“Istanbul?” the caller had said...”What state is that in?”

 “Istanbul is in Turkey”, I answer. 

“That’s what I thought you said. Why on earth would you choose to live there?” 

I’ve heard this question so many times since I made a trip back to the USA in October that I’m on the defensive. Not because Turkey is our biggest and most loyal Middle Eastern ally, but “because it is a magical city and the people are the most inclusive, kind people I’ve met anywhere.”

“Whatever...I wouldn’t choose to live anywhere near a Muslim culture.” 

“Why not? Islam is a beautiful religion.” 

“It’s full of fanaticism and hate.” 

“No it’s not. Islam teaches love and kindness. What you are saying is what they say about us. Things like `Americans are Christians, and you know Christians...they kill in the name of God.’” 

“Have you ever read the Koran?” she asks...

“Parts.” 

“Well, it just spouts an eye for an eye …”

“The Bible says the same thing.”

“I prefer countries like France and the US with histories of humanism.” 

“Huh?” I say. “Americans slaughtered hundreds of thousands of Indians. Just months ago we stood by silently while Israel bombed a city to pieces. My daughter just returned from Cambodia where she saw armless and legless children thanks to the landmines we left behind, not to mention the thousands of Cambodians, Vietnamese and Thais we offed in the Vietnam War. Oh yeah, and what is it again that we’re doing in Iraq?” 

Side note: The fact that Turks are reputed by some to have slaughtered Armenians is the reason France gives for shutting Turkey out of the EU. But I ask, what country hasn’t had their dark moments of murder and mayhem? America? No. England? No. France? No...Not that this makes it right. I just don’t think we have the right to poke an accusing finger in Turkey’s chest.

Her words begin to tumble all over each other and to block mine, her ears effectively shutting out anything that might challenge her belief system.  And this, mind you, is in the American bastion of liberalism - Berkeley, California.

People are going to believe what they will regardless of evidence, and sometimes in spite of it. Americans “need” to believe that Islam is evil or we could not continue to live as we do under our present leaders. American culture is predicated on fear of the Other, on territorialism, isolation, nationalism - if there’s no enemy to hate, to fight, where will that leave us? No longer in God’s camp for one thing. So we gotta believe what we want to believe, or be forced to take a hard long look at ourselves. 

Can I say it one more time?

PULLLLLLEASE Americans. Open your hearts and your heads to what is happening OUTSIDE of the USA and EU. If all you know is what you’ve heard, and all you have heard comes from a Bush-regulated media, then you must Go There and See For Yourself. 

Whew that felt good.

“You talk like Turkey’s just next door,” she says.

“It’s a 13 hour flight. Just live there one month,” I say. “Then come back and tell me about how horrible They are. How We must arm ourselves to the teeth with nuclear weapons. How We are vastly superior to Them. If you accept my challenge to live among those you hate, you’ll learn that they are people just like you and me with families to feed and the need for love and respect. And in the same way that extremist Christians do not represent America, the fringe element of fanatic Islam do not represent the millions of loving, Koran-abiding Muslims.

No one has a right to judge anyplace they have not been. If you have not been there, seen with your own eyes, smelled with your own nose, heard with your own ears, then all you know and believe is based on hearsay of our government leaders and conservatives, who rule our country with fear and lies.

So why do I even bother writing about other countries if Americans’ ears are wide shut? Because I have to believe that knowledge changes minds and hearts, far slower than I’d like, but still, there is hope...

