I left Seattle on a rainy afternoon, happy to wake up and see the familiar Indian Summer slipping away just as I was leaving the city. I made frantic phone calls all day long, trying in the last few hours to speak with everyone I could before ten hours of time difference and complications of transatlantic phone conversations limit my contact. SeaTac airport was deserted so my dad helped me drag my exactly 50 pound bags, pre weighed on the bathroom scale, to the British Airways counter which consisted of a thousand people clustered in the one part of the airport I needed to be. So I stood in line and talked to other travelers- a firefighter headed to Greece for the first time to visit family (‘get ready to eat’ were my words of wisdom) and an American man returning home to his boat in Barcelona after a summer on his Seattle houseboat (he inherited money). Halfway through my dad wisely asks me if I have a contact in Istanbul, you know just in case someone (whoever that may be) isn’t there when I arrive. I, of course, have nothing but my American agent’s phone number and my passport. The situation got resolved quickly. Just one more sign that I have been playing overseas too long because I wasn’t worried in the least.
The flights were fairly painless except for the London security which didn’t allow but one carry on, limited in size to no bigger than a briefcase. So for extra fun I had to leave international departures, wait two hours for my flight booking to open, shuffle all my things and check my bags before going through security yet again. Literally people were holding laptops in Heathrow airport plastic bags, their cases too big to make it through. The British…..
So I sat killing time in an overpriced English restaurant, nodding off while reading an US weekly magazine, everything I never wanted to know about Paris Hilton and Tom Cruise’s daughter-one aspect of American culture I wouldn’t miss. Finally I had to ask someone to wake me up before they left for their flight. With two hours to go I knew I would wake up with out realizing I had fallen asleep and miss my flight. Sure enough I was in full REM when I was woken up, totally unsure of where in the world I was…literally. Finally it was time to board and I got in line, groggy and ready to sleep again. Up ahead I noticed two women in full Burka, only their dark eyes shown beneath their black veil. The man they were with was in cargo shorts and a checkered button down shirt. Sweet. Couple things ran through my half asleep mind- what the @#$#^$*? Why does he get to wear normal clothes? And how exactly do they identify the women in their passport photos? Food for thought…..In all seriousness though, I have seen plenty of Muslim women with head scarves, went to high school with many of them and it was never a big deal. But the full body cover up is fascinating to me. I can’t imagine experiencing the world without showing my face. Never smiling at a stranger, missing out on communicating with facial expressions, its like never having an identity. People wouldn’t recognize you at the grocery store, no one would ever tell you how nice you looked today. What a strange life that would be….. faceless to the world.
However, since landing in Istanbul I have seen only three women in full burka although I do anticipate seeing many when we travel to central Turkey this week. Apparently, the Eastern part of the country is quite different, more conservative and much more rural. Istanbul is a lively city with everything you could ever want or need. Its very western in many respects but it still has its unique identity. You can definitely feel the Islam influence: not much alcohol, no pork, head scarves, fasting for Ramazan, and mosques with loud speakers moaning like ghosts at prayer time. But like any city, people are open to most things- young people go out drinking, there is great music, fabulous shopping, and any kind of food you could ever want. My teammates are like any teammates I have ever had, except I have yet to learn a Turkish swear word and I don’t hear them making sex jokes or talking about boys. Maybe I am just used to Greece where my first word was “asshole” and my owner was asking me to marry him (among other comments) right in front of my laughing teammates. But its still seems different to me, although the girls on my team are fairly young, mostly about 20 years old. Come to think of it, that is the time when talking about boys and laughing about sex is the most fun- before you get cynical and bitterJ
There is a huge language barrier between myself and my teammates and coaches though. I think it is going to take awhile to really get a feel for what is going on, what the culture is really like, and who are these people that I see everyday. I don’t really know much about them. I like them very much, we joke and they teach me Turkish (while they point and laugh at my pronunciation- its great) and they are generally really fun to be around. But I don’t know much about them. Slowly I am learning what they are studying, where they are living, what they do with their time outside the gym. But its slow. When you miss out on locker room talk, you miss out on a lot. Off to Anatolia (Central Turkey) this week and the overnight 8 hour bus ride should give me plenty of time to get to know my teammates better. It should be fun to see the rest of the country. Plus my brother Jordan is coming to visit this week so I have a lots of exciting things coming up…..
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