AMSTERDAM -1-

ARRIVAL

5.22.2012

First time I am traveling to a distant land with plans of full reliance on public transportation. I can't believe this kind of American spoiled-ness has taken over me. I just got out of the plane. I am going to take the metro into Central Station in Amsterdam to catch the trolley down to my B&B. Hmmm, it may not be as easy as I thought it would be. My thoughts take me back to 1996, I am in Central Station, but of a different city. Perhaps not quite different a city, what was once New Amsterdam, after all. Second time I am in the big apple, but first time I am totally on my own. I feel like a fish out of water. I am looking for a ticket booth to purchase a ticket to go to New Jersey. Alas, none around. I am surrounded on all sides with what looks like ATM machines with long ques. A place loaded with people with tense faces, who have no time to answer a question, let alone help with my task at hand. All in a rush. The intense loneliness one sometimes feels when surrounded by a crowd; I am feeling it all the way to my bones, this intensely for the first time in my life. I finally lock my looks into the eyes of a woman, who seems to have softer eyes; more likely to listen to me. And she does, oh my, at last, somebody does listen to my "excuse me." Whether she has time or not, she listens and, believe it or not, is willing to help, too. Crash course on how to use this mechanized ticket-delivery system. I am so grateful, so indebted. I hope my body language is more telling than what my words can convey. I guess it does, I still remember the warm, humble but big smile covering her face as she drifts away to her schedule I am sure is as full as anybody around. In the years to come that will take me to the big apple as a resident, every time somebody stops me at Central Station for directions, I will affectionately recall that chocolate face and the big smile. Whatever rush I may be in, I will stop and help and leave with as big a smile on my face as she did years back. 

Amsterdam airport is no different than the New Amsterdam Central Station when it comes to buying tickets. What is worse is that on top of everything else, all instructions are in Dutch. I should've studied Dutch a bit more before arriving here, shame on me. I look around trying to assess the ques. Here is a line that looks like consisting of a diverse bunch of international people. There is hope they may all be going to Central Station. I am all ears to catch a Turkish word or two. I know that Turkish minority is the second largest in Amsterdam. I may be lucky, and sure enough I am, too. The two young men just behind me arrived chatting in Turkish. What a gift! I join in the chat. They are much younger than I. They tell me they are both engineers, have been living in Rotterdam for 10-15 years now and they are buying their tickets to Rotterdam. They don't seem to love or hate living here. Subtle discrimination is everywhere I will discover in the coming days. Fortunately nowhere nearly as bad as in Germany. The young men are so helpful, not only they make the ticket purchasing as easy as it could be but also hold me almost by the hand and walk me to the top of the staircase that will take me to the metro. I remember how grateful I was in New Amsterdam. The same feeling must be reflected on my face again, we depart with mutual warm feelings and best wishes.

I head directly to the Information Center and get my weekly passes for transportation and the museums and a transportation map for Amsterdam. I am all set. I finally find the trolley stop to catch the trolley that will take me to my B&B. Easy eye contact with the middle-aged woman sitting on the bench next to me. Smiling and chatting follow all too naturally. She lives in Amsterdam, returning from Rotterdam visiting her daughter and babysitting for her granddaughter for the weekend. Human scenery is the same, be it in Turkey, USA, or Netherlands. Grandmothers are reborn in their task of taking care of grandchildren. To a certain extent, I recall a conversation with my daughter recently. I was so relieved when she declared in peace that she understood I wouldn't be the sole caretaker of her child(ren), but would be happy to give her and her partner respite every now and then or when needed. She understood my passion for people and places and travel. I always believed that she carried a good head over her shoulders and a sparkling heart in her chest. She proves me right at every turn.

I am now on the bus, that is traveling south through huge structures from sixteen, seventeen hundreds; churches, museums, government buildings, lakes, canals, quirky shops and cafes, and coffee-shops, on and on and on. Once we are out of the core canal system, the terrain is more modern, less crowded, occasional lively neighborhoods here and there. What is most striking is the number of bikers all over. They are the owners of the roads, vehicles must submit to them, pedestrians alike, I will learn in the next couple of days after surviving couple of near-hit-by-a-bike incidents. I feel embarrassed for not having mastered this skill sooner. I make a resolution: As soon as I return to Iowa City, I will work on becoming a competent biker followed with becoming a commuter biker. That will happen before the end of 2012, I resolve.

There are 350,000 bikers commuting every day in Amsterdam.

I have arrived at my destination, not the B&B, yet, but this is my bus-stop, according to instructions. People are very helpful, They direct me toward the section of the neighborhood, where I will find my B&B, located in a tall, thin old canal building. Of course, we are just a few yards from the Schinkel Canal. My friend Betul is waiting for me at the window sill. Windows are open, curtains are flying in the air, cool breeze turns out to be not so cool upstairs in our room beat up with the afternoon sun for hours now. The evening will bring the cool air we need. We are content, we fall asleep after some chatting with the anticipation of the breakfast time. I love breakfast time at B&Bs, connecting with the clients, but more so with the owners. I guess that is why I travel, to connect with places and people. Breakfast will be fun.

