Thursday, August 27, 2009

Assignment 3: Four Days In Bed With Istanbul

Flowering leaves rustle as Germany’s wind moves through them, shutting doors in my apartment, pushing flying things into my kitchen, and I know Berlin has come in for a drink. He must always make an entrance, waking me up with his hard thunder or distracting my work by ringing bells outside my window, he kisses me on the neck and says things like, just an hour, baby, and I always go with him. Yellow and white windows flash by my vision as he plays with my dress, holding my hand tightly, staring down any guy who glances our way. From Heinrich-Heine Straße, we’re off to Brandenberger Tor to flaunt to the new ones, still clutched to their cameras, holding their “Sonya was here!” faces tightly in place, how much Berlin and I know each other.



One weekend as the sun was beating down on Germany, Berlin and I met. I felt ashamed of what I was wearing: then dirty jeans I had been tiring for three days and a bright blue shirt I’ve had since sophomore year that comes tight right beneath my imperfect belly. My hair was in a sweaty ponytail and my make-up, untouched for eighteen hours, was almost nonexistent. I was hardly charming, but his hand still fell upon my cheek. Allo, we said to each other, upbeat and flirtatious, I was silly with this wonder before me, half German, half Turkish, staring his blue-green eyes into me and slightly pursing his rose-colored lips (lips like those on the boy I fell in love with in the fourth grade, when I first started to understand their sensual appeal) into a thick smile. We began holding hands, his arm found its way around my often tense shoulders, a sweat barrier between his soft skin and mine: the mark of a summer romance.

Morning dew draped over rust-colored bricks and old brown architecture gave us a romantic and classically European setting. Marshmallow storybook clouds framed a summer sun whose rays couldn’t split us apart. We would sit for hours talking about everything from nothing to something, agreeing or gaining understanding from our disagreements. We both tried, but sometimes found disappointment in our cultural misunderstandings. I sat at the table, shoulders drooping against the long rainbow dress I wore for our first big date, forcing myself into a more up-beat mood as I stared at the chicken enchiladas he made me knowing I was craving a taste of home. There they lay, two helpless tortilla cylinders with grilled chicken inside, a thick dollop of nacho cheese over them as sauce. Creamy guacamole, recognizable sour cream. White fucking rice. There is white rice on my Mexican dish. A trivial thing, I know, but from then I was soured by the concept of anything serious.

It of course was not just an aim and miss dinner which prevented me from falling in love, and I do not maintain that I was not deeply in like, for I was, however Berlin showed me slowly that he did not contain the particles of happiness I require for a heart to bubble between me and the man who’s kissing me. And he did kiss me. He kissed me the way every girl wants to be kissed: his hand in the small of my back and his body lightly touching mine; he kissed me like a gentleman. He brushed the hair away from my face as his lips fell into mine, pressing tightly, but politely, against me. I was occupied, but not entertained. Where was the sex?

Not once did Berlin trail his fingers into my hair and grasp them against my head, tugging my roots, giving me no control over my own mobility. He never dug his fingertips into my skin, pressing me against a wall I knew was too thin to fathom. He never handled me like a lover, or anyone he felt fervent about. I was his delicate interest, only to be stared at harshly. This was something that was challenged when I stumbled upon a hot Turkish delight: Istanbul.

Cloudless rich blue skies fell over us as we spread ourselves giddy about the streets. He dropped honey onto my tongue, sweet with its natural, playful kick, biting at my taste buds like lovers in Paris. My stomach actually hurt as I kissed him: it was jam-packed with a swarm of anxious butterflies, flittering at my nervous excitement. Alright, so maybe I did have a fling with Istanbul while I was—mind you, casually—dating Berlin, but for these three and a half days, I was more enthralled and caught up than I ever found myself with Berlin. I felt honored to be in the presence of such immense beauty. He was passionate, loving, caring… he smiled at everyone who passed him by. I laughed so hard so many times that my cheeks went numb. His sense of humor and overwhelming kindness swept me off my feet and his undeniable beauty had me at Merhaba. His charming old soul, his excitingly open nature, his color…he’s a smoker, but I was open to living with that. We were in love.

Istanbul and I shared four beautiful nights together filled with air-like laughter and ardent embraces. He would send the wind through me, hot with his craze, and play with my hair as he sat beside me. He never seemed to shame his past and his beliefs pointed out of him like minarets, interrupting the smooth lines of Turkey’s rolling hills. His family was endearing and loving, they smiled at me even when our eyes were not locked and greeted me with life-long warmness every time I entered their house.

“You’re beautiful,” he said to me after teasing by placing the cowboy hat he was playing with for a moment on my head. The cool breeze and his cool words refreshed me. This lighthearted, loving man humbled, housed, and comforted me—his hands and my hands intertwined with meaning (I feel Istanbul must give meaning to everyone. What he felt for me is not something miraculous or special, and I’m okay with that). The tight grasp between our fingers caused me to sweat and my heart to pound with honest provoked emotion. This doesn’t happen often.