A couple other quick snapshots from my short foray to the USA. Political Activism I can’t tell you how politically active Berkeley is. It is their culture. Everyone in town talks about the horridness of this policy or that one. That politician and this one. Especially when it involves the environment. Talks, lectures, books, articles, marches….But hey guess what? They’re all still driving cars, drying their laundry in machines, living in big individual houses and I could go on. So, come on Berkeleyites. Practice what you preach and remember that change begins at home. OK, just one more before I go -  I made a decision a couple years ago to no longer date American men. I want to live abroad, and American men are inevitably anchored to the USA, emotionally and economically. (I speak from experience.) So why go there? I was back in the US to take care of some business before buzzing off again, when it occurred to me that I should be more proactive about finding a partner. I read about a new dating service called retiringsingles.com. It’s for singles who want to invest and/or live abroad. Brilliant. I’m sort of a moving target, so I figured that maybe the odds are better if I date another moving target. At the very least we’d have one thing in common - a desire to live abroad. That’s where I met “Bill” an American who wants to retire and live on a boat.  OK, so he was from the States, Florida no less, but he wanted to buy a boat and become a “Live Aboard”.  This was something I’d been seriously considering for some time.  “Bill” was the right age, had a almost-grown up child, loved to travel (although I learned later he hadn’t left the USA in 35 years...hardly what I’d call a traveler), and he had enough money to buy a boat and wanted to do it with a like-minded woman. Oh yeah, and he was cute in the photo he sent even if he was holding his teenaged daughter’s cheerleading pompoms.  Ah what story fodder! After all this time of searching the world for a country, was I going to find it in the oh-so-foreign land of Florida, America? Would I end up sailing off into the sunset with an American man in a portable home?  Admittedly there were a few red flags. The one that worried me most was the fact that he sounded so American. I could hear football game noise in the background every time we spoke. Now that’s a sound I haven’t heard in so long.  He seemed to watch a lot of TV. And then there was Black Monday after Thanksgiving Day when he proudly called me to tell me he’d scored a big screen television for only $1800! “What?” I’d said. “I thought you were going to sell everything and live on a boat.”  “It was such a good deal I couldn’t pass it up. Besides, we can use it on the boat.” Great, I was going to live on a boat with a big screen TV.  We were trying to decide on a place to meet in person. I suggested New York. He said, “I don’t like New York. New Yorkers are pushy.” Now, if you live in the Northern US you will recognize that statement for what it is. It’s about every rural person’s attitude about the big city. Especially New York. It’s the land of the accelerated and the unknown. This prejudice against New York is more pronounced in the South than elsewhere in the US.  Those good ole boys down south are still pissed off that the Yankees kicked their asses. And I’m not talking football. Well, you can imagine what they think about the Turks.

Images From Istanbul

I wrote off the fact that he arrived at the airport in sweats and tennis shoes and wore shorts and sandals at all other times, to his being from a warm, sporty climate.

After he returned to Florida we began to plan an onboard sailing course together. Learning to sail had been at the top of my wish list for years. Here it was, my chance to learn to sail AND who knew? Maybe I would sail off into the sunset with this guy. And at long last, I’d have an ending to my saga.

We had 6 weeks before we’d meet again, meaning a lot of time to talk. He talked about the $400,000 boat he wanted to buy. It seemed like an awful lot of money to me to put into a depreciating asset.

Sometimes I’d talk about the faraway places I dream of living someday and he’d say “What have you got against America anyway?” I’d tell him that it wasn’t about what I had against the US, as much as the fact that I’d already lived here for half my life, and wanted to try something new.” 

“Well, if not in the US, why not something closer?” he said. “How about Costa Rica?” 

“I don’t want to move to a country already full of Americans. I want to go somewhere that is for the most part still undiscovered.” I’m aware that undiscovered Paradises are rare in this day and age, but at the very least I wanted to be on the second wave of emigration to the next best place. “I want to live with people from all over the world,” I explained to him. “Not just more people like I left at home.” 

“You sound like an elitist,” he said. 

Who was this guy and would somebody please remind me of why I was I wasting my time with him? My uncle Phil said he sounded like a guy trying to score a first mate and a galley ho in one and get her to pay for the privilege. 

I considered calling the whole thing off 2 weeks before the course in Florida was due to start. But I decided to stick it out. I’d made a commitment. Besides what did I have to lose? The worse case scenario was that I was going to learn how to sail. If it worked out with Southern boy, well that would be the cherry on top. If it didn’t, well, I’d have a sailing certificate under my belt and I’d move on.

I flew to Florida. It was sticky and hot, and I remembered all over again why I moved away from the Gulf of Mexico over 25 years ago. Naples, Florida where Bill lives was gentrified to look like Venice. There was active construction everywhere and I didn’t notice any sign of real estate fever cooling down. “This here is Alligator Alley,” he announced. “And that home over there? It sold for 5 million last fall. And that one? Ten mill.
 I’ll cut to the chase. I learned how to sail. How did it go with Bill? He was already sleeping with someone else by the time I arrived in Florida and he regarded me suspiciously the whole time I was there, like I was a communist or something.

After completing the course, I bought the first ticket out of Florida I could get my hands on. But I had 58 itchy mosquito bites to remind me of Bill for at least a week. We blew off mutual steam by shooting back a forth a few mean emails.  My favorite line in his last email was,  “I hope you do go to Turkey and grow a mustache!!!” 

Robin in Istanbul (so far, no mustache)