AMSTERDAM -3- RED TEARS

Red Tears

Just like the big apple:

Non-stop hustle bustle, narrow roads,

beautiful gables reaching the heavens.

I look up to the sky:

Clouds ablaze with a beautiful red tinge,

and hooks: Elevators for goods,

hanging down from elegant gables,

gables of homes of “Herren”

old, four, five  hundred years.

Oude Kerke rising with her proud towers

toward a sky now aflame;

old and wise and confident.

Sky is red.

Water is red.

Clouds are red.

Lights are red.

District is red!?

Encased in the crowd,

I am in a narrow alley.

Two-story homes along the alley

reach across the space

to an embrace.

Alley full of life, the houses not.

Red velvet curtains conceal

signs of life.

A door open, red light flowing out,

or spilling down?

Red fluorescent bar above the doorway.

In the doorway, a slim beautiful body

as white as snow with

a black bra and a slip as small as can be.

I am now aflame.  

My blood rushing into a revolt

just as the unabashed pleasant smile

on her face registers in my mind:

As pain.

As lost innocence.

As torture.

As la belle indifference.

As the god of profit

claiming everything

as good for sale.

I am sorry sister,

I am ashamed of my kind,

allowing you to be there,

I can’t look you in the eye,

in fear I may see how you feel.

In fear, I may understand

where you want to be.

One more house with red curtains;

dead or working; the same after all.

One after the other.

Another framing a Caribbean beauty

walking from within

“adjusting” the black bands

from chocolate shoulders

to a crotch.

Snap! Snap!

I can’t raise my eyes to her face:

I don’t know what she looks like,

I don’t know whether she smiled,

I don’t know what was in her eyes.

Words of my mind in frenzy:

Body, privacy, ownership, work, instrument, sex, sale…

I don’t know if she will ever remember me,

I know I will remember the snaps.

Forever with pain.

Red homes circling the Oude Kerke,

seven hundred years old.

What an irony..

Curtains red,

Fluorescent bulbs red

Lipsticks red

Lights red

Red Light District!  

Home to homes with everything red.

In the middle a church that is old.

My thoughts red

My feelings red

My tears of pain red

My anger is bright red:

The Flesh has Dutch ID.

The flesh is legal.

The flesh is insured.

The flesh has fair rate.

The flesh can unionize.

The flesh can’t be pimped.

The flesh is free!

5.24.2012 - 7.28.2012

AMSTERDAM -2-

FIRST AMSTERDAM

5/26/2012

Four pleasant days along with Schinkel Canal close to where it intersects with Amstel River at an old, authentic and elegant B&B run by two interesting men, are over with lots of memorable moments. The neighborhood is pleasant, well-to-do, not top-notch but still with some elegance a residential area, right outside the core of the canal rings of downtown Amsterdam. The intersection of the two waterways has the same quirky, interesting, inviting feel of the core canals, but not as touristy; perfect. I am an anti-touristic tourist anyway. I have always been interested in people, the details of their lives, their daily routines, their stories while visiting a new place not things, let alone extravagant things-to-do that most tourists go for. This feel makes my early morning hikes along Schinkel up to Amstel, unforgettably serene, peaceful, and intimate with locals. I walk through their alleys separating blocks of canal boat houses protruding perpendicularly into Schinkel just as they are waking up, witness their sweet morning chats and shouts at times, run into bikers heading toward the park and ride sites, breath in the scent of the morning baked goods waiting for bikers to claim, on and on.  

                                                   Houseboats along Schinkel canal

Alex and Braddy are business and probably life partners. Alex, a rural Dutch boy as he self-expresses is mainly responsible for the B&B, and Braddy, an American, who made Amsterdam his home for many years, is responsible for the upscale restaurant they run together downtown Amsterdam. Both are interesting, intelligent, politically correct (most of the time as I will discover just before departing), and attentive men, who treat their guests with grace. The highlight of my four days here will be the breakfasts we will have with all the other guests and with Alex (Braddy only one morning) around a large wooden table in a very tastefully decorated dining room overlooking at the Schinkel.  

