drinking surj and eating cakes-in-an-orange (see end of this post) with brent's coworkers

In Armenia, whenever you go to a person’s house, you are immediately welcomed with house shoes (people don’t wear shoes inside, but have house shoes or slippers for themselves and their guests) and much talk about the cold outside (Armenians have a deeply-rooted fear of catching cold, mursum, which is the same word used as “to be cold” in Armenian; especially older Armenian women fear for your health if you are at all cold.  If you are a woman and you sit on a cold surface, an old wives’ tale says that your ovaries will freeze and you will be unable to bear children.  Bottom line: Armenians are serious about keeping warm).

Anyway, after you’ve been wrapped in blankets and given slippers for your feet, your host will bring you a small cup of surj (Armenian coffee) and possibly sunflower seeds or bread and cheese or little sweets like chocolates or cookies or a grape walnut mixture that is pressed together on a wire into a sort of sweet, chewy rope.  In the states, I’d only heard of Turkish coffee (and to a lesser extent, Greek coffee and Lebanese coffee); I’d never tried or even heard of Armenian coffee.   It turns out, Armenian coffee is similar to Turkish coffee (but definitely don’t say that around an Armenian or a Turk), but in my experience, I preferred the Armenian coffee to Turkish coffee.  Tea was a much bigger deal than coffee in Turkey, but we’ll talk about that in a minute.  Right now, it’s all about the Armenian coffee.  Whenever I saw any of the ladies approaching me with a tiny cup full of the dark, creamy stuff, I felt an inner warmth that would drive away any fear of mursum.  This happiness and anticipation was, I think, as much due to the sweet flavor as it was to the welcome and acceptance that it seemed to symbolize.

my first cup of surj

My first night in Stepanavan I went straight from the marshutka (basically a 15-passenger van that, with the addition of stools and sliding bars and cushions, can accommodate up to 20 or more tightly packed Armenians traveling from village to village) to a birthday party for my friend’s colleagues.  We ate khoravats, drank vodka, and danced for hours.  Even though I didn’t speak a word of Armenian except for apres, I felt completely embraced by the group who taught me how to dance like an Armenian and even made a toast or two in my honor (ok, so Armenians only take a drink when making a toast, so they toast to everything, but, still I felt special).

So, right off the bat, I felt at home; but, I was a bit afraid that after the dancing ended, perhaps so would that feeling.  Sure, I could feel at home with alcohol and music, but what would happen when it ended?  What would happen when I couldn’t hide behind clapping or mini leg kicks done with the group in a quick-moving circle?  Thankfully, Armenians are prepared for such times as these, and they allow surj to take center stage.  It didn’t matter that I couldn’t carry a conversation, that Alvart teased me (in a loving way) by imitating my very American, “Thank yoouu soooooo much!”  At first I might have felt out of place, even stupid for not being able to speak Armenian, or at least Russian.  More than once I almost said something in Spanish because it’s the closest thing I have to a second language; thankfully I caught myself before I got past “gracias.”  But before I could feel too ignorant–too anxious, Alvart would rush over to me, setting a cup of surj in front of me, her blue eyes twinkling and her soft face letting me know that I was alright.  I hope friends and strangers always feel as welcome in my home as I felt in Armenia.

PART TWO: KICKING BACK WITH TURKISH ÇAY

a typical turkish tea. (not my picture; somehow i managed not to capure an image of this tea, although i had it multiple times a day. i did, however, see this same plate design numerous times in turkey)

My first morning in Turkey was a bit of a whirlwind.  The day before we arrived, there had been a suicide bombing in Istanbul; I knew Istanbul was a big city, and that the likelihood of anything happening to me was very small, but Brent and I had stayed up late the night before, freaking ourselves out by listening to the creaking, knocking sounds of pipes and vents in the house where we were staying in Tbilisi.  So, on very little sleep, little food, and feeling more than a little sick (apparently Armenians aren’t completely wrong about mursum-ing), I found myself alone in the Izmir airport.

Brent and I had been waiting for our pack at baggage claim, but one of us had to go and pick it up from the other terminal (long story).  Brent went outside baggage claim to meet our friend Sarah so she wouldn’t worry, and I boarded a bus to take me to the other terminal.  Of course there wasn’t another bus back to the domestic terminal.  So, I put on Brent’s heavy pack (my stuff was in there too), and began walking.  I got back to the domestic terminal, but Brent and Sarah weren’t where I’d left them.  I sort of panicked.  I didn’t have a cell phone, although both of them did, but I didn’t even have their cell phone numbers written down in my bag (very stupid of me, I know.  they were written in notebook that I’d apparently left in Armenia).  I’d finally learned a few words of Armenian, but again I found myself not knowing a word of the Turkish language.  After throwing the pack down, ripping off my sweater (it was pretty warm in Turkey, and I’d worked up a sweat walking), accidentally flashing a group of Turkish men by hastily removing said sweater, I wanted to cry.  All I could do was wait.  Or walk around.  I did both, and still no sign of Sarah or Brent.