One morning as the sun was slowly filling my room, Istanbul poured himself into bed with me. He tickled my toes then pulled my hands over my head, stretching me, as if to command me into an awaken state in which we might play like we had the day before when we walked for two hours, up solid slopes, without getting tired. We were supporting each others bodies, not letting the cobblestones slip from underneath us, three mile-high hills in one day, feeling a sensual breathlessness smoothed over by a glistening August sweat, finding each others hands, laughing pathetically and falling into our lover’s support. But this morning would not be like the others when I greeted him with an anxious smile and he stuck his finger into the creases in my cheeks, gripping my hips and pulling me into him. This morning, I would not take my time tasting him, gazing into his Bosporus-blue eyes, searching like the rest of his friends for something to pull out (as I already had so much), and feeling his blustery hands around my body. This morning was bitter, but Istanbul let me go with ease, as I was the one shamefully kicking and screaming at the sight of our gradual departure.

He stayed there and waited, gleaming however not waving: he only smiled and sent me romantic thoughts. As I got further away from him, I contemplated his complexity. I thought about his blue skies and busy body, how he was always going somewhere, had a job or a purpose, but never seemed rushed. Istanbul always had time to slow down, which he often took, looking out for the playing children around him for he was very much a child himself. I thought about how I amazed him with my TeşeKurler and how though he did not bring me the tastes of home (this may be an unattainable thing), he showed me the jam-packed real estate, one home smashed right up against another, sharing walls but not apartments, scaling up the hills of this coastal gem like the stairs of San Francisco. I thought about how Istanbul brought me seagulls, a gift I find in every man I live with save for Berlin, and my instability was ignited when I considered if these somewhat sordid birds are what I need to feel alive in my residual content.

Back to Berlin I went, falling into his gentle arms, greeting him with a kiss and understanding even more the difference between the two lovers. As he kissed my cheek and brushed my hair up toward him like my mother still does, quiet and calm, I felt emotions I was not expecting to experience after spending four days in bed with Istanbul. I decided not to tell him about my weekend in detail—my adventures were accented with the words beautiful, interesting, amazing, and incredible. I kept it broad, but positive. He and I went to a movie that night in Kreuzberg and as we sat wordless outside waiting for the kino to free, I felt bothered by my negative thoughts about him in my time with Istanbul. Regretting my actions would be dishonest; I’d go back to Istanbul without blinking if the chance presented itself but for now I was with Berlin and into the grooves I suddenly fit, cozy and comfortable. Poor but sexy.

I spent that night after our date sitting in the chair in the corner of my black-and-white apartment, a silly pit in my stomach and heaviness on my chest as I struggled to define my relationship with Berlin. This unexpected attractiveness he had in my head made my thoughts of Istanbul become tangled and rigid, they almost pricked the sides of my brain as they bounced around in there. Comparisons, comparisons. No choices. I was not taking sides. Tonight Berlin had comforted me against the intensity of my time away from him. I felt in the soft, cushioned by his familiar embrace. As the movie flashed before us, Berlin surrounded me with Gernglish and honesty. He accented me with smiles and kisses, communication and understanding. Where was this before?

Boredom in an all too safe situation drove me into a wild and high-paced infatuation from which I was forced to leave, however upon returning to what was once boring I found that it was now appealing and therefore thrilling. He had taught me things, Istanbul did, or rather he had let me learn from the things he had to show me. Berlin hadn’t done that… or maybe I hadn’t let him. Maybe I hadn’t let his collection of sounds and tastes exist thoroughly in my time with him. Maybe I hadn’t been open to his undeniable intricacy or his profound diversity. I hadn’t made myself open to being his. This was the problem.

Night two back with Berlin, I let him feel free with me. I taught him, indirectly of course, how Istanbul had made me feel. How he had trailed his fingers softly down my neck, how he teased me just to keep me vigilant, and how he would make me feel like I was the first he’d ever had this type of connection with, even though his playboy demeanor made me know otherwise. Berlin made himself open to looking at things differently. He couldn’t ever be Istanbul, but our time together dictated something more profound. We suddenly knew how to please each other. We knew how to make each other feel significantly uncomfortable: a fun game we liked to play. We were artists in and of ourselves. We were dancers. We were comedians.

Pastel clouds framed a dazzling day-time star, moving around this planet filled with charming men as Berlin threw a kiss goodbye into my balcony. Sexy sun, draped with kisses and golden smiles, floated away west and out of this fourth-story apartment. I sat and watched it set with a bubbling in my body, feeling light and tactile, wrapped in his arms even after the end of our date. Deep in like, I didn’t think about Istanbul until I fell asleep and dreamed of his songs and clarity. I thanked him in my unconsciousness for the wisdom he was giving enough to share with me and for the four impassioned days he gave to me.



I am ready to part with Berlin and I have made my peace with the time we lost in our first two weeks unknowingly not knowing each other. Closing my eyes, I can feel Istanbul’s rough hands gripping my waist as he steers me and hear his handsome voice telling me, almost too believably, everything I wish to hear. I can feel the arms of both men wrap around me in my memory: one has his around my stomach and one drapes his arms over my shoulders and I feel comfortable with both. It’s good to know I have these places I can return to in my mind where I can be with both Istanbul and Berlin, and that I can find solace in not having a reigning preference (if maybe just a momentary lapse?). And when I return home, friends will want to hear everything. I will tell them about the wind and the cobblestones and the sunset. I will tell them about how much I learned from each of them but that stepping away from Berlin to be with Istanbul, though maybe not the most moral of decisions, was the smartest choice. They will pine over the details and ask me if I will keep in touch and I will say no, nein, yo. The contact I have is in my head and in these words and there (and here) it will remain.

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