Breakfasts will offer us not only extremely healthy and delicious food prepared by Alex from scratch every morning, but also exposure to an unbelievably diverse, interesting, and pleasant clientele. We will chat one morning with a probably lesbian couple, one a research nurse, the other a police officer from Italy, another morning with a couple from Canada both academics, yet another morning with a couple from France. The last couple is extremely interesting, the woman is an engineer, works in Berlin and supports the social democrats in France whereas her male partner, who is a broker living in London supports Sarkozy, “obviously based on my vocation” he will state with no reservations. I like such truthful people even if I don’t agree with what they think and believe in. At least he is truthful on where “money” stands. I wonder for a moment how that works. The answer is obvious soon enough following a few minutes of conversation. The man is a very dominant character whereas the woman is pretty submissive. That combination could absorb any, even deep discrepancy, I conclude. “Avoidant relationship” I murmur to myself, as long as they agree to disagree and avoid any confrontation, I bet they could stay together, but being happy together and connected at a deep level is a different question. 

Every morning, in ten minutes or so the conversation veers toward politics somehow. Everybody is fine with that since every client except the broker turns out to be of and for the 99%. Except the broker of course, he even feels offended when the Canadian gentleman asks “What do you think about where the elections are going in Europe?” clearly referring to liberals winning in several major European countries. His response is sharp “Isn’t it a bit too early to discuss politics?” Not clear whether he is referring to the time of the day or phase of our connection. I feel it is the latter. Despite his reluctance, everybody else engages in discussions full heartedly, which makes breakfast times so enriching for four days.

Last morning, time to leave. My dear friend and colleague is leaving to return to Turkey today, but I have a full week to enjoy Amsterdam. I had thought, I’d travel and see the rest of Amsterdam, too. But, over the week, I changed my mind and decided to stay put in Amsterdam to get to know the place deeper and deeper. I tell Alex I am moving to a lakeside for a week south of Amsterdam, to a place listed as a hostel. Knowing hostels in Europe are of much better quality than their American counterparts, I took it. I am excited about the opportunity to meet young people from all around the world and catch up with them regarding their likes, interests, passions, aspirations, you name it. It has been quite a long time since I haven’t stayed at a hostel. Alex is not happy. When I tell him the nearest town is Acaobe, he utters “Oh, it will be a different experience” with clear disdain in his voice and face. “They will be all black down there.” Of course catching his slip or seeing the astonishment on my face, as soon as it is spilled out he continues “Not that I have anything against them.” Too late Alex, that split second was enough to see what kind of discrimination lies right beneath the surface.

                                     Alleys seperating rows of houseboats along Schinkel

I recall a Turkish physician friend of mine who had lived in Germany for several decades before finally moving back to Turkey for good. She had told me once, “If you scratch the surface of any Arian German with enough bait, meaning if you feed them with racist discourse, you will always see that anti-Semitism is right beneath the surface, still alive.” I didn’t want to believe her with such a blanket statement, but Alex’s knee jerk reaction to my second week in Amsterdam brought that memory back instantaneously.  I wondered for the first time since several decades ago, whether what my friend had inferred could indeed be true. Of course my universe consists of one single subject at this point. I should give more credit to the Dutch. Although my experience will be totally positive with locals in Amsterdam, I will hear from many Turkish, even from well educated and established ones that discrimination is right beneath the surface.

My thoughts meander toward the unexpected experience I had by the Amstel River around Oude Kirke, old church from 1200s. The experience I wasn’t planning to have, in fact I was refusing to have, into which I was pulled by my dear colleagues from Portugal. Teresa, Augustino, Patricia, and their colleagues will ask me to have dinner together the first evening of the conference we are attending and co-presenting at. The meeting spot is in front of the Oude Kirke. Having left the task of going through my Lonely Planet throughout the conference days, I don’t have much idea on what is where in Amsterdam, yet. A church and sex tourism, how can one put these two together? The experience I will have in the Red Light District, ironically encircling the Oude Kirke will leave me with a bitter tart taste about not necessarily Amsterdam but more so about humanity, mankind. Is there nothing not for sale in the realm of capitalism? Can we not spare human flesh from being sold, of men and women? At the end of the uncalled for unpleasant tour of the narrowest alleys of Amsterdam, I feel like vomiting. I have seen enough, which will pour out of me the next day as words, expressing pain and disgust and plea for banning the sale of human flesh…

CLOSING: CRETE NOVEMBER 2011

Thank you all, who have read my entries on my experience in Crete in the fall of 2011. It was a precious experience that will remain with me forever. I definitely have to go back to deliver in person, the photographs I took of Lenea to her since between Sofia and I we lost the phone number she had given me and I have no contact information for her other than her name and her vocation and her site some 10-15 miles west of Heraklion. Photographs I took in Crete are listed on my facebook page since I couldn't figure out how to post them through this blog site. Imagine how savvy I am with technology. You m ay even ask what I am doing out here with such little IT talent. I don't blame you.

I will try to gather, soon, my thoughts about a similar fantastic week I spent in Amstrerdam in May, 2012 to post new entries.

