was Kenne limping across the floor from where she had climbed UP the geranium and over the window sill where she could jump back inside – fuming all the way.  Kenne shot me a warning look as she trudged back towards me, ignoring Esma the whole way, “don’t be to sure too much chatting is a good thing – and I have heard a few too many curses from you today, m’lady, in this plebeian conversation of yours.  Who do you think you are, a longshoreman?”

Just as I was processing Kenne’s concern, and whether I was going to give a damn – I noticed that the white ladies in the room (that is to say, the other middle aged white ladies like me) were moving away from me – and the woman I was talking too.  Tuning back in to my new friend, I realized she had started to pontificate – some might just say rant – about the “organ donor” poster on the wall.

“I’m tellin’ you, honey,” she said not even in a sotto voce tone, “I wish I could do that organ givin’ thing – you know people needs it – but I’ll be mother-f*d if what I see happening to other people happens to me – I needs mine!”

Intrigued and remembering the infamous Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment, I pressed her for more, saying “what do you see happening to other people?”

“They have they organ donor box checked on they ID card – and they not too sick – but then they go into the hospital for some little some such and BAM – they dead! I think them hospitals goin’ after them organs!  I knew a lady done sold her ankle bone for $10,000 – you know them organs go for lotsa money!”

“I’ve heard about that, yes.  I think there is a big market for organs – like black market -”

“Girl, I ain’t talkin’ about no black market – I am talking about Boston Medical Center! You know all they Black ladies – they went in to get them some hysterectomies – and they gave those lady bits-” she paused, as if to catch herself

“to White ladies?” I ventured – sensing she didn’t want to say it to me given our skin color difference and the fact that we didn’t know one another from Eve.

“yes, them White ladies got the Black lady bits when they couldn’t have no kids!”

Before I could think, I just said “that’s f*d up!” to which she guffawed, slapped me on the back and said “that’s right, girl, it’s f*d up aight,” further shocking the shrinking White lady gaggle around me.

It was only at this point, that I noticed the kicking of my shins, and looking down, of course, I saw that it was Kenne kicking away in furious anger at my crass and rude behavior – with some semi-half-hearted kicking going on by her handmaiden, Zenne…:you-must-stop-immediately!  Your grandmother and granny would ROLL in their graves!”

Before I could send a mental telegram to my manners puppet, my new real-world friend and waiting companion, Kenne was in for the biggest shock of all.  The animated southern lady downed her Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and announced – “You know why I got this small coffee, right? It helps you do the poo – and I gotta go – y’all know where the bathroom is?”

Giggling inside, I pointed the way to the bathroom just as Kenne fainted from shock at the notion that a lady (or not much of a lady but still) would announce her bowel movement in public.  Karagöz just pointed out that she’d do a lot better with a Turkish coffee.

I’m not sure how it all turned out, as they called my number about then, and I was off to resolve my fee and move on with life.

Just another day of observing life with my puppets.

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I was brave enough to document the cup my friend was holding before she made the scandalous comment (in the words of Kenne, still not recovered by the crassness of the American plebes).

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Last night in Bodrum Part II: Dodging Breeze snakes and coffee bullets

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A captivatingly thick and sweet bullet of Turkish coffee

Snakes of warm breeze slid around me, curiously disconnected from one another.  I felt them swoosh up and down my arms, my palms flat on the table in front of me as if about to play a child’s slapping hand game.  My demitasse coffee cup was upside-down on the saucer it belonged to.  A smudge of muddiness marred the perfect flip-over, but I ignored it.  My coffee bullet was wending its way through my bloodstream.  Mrs. X. spoke the same words again…“Now,” Mrs. X. said, “I’ll tell you what I know, you tell me what you know.” She was referring to my boyfriend, M., her husband’s brother.  We were to leave Bodrum tomorrow after a couple of weeks that ranged from relaxing and interesting to trying and confusing.

Khadijah shook her wax-papery head with all the grace that a Karagöz dancing puppet can, their loose limbs akimbo on a stick.  “Here we go, the old ‘we’re all women argument,” she sighed, “usually I would buy right into that, but now, I feel the breeze snakes. You’ve got to watch for the breeze snakes. What does she want to know – or is her world that small?”  The bullet of hot coffee had cleared my rakı fogginess – and I had to respond to Mrs. X., not to mention  Hacivad, Karagöz, and all the other puppets waiting for my response.

“Does it really have to be about secrets?” I coughed the words, and they stumbled out of my mouth in between the breeze snakes.  My mouth did not want to cooperate.  The puppets all put their chins in the palms of their hand, waiting for more.  “I mean,” I gulped, feeling the coffee grinds left in my teeth, “I mean why?”  Leaning in, the breeze snakes transported Mrs. X.’s Turkish coffee espresso breath towards me faster than the gleam of her chemically whitened teeth through the dark night.

