I practiced all morning.
"Dekonjestan var mi?" Do you have decongestant?
"C vitamini lütfen." Vitamin C, please.
It was hot in my little bedroom. My clunky electric heater, which looked like it belonged on top of the cage of a very large iguana, rattled and buzzed on any setting except HIGH. But outside the toasty confines of my rented room the apartment was chilly.
I piled on a scarf, hat, and wool coat. The pharmacy was only a few blocks away, but I wasn't giving my body any excuses to not get better fast.
I stepped out of my slippers and sat on the cool marble threshold to tie my shoes. "My first weekend in Turkey, and I spend it hacking up a lung," I thought. I trudged down the stairs, my head pounding with every step.
Outside the dark, damp stairwell the street was buzzing with activity. I had to remind myself that while my volunteer gig helping Turkish students work and travel in America ran Tuesday – Saturday, it was in fact, a weekday for the rest of the world.
It must have been the lunch-hour because children from the elementary school next door flooded the street. A crop of curly-haired girls with crooked hair bows linked arms as they skipped past, their plaid uniform skirts flapping against their little legs.
There were mandarin stands everywhere. One man sold them from the open trunk of his boxy, early 80's hatchback. Another, not 10 yards away, displayed his fare on a pushcart. His face was worn, dark and wrinkled, but kind eyes sparkled from under his wool cap. A handwritten sign promised sweetness, at just 1.50 TL a kilo.
I hardly recognized the sad corner bakery where I'd bought a stale attempt for a chocolate chip cookie the night before. I'd passed it every evening for a week, walking back from the bus stop from work and never seen a patron. But today, it was bustling with life. A little boy, about 4, clutching a half-eaten gevrek (Turkish bagel, known as simit outside of Izmir) in his chubby fist, shrieked and giggled as he chased an older boy around the cane tables, which were set up in the street to claim a nonexistent patio.
Nearly every table was taken. Two stylish women in dark glasses sat across from each other, and next to them, an old woman in a headscarf and long black abaya — a visible reminder of the difference one generation can make. In front of each patron sat a tiny tulip-shaped glass of çay (tea). The glasses looked so delicate that I wondered how many the bakery replaced in a year.
When I reached the pharmacy, I took a deep breath, and pushed myself inside. It was dim and cool, and I was the only customer. A white-haired man sat on one side of the counter, but didn't look up. To his left, a younger woman with dark, bouncy Jackie O. hair — the kind you'd see on a box of hair dye — glanced up from her register. I stepped forward. My recitation paid off and not two minutes later I was back outside; a box of pseudoephedrine and a tube of effervescent Vitamin C richer. A smile teased the corners of my mouth. Success!
Across from the pharmacy a balding man with a dark mustache perched on a stool outside his tiny alimentarie, drinking çay from that ubiquitous tulip glass. I hesitated to disturb him, but he caught my eye and straightened up. A quick welcome of, "Hoş geldiniz," settled it. I bought a liter of orange juice — an amount that still looked to my American eyes as a large, but single serving — and could hardly contain my excitement when I spotted menthol-scented tissues, nestled between packets of powdered tomato soup and a lone, dusty jar of overpriced Nutella.
My bag now swinging heavily at my side, I turned back down my street. Back toward the school children and the mandarin salesmen. The fog that had delayed my flight a week before and lurked above Izmir since my arrival had finally broken, revealing a crisp blue sky. Although it was still January, the fierce Mediterranean sun warmed my back. I tucked my hat in my purse and loosened my scarf.
I felt better already.
"Dekonjestan var mi?" Do you have decongestant?
"C vitamini lütfen." Vitamin C, please.
It was hot in my little bedroom. My clunky electric heater, which looked like it belonged on top of the cage of a very large iguana, rattled and buzzed on any setting except HIGH. But outside the toasty confines of my rented room the apartment was chilly.
I piled on a scarf, hat, and wool coat. The pharmacy was only a few blocks away, but I wasn't giving my body any excuses to not get better fast.
I stepped out of my slippers and sat on the cool marble threshold to tie my shoes. "My first weekend in Turkey, and I spend it hacking up a lung," I thought. I trudged down the stairs, my head pounding with every step.
Outside the dark, damp stairwell the street was buzzing with activity. I had to remind myself that while my volunteer gig helping Turkish students work and travel in America ran Tuesday – Saturday, it was in fact, a weekday for the rest of the world.
It must have been the lunch-hour because children from the elementary school next door flooded the street. A crop of curly-haired girls with crooked hair bows linked arms as they skipped past, their plaid uniform skirts flapping against their little legs.
There were mandarin stands everywhere. One man sold them from the open trunk of his boxy, early 80's hatchback. Another, not 10 yards away, displayed his fare on a pushcart. His face was worn, dark and wrinkled, but kind eyes sparkled from under his wool cap. A handwritten sign promised sweetness, at just 1.50 TL a kilo.
I hardly recognized the sad corner bakery where I'd bought a stale attempt for a chocolate chip cookie the night before. I'd passed it every evening for a week, walking back from the bus stop from work and never seen a patron. But today, it was bustling with life. A little boy, about 4, clutching a half-eaten gevrek (Turkish bagel, known as simit outside of Izmir) in his chubby fist, shrieked and giggled as he chased an older boy around the cane tables, which were set up in the street to claim a nonexistent patio.
Nearly every table was taken. Two stylish women in dark glasses sat across from each other, and next to them, an old woman in a headscarf and long black abaya — a visible reminder of the difference one generation can make. In front of each patron sat a tiny tulip-shaped glass of çay (tea). The glasses looked so delicate that I wondered how many the bakery replaced in a year.
When I reached the pharmacy, I took a deep breath, and pushed myself inside. It was dim and cool, and I was the only customer. A white-haired man sat on one side of the counter, but didn't look up. To his left, a younger woman with dark, bouncy Jackie O. hair — the kind you'd see on a box of hair dye — glanced up from her register. I stepped forward. My recitation paid off and not two minutes later I was back outside; a box of pseudoephedrine and a tube of effervescent Vitamin C richer. A smile teased the corners of my mouth. Success!
Across from the pharmacy a balding man with a dark mustache perched on a stool outside his tiny alimentarie, drinking çay from that ubiquitous tulip glass. I hesitated to disturb him, but he caught my eye and straightened up. A quick welcome of, "Hoş geldiniz," settled it. I bought a liter of orange juice — an amount that still looked to my American eyes as a large, but single serving — and could hardly contain my excitement when I spotted menthol-scented tissues, nestled between packets of powdered tomato soup and a lone, dusty jar of overpriced Nutella.
My bag now swinging heavily at my side, I turned back down my street. Back toward the school children and the mandarin salesmen. The fog that had delayed my flight a week before and lurked above Izmir since my arrival had finally broken, revealing a crisp blue sky. Although it was still January, the fierce Mediterranean sun warmed my back. I tucked my hat in my purse and loosened my scarf.
I felt better already.