LENEA AND CRETE -14-

XIV

I am dying to hear how her conversation with Lenea went, but the dinner table is almost like “My Fat Greek Wedding”. Everybody is jolly after an elating day, kids are a joy to have around with their have-to-tells; both Sofia and Michail are visibly happy to have us over. Friendship and trust are in the air. I join in pushing aside my curiosity about Lenea and her daughter.

Michail is a phenomenal man; kind, caring, good politics, an absolute internationalist, cognizant of his deep deep roots in Crete. He is determined to die on this island growing his own thyme and oregano, scooping out his own sea salt off the land, growing his own olives and savoring the blinding sun and emerald waters surrounding his land. He is getting ready to take off with couple of friends on a sail boat to glide through the Greek isles scattered across The Water. I envy him, so much. I feel kind of a pain below my left  nipple thinking of how Bill and I had planned to do something similar to that, which disappeared into thin air in the planning phase. And now, even if I do it myself, he won’t be around to share with even the stories. This is not the right time to think such thoughts, I gently push Bill aside, I have to.

Michail, Sofia, Peter, and Raynard from left to right. Kids are happy in their den.

Michail doesn’t speak much English. In the heat of the political discussions, Sofia ends up doing some translation for me and Raynard. They are such a wonderful couple. Michail, purely Cretan in some ways, Sofia, purely American in others, and yet, they have found such a wonderful connection and created such a strong bond. They are clearly in love after so many years of being together. I admire and adore such couples, who manage to be understanding and caring enough to accept another the way they are and smart and creative enough to preserve and inject more excitement into a relationship over the years. Bringing the shared to the forefront and celebrating the differences, must be the key, I feel.

When I tell them I will go to Chania the following day on my own, they both give me a sour face, not feeling comfortable with my declaration of independence. Sofia is American enough and must have figured me out by now, accepts respectfully. I know how difficult it must feel for them. Guest is an “emanet” from “God” in these parts, like a deposit left into a safe, left into your care to be safe, happy, well cared for. What if something happens to me, they would never forgive themselves. I remember with a smile the trick Teresa, my collaborator in Portugal on child abuse prevention work had played on me. When I wanted to go to the Geres national Park couple of hours north of O Porto, during the couple of days in between two teaching sessions I was responsible for, she had uttered the clearest “No” I had heard in my life. Moreover, she had put an additional teaching session for me on one of my free days to prevent my free spirit to take over! Just in case... I love the women I work with, their tricks, their passions, their matriarchal attitudes, but mostly, the caring and loving female bird in each of them.

Sofia in her office

             Teresa from Portugal in Amsterdam














Sofia and Michail allow me pursue my plan if only I accept to return to their Rethymnon apartment to have dinner together. I submit. When I go to Agora in Chania, I will almost lose my mind finding the exact same fish I am used to eating in Turkey and crave for when I am in Iowa City. Portion size fish that is served with head and all. Even the names are the same; “chipura”, “levrekaki”, etc. I call Michail, Sofia is still in school, Peter is teaching an extra class to her Psychology students. We communicate in Greek. I tell him "I am bringing Chipura for dinner so that Sofia doesn’t bother cooking anything, but do you know what I need to go with it?" Yes you guessed it right, he knew the answer, too. Horta, lots of horta. Michail cracks up, he reassures me horta will be ready when I get there. I can now start my trip back to Rethymnon. 

Indeed, when I get to their apartment, Sofia is sorting horta and boiling water. As we deal with dinner preparations, Michail starts to play an authentic Greek singer’s CD. Deep base voice, even when I don’t understand the lyrics, gives me goose bumps. Michail is translating in the background. He is lost in his state of gratification for being of this land that produced this man of courage, talent, and spirit. I can feel MIchail can never leave Crete, Sofia is right. He is so full of Crete, he IS Crete. At the end of a spectacularly delicious dinner, Michail prepares a surprise gift bag for me with the CD we listened to, a jar of sea salt, and a jar of thyme he prepared. When we are lost in one of the warmest hugs I've received for a long time, Sofia is all but a smile at the doorway.

I know these people will be my friends forever. Who says, one can’t make good friends after a certain age? As long as one believes love is the only thing that grows bigger as it is shared, I think one may continue making as precious friends as those of teenage years. My friends “orchard” is full of examples of that. I know deep in my heart that Sofia and Michail will become two exquisite members of my orchard.

With that peace in my heart, I feel comfortable asking the burning question I have been postponing all evening long. “Will you tell me about your conversation with Lenea?” Her eyes sparkle. “Ah, yes.” She tells me, she told Lenea how sorry I was that we couldn’t accommodate Lenea to come along with us to Chania. She asked Lenea if Sofia could help her in any way. Dear Lenea told her I shouldn’t worry and in fact she was thankful to me. Thankful? I didn’t do a thing, I couldn’t even deliver the citrus she gave me to deliver to her daughter. I almost feel like a thief. What is it that she is thankful for? Sofia catches the questioning expression on my face. A caring expression is on her face, in return.