“You know, don’t you,” she spooned the words towards me softly, “you know he doesn’t want to have children?”  Only Karagöz let out a little tiny whoop before covering his mouth again to see what would happen next.  Delivering what she thought was new information, she lurched back into her armchair quickly, and watched for my response along with the chorus of dancing ladies, hands covering mouths in shock.  I knew what they did not know, namely, we had already had the “what about children?” talk.  I knew that M. loved kids, but felt so strongly about zero population growth that he did not feel good about having his own biological children. I didn’t know how I felt about that yet and it would be a while before I did.  Did she want to hurt my feelings? Did she want to warn me?  Did she think I would not already know?  Would I ever understand her motivations?  Probably not.  I settled on her thoughts about wanting me to know.

I had grown up around my mother’s strong commitment to the zero population growth movement, thus the adoption of my sister, I suppose (or was it vice versa?).  I was mixed on the idea myself, and although it was way to early in the relationship to be deciding about whether to have children together or not, I could already tell that the notion of zero population growth was not going to go down well in this family in Turkey.  I felt the breeze snakes sliding back, as if in a tide, behind Mrs. X., as if ready to strike.

Taking the straightforward Yankee approach, I blurted out “Yes, I know about all of those views of his, we talk about it.” I didn’t know what else to do.  Before I could get the words out of my mouth in their entirety, I felt the hurtling swath of breeze snakes hit me full force – “but it is your right to have children! This is not fair to you!  I hate that he does this, it is wrong, what is wrong with him?” I could see that Mrs. X. and M. resided on different planets and that it would just always be that way.  One oppositional and non-traditional to the extreme (even without wanting to be, sometimes) and one caught in the gerbil wheel of a wealthy lady’s expected life (wanting to be and something told me also not wanting to be).

Hacivad stepped forward to jump up on my shoulder, a friend in the storm of breeze snake tides.  “M’lady, you just need to stay cool, calm and collected, you are facing a moment of cross-cultural conflict – your reality just cannot be computed in her reality.  Kids are wanted – expected – she will not understand.  Just let it be and focus on what is important.” Drawing on his zen-like calm, I channeled some inner wise woman with my final comment – some kind of wise woman that knows inside this woman in front of me, surrounded by breeze snakes, had her own crosses to bear.  “I suppose we all have strange or difficult things to deal with in the men we choose, don’t we, Mrs. X.?”

Before she could answer, I felt the warm bounce breeze that surrounds M. swagger over my way.  M.  had broken free from the clutch of middle-aged male observers looking over the balcony at their sons, dancing with arms akimbo in the air.  Swashbuckling up to me, M. galumphed into the seat next to me, throwing his arm around me.  Only I knew that he had promised to leave me alone with Mrs. X. as little as possible after the obesity comments at what I referred to as “cement beach.”  Watching the breeze snakes slither away, Mrs. X. touched the top of my coffee cup in defeat.  “It is ready to read,” she said with the empty, deflated voice of a tired middle ager at midnight.  I felt equally so.

Taking the cup into her right hand – the left one unduly occupied by a Marlboro cigarette covered in bright pink Chanel lipstick – she craned her neck to the side and peered into the bottom of the tiny cup.  “I see mountains and a goat,” she said with question marks abounding “you will have many difficult mountains to climb, but the goat climbs them easily.” Laughing – she stood and bent over to kiss me on the forehead before walking to join her husband in watching their son dancing below.

Hacivad turned to me at the same time as M. with dually quizzical airs.  “It sounds like the closest you will get to a blessing to me,” Hacivad whispered.  M. just kissed me on the cheek and said “it’ll be good to get back on the road together.”

After the breeze snakes retired for the night

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Last night in Bodrum: Fish cheeks, rakı and coffee

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Grilled fish with tomato and arugula salad and rakı on our last night in Bodrum

Feeling faintly present during our last night in the gated compound near Bodrum, guests of Mr. X and family, I made my way through it all pleasantly enough.  The puppets were really nowhere to be found, not that I looked all that hard.  My brain hurt and I had given into the confusion.  I was allowing myself to sink into the background, much like I imagine Virginia Woolf did in a way vis-a-vis her yellow wallpaper.  Who says detachment from reality isn’t functional sometimes? See the previous few posts if you are wondering why I was detached on this night.  Let’s say that on this night, I did not refuse the rakı (rah-kuh, the Turkish version of ouzo).

I am sure the grilled fish, smoky and light, was, as usual, spectacular, but all I remember about that dinner is the honor of receiving the fish cheeks, served by Mr. X. himself.  Fish cheeks, quite soft, tender and tasty, are a delicacy for those not in the know.  Mr. X.’s children sniggered a bit at this old fashioned sign of respect from Mr. X. before they wolfed down their food in haste to get out of the house and down to hang out with friends, as teenagers are wont to do.  I vaguely remember feeling very middle aged in that moment.  I heard a mocking snore from Karagöz at this point, somewhere in the haze.  I took another swig of rakı, the instant burn a comfort to my hurting mind.  One of the dancing ladies called out from the purse, reminding me that ladies traditionally did *not* engage in the pursuit of rakı consumption.