Finally an airport attendant saw that I was obviously in need of help, so he took me out to the parking garage (I was a little nervous, but I felt like I had no other choice); he spoke some English and was able to understand that I couldn’t find my friends.  I wrote their names down for him on the back of my boarding pass and he called on a staff phone to make an announcement for my friends to meet me there.  About 30 minutes later, we’d found each other and were on the subway, heading toward Bornova.

When we finally got to our stop, we walked around until we found a place to eat.  We passed by several outdoor cafés and the first thing I noticed was that everyone was drinking tea out of these curious (clear glass, handleless) glasses.  Groups of 60-year-old men playing backgammon, students between classes, shop owners sitting outside their stores on low stools with an old crate as a table, women in their 20’s in skinny jeans and leather boots and over-sized jackets with fur trim.  It didn’t matter who you were, you were drinking çay.  Of course after our lunch, our waiter brought us çay.  In fact, I think we had çay after almost every meal in Turkey.  Since Sarah’s boyfriend Osman is from Bulgaria and she is from Texas (like me), they haven’t yet been completely indoctrinated by the world of çay; but, already Sarah is becoming a major proponent of elma çayi (apple tea), although Osman still prefers Nescafé.

osman with nescafé, sarah still waiting for elma çayi

At first, I didn’t get çay.  I mean, honestly, a lot of places, it didn’t seem very good tasting; there were definitely some exceptions, but generally, I found it to be overwhelmingly tannic, even with the addition of a couple of sugar cubes.  Turkish people make tea in a way I’d never seen before, and they take great pride in it.  Our host in Istanbul, Ahmet, demonstrated it for us.  First, they brew an incredibly strong batch of tea; they keep this tea in a little pot on top of another pot of hot water, double-boiler style.  Whenever it is time to pour the tea, they pour a bit of the strong tea into your glass (1/4 to 1/2 the glass, depending on how strong you take your tea), and then fill it to the top with hot water.  In Armenia, they do a similar practice, calling the strong tea “the color.”  However, in Armenia, they reuse tea bags four or five times, or more, something that Ahmet, and any other good Turk, would never do (again, don’t compare Armenian tea to Turkish tea, unless you’re ready to do battle).   Ahmet was quite serious about his tea; in fact, he even got a little scary talking about how much tea means to him (it was the closest I’d seen him come to growing violent; in general, he seemed very peaceful).  His respect for tea has been passed down to him through his blood because of his ancestor’s connection with the lands where tea has been grown for generations.  Even his grandfather’s final wishes to be washed in tea several times before being buried reflect the importance of tea in their life.

It’s easy to see why tea has become so popular in Turkey, even replacing coffee as the drink  of choice, when you look at it from an historical and economical perspective.  However, what çay means to Turkish people today extends beyond its historical, economical, and religious significance.  Like I said, everyone drinks çay, after every meal (and I’m convinced some of those skinny girls were drinking it for their meal, with a cigarette or two for dessert).

Similar to surj, çay is a way of expressing hospitality.  But it’s also a way of relaxing, and enjoying each others’ company.  People in Turkey spend hours over a single cup of çay, talking and enjoying each others’ company (and sometimes, smoking the water pipe, which I don’t recommend doing if you’re still mursum-ing.  Trust me; don’t do it!  No matter what Ahmet says about it being good for your throat!)

Drinking çay in Ahmet’s apartment on a slow Sunday morning and drinking it after a delicious meal in Kad?köy: both were some of the most relaxing experiences I’ve had; for lack of a better word, “abiding.”  (thank you, Lebowski, for monopolizing my brain so that abide is really the only appropriate word I can think of to describe the situation).  Really, the Turkish people know how to do it.  For a work-obsessed person like me, it’s really nice to be able to kick back every once in a while and just enjoy being in the moment, drinking some tea with people I care about.

BONUS:  CAKES-IN-AN-ORANGE

Living alone in a foreign country gives you a lot of free time, and, as my friend Brent put it, he’s become quite “cooky” (as in, he likes to cook).  I remember the days when fast food used to be his typical diet, and not that he wouldn’t enjoy a Bueno burrito every once in a while if he could, but he has certainly graduated to a higher level of eating, and cooking. (I love you, brent!)  So, when he saw this blog about “cakes-in-an-orange,” he wanted to try it out.  And what better time than on Halloween…in a county that doesn’t celebrate Halloween…but that made it a little more fun.  Since we didn’t have enough oranges, we cut them in half and used cupcake toppers for their “hats.” Super cute!

spooky!

Final Note:  I was recently reading my friend Nick Hester’s blog where he writes about teaching English in Korea, and his post Intelligence through Language reminded me a lot of lessons I learned in Armenia, regarding my own evaluation of others’ intelligence based on their ability to use language (which for me really means “speaking English”).  It was an enlightening experience, for sure, to be the minority and to feel like the uneducated one, especially since all of the Peace Corps volunteers there speak some degree of Armenian so Armenians were constantly asking Brent why I didn’t speak Armenian.  The same was true in Georgia (where I spent only 1 day in transit between Armenia and Turkey) and Turkey, where I found myself again and again in situations, completely unable to communicate.  Definitely “food for thought.” (Oh, God; I’m so cliché!)