“Lenea told me, she had to do this for a long time, she just couldn’t. The time you spent with her helped her make the decision. The morning after your visit, she actually took the bus and went to Chania and found her daughter. All is well. And she thanked you for helping her make the decision my dear.” My goodness, I almost feel dizzy. I can feel the good in the universe one more time. When I feel a strong urge toward something, it always turns out to be wehre “Good” is and it has always taken me to a heaven like place in the universe. I feel I am there one more time. Lenea and her daughter are happy and together. Lenea will be able to take her citrus to her daughter anytime she feels like it. This is good, life is good, in fact, life is incredibly beautiful.

I can now leave in peace and head home in Turkey to tell my stories about Crete, but more so about Bill. I need people to help me with the early phase of my grieving now.

LENEA AND CRETE -13-

XIII

The next day is like a dream. Peter happens to be in town early in the morning for banking. He picks me up after I have done my shopping at the local farmer's market, even for this small town, its farmer's market is bigger than anywhere I saw in the USA. I stop at one of the horta sellers and buy two big bags of horta for our evening feast at Sofia's weekend house.

 Cretan horta seller is happy to pose for me.


Peter and I now head toward his village, half way between the Aegean, north of Crete and the Libyan Sea, south of it. I didn’t know Crete was only 70 miles from Africa, the closest mainland to it. No wonder, Ottomans ruled it via their governor in Egypt not through Istanbul. We stop at a gas station. Peter starts chatting with a woman he knows. It turns out she was appalled that I wasn’t Christian. Peter tells me later that there are so many people living in inland Crete that hasn’t traveled more than 40-50 km of where they were born. I recall an old man from Waterford, Wisconsin, where I had lived for a year as an exchange student during high school. I was barely16 then, he probably in his 80s. I was appalled when I had heard that he had not traveled more than 12 miles of Waterford in his entire life. Farthest he had done must have been Burlington, WI, then. Who knows if this woman was one of those.

Peter cracks up when she is clearly expressing something that is totally beyond her belief. Apparently, she encouraged him to convert me to Christianity! I bet she’d be even more appalled to find out that I improved the concept of God by interjecting another  “o” into it, that good is the only thing I worshiped for 40 some years. We certainly didn’t discuss any of that, we just smiled at each other and left it at that. Once we are at a safe distance from her, Peter shares with me the discussion that took place, we crack up together this time till stopping at an exceptional woman’s house, who opened her house to Peter and his family way back when he was trying to get established in the house he bought in the village we are heading to.

Peter's surrogate mother on Crete

She reminds me quite a bit of my grandmother with her politeness, her grace, and her hospitality. She opens her house to Peter’s guest with a big smile, just as she did to Peter and his family. She rushes to serve her guests the best thing she has available a dessert she had made earlier in the morning. She opens her heart to me by telling me all about her family’s history alongside a warm fire in the hearth, just as warm as her own heart. She shares with us the local newspaper clip on a story on the symposium we were part of just the day before. She is so proud of Peter, who is in the middle of a big picture of the panel. I can see the motherly caring she displays for Peter. How sweet.

We leave with pleasant feelings and warm hugs to meet the boys and Raynard. I am introduced to their pleasant neighbors, who have been doing everything they could to make them all feel happy and welcomed in the village. They apparently long lost their hopes that they could match one of the village girls to Peter. They built trust over time that these two wonderful men were competent enough to change the kids’ diapers. They clearly all adore this lovely family parallel to my feelings for them.

After drinking a few cups of coffee, one at each house we stopped by (to refuse the offer is a no, no, of course, I will have to deal with my sinus tachycardia in a bit), we are now all aboard their car heading south on Crete. I am in the middle of the back between the two boys in their car seats. Although it would be politically incorrect in American culture, with my half Turkish mindset, I can’t help but adoring them as “my caramels”. How lovely creatures they both are. So smart, so sweet, so mellow. I am trying to divide my attention equally between the two. I will have a hard time believing how we will spend hours in that car and these two exceptional kids will never become a problem. We will talk, sing, play, read, we clear out loud will have fun throughout that afternoon. Peter stops the car at a very interesting place on the road. The road seems to be carved at least 100 feet into the depth of a canyon. Sheer cliffs are rising right off the roadside to come almost to a touch at the top, creating a feeling of driving through a tunnel. We go to a monastery close to the southern shore. We drink a cup of the healing water running freely in the yard out of a fountain. We listen to the soothing music of the monks clearly at a mass behind closed doors.
  