Deciding on the plans for the evening, Mr. X. waived Kalinka’s offer of tea off, and pronounced that we would walk down to the cafe by the water to see how the kids were getting on at the dance party, the evidence of which was wafting it’s way up the hill in bass form.  In our late evening amble down to the cafe by the water, I remember letting myself get lost in the lovely, enveloping warmth of the Aegean evening.  I am sure that I even enjoyed some of the sweet mellowness of the Cuban cigar smoke from Mr. X.’s side of the table, and do have a faint recollection of his wife’s commentary on what to do and what not to do in Selcuk the next night (it was along the lines of “there are no decent 4 star hotels, but you will live”).  My detachment was pierced, ever so slightly, by the throwing up of hands amongst the little lady dancing chorus over in my purse.  The eye rolls were evident, though I couldn’t see them.  I just kept sipping my rakı.

Down at the cafe, the chatter flowed out of my mouth as if I was not myself.  I just went with the flow, trying to focus on the positives around me as opposed to the sea of confusion and rakı my brain was floating in.  Hacivad asked me “What’s not to love about a late night drink by the Aegean with a new love?” but it fell on somewhat deaf ears, so to speak.  At one point, we went over to the balcony to catch a glimpse of the kids dancing, without their shock and disapproval at the horror of the presence of their adults in parent form.  Standing to the side of Mr. X. and his wife as they spoke with their friends engaged in the same observation, M. and I watched Mr. X.’s son dance to arabesque music, hands up, in Turkish man dancing style.  He cut a dashing figure at 13 years old (going on 30 if you asked me given his behavior, but that I

Turkish men dancing at a wedding near Marmaris (From Star of the Sea's blog - wonderful sellers on Etsy.com based in Marmaris)

shall share on another occasion) and even from our distance to the dance floor, we could see the girls swooning from the sidelines, all eyes on him, though he was surrounded by other young men. Turning to M., I asked “Did you ever dance like that?” before I realized that a joke response would ensue – which it did in the form of a spastic goat on it’s last dancing legs before slaughter emerged before me.  Karagöz squealed in approval – “what a joker, with him, his dance is better than a coker!”

Mr. X.’s wife swooped me up and saved me (whether I wanted saving or not) from my flailing boyfriend who was grinning from ear to ear.  She took me by the crook of the arm to go and watch – in the way that only a mother enamored of the beauty exhibited by the very being of her newly adolescent son can do, “he has not,” she snorted, “obtained the terrible dancing genes of our men, the bad dancing gene dies with them! Let’s go find some hot guys to dance with to make our men jealous!”  (Side note, for an hysterical recounting of an actual played out version of this story in another part of Bodrum with other characters, see Perking the Pansies blog post here).

How I extricated myself from that pseudo-teenaged dare I do not recall, likely as a result of the cumulative impact of my rakı consumption, but I do recall ending up at a table with Mrs. X.’s wife who was not, apparently, the same person who shunned my slightly pudgy self at the beach now – I was her friend from America, a potential gelin (bride) for the family – who needed schooling in the art of reading coffee grinds.  Absent since the afternoon’s tumbleweed melee between Hacivad and Karagöz, the dancing lady chorus cooed happily from my purse. “Yes, m’lady, you do need schooling in this regard.  The closest to coffee grinds you get is something along the lines of a green tea latte, whatever that is.”

After downing the aromatic warm bullet of coffee in one fell swoop, Mrs. X. placed the lid of the demitasse set on top of the cup, circle indent side down.  With great dexterity, she flipped the cup over, and set her fragile and precariously positioned cargo down.  “Now, you wait for it to cool, you must do the same.  Now we chat.”  Karagöz chimed in at this moment “now you wait for her to heat up, or run up the hill like a goat in a bleat-up.”  Hoping that the strong coffee would counteract the fog of rakı around me so that I could walk up the hill to bed, I complied with her order. There are many different approaches to this folk tradition, but I didn’t notice more than what is written here due to my tipsy state at the time.  You can read more about coffee fortune telling in Turkey here).

Hacivad, freshly re-cut from waxy paper after getting a bit frayed this past afternoon was exhibiting his usual composure.  “Just listen and learn, don’t reveal too much, just take it all in like an anthropologist in New Guinea in the 1800s.”

“Now,” Mrs. X. said, “I’ll tell you what I know, you tell me what you know.”  Khadijah spoke out from the purse “it’s always something with this one.”  Shifting in her chair a bit, Mrs. X. leaned in to me, snaking her arm around the cooling coffee cup to take my hand in hers.  “We women,” she said with an air of mystery, or at least I thought that’s what she thought, “we women need to stick together in this life.  So, you tell me what you know about M. and I will tell you what I know of M.”  All of a sudden, my rakı fogginess was gone and I was wide awake, or maybe it was the jolt of caffeine running through my veins.  Hacivad, Karagöz, Khadijah and all the other puppets leaned in from their various positions around me, wondering what I might do.  Turning towards the now-dark sea, I sighed.

To be continued.

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