Finally we reach the pristine, blue-flag quality waters of the Mediterranean. We climb over the ragged, sharp, sheer rocks of the volcanic beach. Boys are thrilled although it is getting chilly. Peter and I, with the unforgiving in-love-with-the-Aegean in each of us lose ourselves in the serene beauty of the Libyan Sea and the approaching sunset. I have been admiring Raynard with his patience with the boys for some time now. My admiration tops with his patience with us Aegeans, when Raynard-the-saint collects his boys and loads them into the car patiently waiting for our ritual to be completed. Thank you Dear Raynard. Finally we are done, have peacefully sent the Sun to its sleep, we savored the millions of shades of pink, red, orange, yellow, even brown intermingled into a spectacular frame I will carry with me in my mind for a long time. We are now ready to head to Sofia’s house to enjoy a phenomenal thanksgiving dinner.

What a pleasant home: Authentic Greek limestone on the outside as it was originally built couple hundred years ago; renovated to Sofia’s taste with Michail’s architectural talent, a warm, spacious house, combination of modern and tradition. For some reason, I have always been attracted to that combination. Progress, modern, new, change are things I always appreciated and needed in my life, but by holding onto what was proven to be good, ethical, sensible, and esthetic in the traditional. I found that in Sofia and Michail, and I found that in their house, too. They greet us as warmly as one could expect. We are a happy bunch all together. Boys designate the tiny, low ceiling den under the staircase, their home and playground. Michail is happy to show us around.

As soon as the tour is over, I start sorting my horta when Sofia is boiling water for it. Lenea is at the tip of my tongue. When should I ask her? Is it appropriate to discuss it now when there is a crowd. Clearly, Sofia will want to divide her attention between me and Peter’s family. Given the fact that all of us are meeting Michail for the first time, it is important to get to know him and generate a smooth atmosphere for everybody. I am rinsing the horta, it needs to be rinsed several times until the dirt that comes along with the roots is drained fully. Sofia calls everybody to the table. As soon as the horta is steamed in five minutes or so, dinner will be ready. Just as I drop all the horta into the huge pot Sofia prepared for me, she declares “I called Lenea today.” With a smile on her face and turns around to move into the dining room to assign seats to everybody around the elegant table she set for us.

LENEA AND CRETE -12-

XII

I go to bed with a slight discomfort in my heart regarding Lenea. We couldn’t do anything for her today, but I still hope to be able to connect with her tomorrow. Tomorrow is our teaching day. Peter and I will be co-instructing at a symposium to trigger interest on systems building to respond to child abuse and neglect in a rehabilitative manner and with an interagency/interdisciplinary collaborative approach. This is so important for both Peter and I. Peter belongs to these lands, period. He will be thrilled to make a difference if he can. As for me, I feel a similar connection, the reasons for which will take more than this one week of visit to Crete to unfold. As a result of this strong perceived connection, I will declare to the audience tomorrow “I have a feeling I am a daughter of your land although I spent only a week here but more than five decades on other lands.” I will be pleasantly surprised with my ease of uttering these words and how natural it will feel at the spur of the moment. I fall asleep thinking of Lenea and wake up thinking of her in the morning. I must ask Sofia this afternoon after the symposium about calling Lenea.  I am sure she will be understanding and responsive.

Peter during his presentation

The training is over. All went well. We connected with our audience perfectly well. After all is said and done, I think back one more time how it all started. I am at the podium after a sweet introduction my, now, dear friend Sofia did. My anxiety about how the audience would accept me disappears as soon as I declare I feel like a daughter of this land. I show them on the map the migration of my Cretan grandparents to two different locations on the Aegean coast in Turkey at the turn of the 20^th century, 1913 to be exact. I manage to summarize all this in Greek, rather, Cretan, too. I can tell from the expressions on people’s faces, the way their faces light up, and the numerous nods, they all know what I am talking about. Discussions are vivid, everybody understands what strengths they have, what improvements they would like to see happen in their child protection related work. Sofia is happy with the outcome, so are we, Peter and I. It is about time to go to dinner. Sofia is gathering all the presenters, Peter and I, Peter’s family, the guest speakers from Athens to go to Stefano’s place. I am delighted, I will savor one more time his unique and exceptional horta and I know the discussions and cross-learning will continue throughout the dinner, and that is exactly what happens.

Stefano, standing at the head of the table attending to his guests

The dinner goes very well. I love spending time with Peter’s family, especially his children, 3 and 5 year-old lovely boys. So well raised, lively, playful, social, but also extremely well-behaved. They are poster kids for how well gay parents can raise their children. Again they become the mascots of our group. Stefano pays special attention to their needs, how sweet. There is more political discussions around the table, more than the professional one I was expecting. Everybody is worried about Greece’s economic future due to the crisis in euro zone. More informative discussions will take place however, the day after on thanksgiving day at Sofia and Michail’s summer/weekend home in a village close to Rethymnon. They will tell us how the EU killed Geece’s productivity by subsidizing farmers to NOT produce so that the big bankers in Berlin, Paris, London could keep prices under their control to make the highest profits. Eventually, they believe, Greeks became non-productive, relying on credit cards, drowning in personal debts just like the country is in national debt.

How sad, I feel like I’ve seen this movie before. I remember our visit to Ireland at the beginning of 2002. Bill, my partner was writing his book “Ireland Now” focusing on how globalization has been effecting Ireland both economically and culturally. I had heard of the same subsidies story there for the first time, which was crumbling Irish farming to nothing. Family farms were being decimated to nothing when big farming corporates were emerging. And of course, Bill’s deep interest on how Irish culture was changing under global invasion of the country through both economic assault and touristic one was the highlight of our trip. How much I learned from you Bill, for 8 wonderful years. I can’t help slipping back to the grief that I am trying to keep under control at least until I leave Crete, until I am done with my professional responsibilities. It is getting more and more difficult each day. The nights are difficult. I know the days will become more difficult, too, until I find more peace over time. For the time being, I still need to gently push aside my thoughts and feelings about Bill and be part of the audience to make this entire effort a big success for Sofia.

At the end of the dinner, Peter invites me to spend the next day with his family to visit his 300 hundred year-old Venetian house and travel south with them to the Libyan Sea. I accept delightedly. Being with kids is always so rewarding. Their innocence is balm to any ache. I know, I will spend a wonderful day full of warmth and love. I need human contact as much as possible at this point. I know I will have a lot of time to be all by myself to face what is lost and to grieve as much as I need to.  The thanksgiving dinner we will have at Michail and Sofia’s weekend house, in the evening will be another bonus. And I am looking forward to meeting Michail, finally, the man who kept Sofia’s attention on himself for several decades now, must be a unique person, too.

I plan to take one of the citrus bags Lenea gave me to take to her daughter to Peter’s kids and the other to Sofia’s house. I also promise Sofia, I will buy horta at the farmer’s market and fix it the way Stefano served us at her house. I will sort the horta (bad from good) during our car ride throughout the day. So natural for Cretans, although foreign to an American woman, even for a native Turkish woman. Peter will appreciate it and Raynard will understand and smile with affection. Some kind of an ache is still in my chest, though. I was supposed to take the citrus to Lenea’s daughter. I must talk to Sofia about calling Lenea. And I do, just before departing. Sofia promises me she will call Lenea first thing in the morning now that the symposium is over. My heart is much lighter now. I can sleep more comfortably, if I can.

I will try, after talking to Bill for a long time. I will continue asking myself the “what if?”s as I have been doing for a full week now, with no clear answers. Could I have done anything differently to change the trajectory of his life, of our friendship? What could I have done? My mind is so full and so empty at the same time. When it comes to questions millions are dancing in a heart beat. When it comes to answers, none moves a finger. I know I will fall asleep with tears one more night, which is totally OK. I submit myself to pain at this point knowing that there is no way around it. The pain eventually will bring the peace I need. Bill will be more of a part of me then. Till then, I have to be patient with myself.

LENEA AND CRETE -11-

XI

I don’t know, yet that I will have several similar encounters during my solo visit to Chania on a day Sofia will have to teach all day. That Thursday, I will walk into a square with an old orthodox church... My Lonely Planet book doesn’t have much information on it. I want to use it as an opportunity to talk to locals, anyway. Here is a small coffee-shop that looks just like the shops in remote Turkish villages. The difference is that the latter would be exclusively for men. This one, on the other hand, has two men and a woman in it. This small difference between being a Turk and a Cretan, I grew up with and felt all my life. Women were allowed in all circles and activities of men in Cretan culture even in Turkey, which startled and mesmerized the local Turkish women at least in neighborhoods we lived in.

                       The Orthodox Church in Chania

It must be okey for me to join the group. I enter the coffee shop with a “Kali mera.” They respond with the same. One of the men and the woman clearly look like working class people. They are more reserved in greeting me compared to the other man, who has a hippyish air to him. I ask if I can have a cup of Greek coffee before I sit down to make sure I am welcomed as a female customer. They all greet me enthusiastically and show me a seat at the table the two men are sitting at. I lower my pleasantly tired body from all day’s walking into the simple wooden chair with no armrests, how familiar. All rustic cafes and coffee shops, even some water-front restaurants use this very kind of wooden chair around The Water. The woman gets up to make my coffee, apparently she is the server. Something you’d never see in a Turkish all-men coffee shop.

I introduce myself and ask their names before I ask about the church. The hippyish one is Petros and the more modest one is Dimitro. Our server is Elena. Petros responds in great detail to my question about the church, he seems to be the more educated and knowledgeable one of the three. His relatively longer hair, beard and mustache distinguish him from the rest of my audience. Dimitro and Elena submit to his knowledge. I am pleased with all that I learned. My coffee now has arrived, made exactly the way I like it. I smile to her with “Efharisto poli.” She responds with a warm innocent smile. I appreciate the power of a smile one more time. I wonder if we should force warmongers and stagers of war to smile more to their perceived enemies. I wonder if they could still massacre millions all that easily. I know what a utopia it is, still I can’t help wondering.  

Light tower in Chania

It is their turn to learn about me now. Petros finally asks me what brings me to Crete. I tell them my story. They all listen to me attentively, never fails. The more I tell, the bigger the shy smile grows on the face of pleasant Dimitro. He is tall, sturdy with dark hair, dark and slightly wrinkled skin from the unforgiving Cretan sun who knows how long has been beating up on his skin; hard to guess his age. When I am done, he utters “My grandparents came from Cesme”. No wonder his face has been lighting up as I was talking about Izmir. It is now my turn to spread a big smile across my face. Cesme is almost a suburb of Izmir, a fishing village of the earlier last century, now a summer paradise for Izmirites, right on The Water. “Aliphia?” flows all too naturally through my lips and my hand reaches out to his arm. Really, indeed, really? Am I going to bump into anybody who hasn’t moved here from Turkey, who doesn’t have somebody in their family who hasn’t been a victim of Catastrophie?

                                       Non-functioning mosque in Chania

He tells me he would like to go to Cesme and find his family house. I do, too, Dimitro, I also would like to find my families’ homes. Hope one day I will, hope one day you will. We chat a bit more until it is almost time to leave. I ask the young woman how much my coffee costs. She looks toward Dimitro and says with a smile “It is paid.” Dimitro has a sheepish smile on his face, too. It is not hard to tell my fellow Izmirite from Cesme paid for my coffee, a sweet tradition around The Water. My heart is full of affection, I get up, take the step toward him and give him a warm hug. He is so big, even in his seat he is as tall as I am standing next to him. I know he is caught off guard, somewhat embarrassed, but I have to share my heart with him at this point. He sees what is in it, he responds to mine with as warm a hug, to my pleasant surprise, despite his shyness. The Turk, whose roots are in Crete and the Greek, whose roots are in Cesme are now one world citizen in that warm hug. When we untangle, the other two also have a big smile on their faces. I can tell they also witnessed a story they will tell many people in the next week or two at least if not remember all their lives just as I will.

Maria, the jeweler, hands out one of their business cards to me, I give her one of mine. After warm goodbyes with hugs, Sofia and I are out on the market street again. The lovely, small, personable stores line the narrow back allies and streets of  Chania. They don’t scream at us, which I appreciate greatly. We vist several more of them as I fish for authentic nick-nacks for my daughter and friends back in Iowa City. Eventually, the time comes that we need to head back home. We will meet two lawyers from Athens tonight and will go out to dinner together. I am looking forward to that. We haven’t done anything about Lenea all day. That guilt and feeling of helplessness. I keep trying to calm myself down that less may be more at this moment and patience may be win win for all involved. With these thoughts we head back to Rethymnon and have a great night at yet another authentic Cretan restaurant, although I must say Stefano’s food was overwhelmingly superior to this man’s food. I still savor my horta!

Olga and her friend are two lawyers, who work in the field of child protection. Two other phenomenal women, who do wonderful good work. I don’t want to be sexist, but sometimes I can’t help but notice one thing: Almost 90% of child protection related professionals are women and almost all of war makers, especially decision makers of wars are males. Why is there this disconnect? When and how did mankind hand in the game of war-making to men? When and how did caring and doing good become “commodities” at least some men looked down on? Will such women eventually be able to raise sensitive and sensible enough men in critical numbers so that mankind with its men can reclaim its caring about the wellbeing of all humanity not only the rich and the healthy and the strong?

Politics land in the middle of our conversation very early as it is a must at a table with Turks and Greeks around. We have to pass beyond nationalism and explore whether everybody is on the same line of appreciating that we are of the same roots around The Water and if we eliminate nationalism we can make the lands around it paradise. We certainly do pass beyond that barrier, everybody around the table is a world citizen. We talk about Nazim Hikmet, Pablo Neruda’s contemporary and passion-sake. We talk about Zulfi Livaneli, a contemporary Turkish composer with progressive, liberal politics, an important cultural bridge between Turkish and Greek progressives. Olga recommends me a film co-produced by Turkish and Greek producers: “Politiki cuisina” in Greek, “Touch of spice” in English. Better, yet, she promises, she will drop off a copy of it at my hotel after the teaching we will do together tomorrow. When we finally depart, I am so full of hope, peace, and love for humanity. I want to believe globalization and those whose minds are full of nothing but profit will not be able to say the last word, but the good citizens of the world will.