Turkey: We Will All Marry Or Be Teachers
By Miranda Craigwell

I was pulled into Sibel’s black Peugeot along with three others. They gave me the passenger seat since my legs were the longest, and I took to delivering expert directions and pointing fiercely at available parking spots. The Peugeot smelled of new leather, and its silver detailing shone boastfully, devoid of the dullness that accompanies time and usage.

“Your car is really nice, is it new?” My English sliced abruptly through seamless reams of Turkish. When I spoke, the directing stopped; and they all smiled at me.

“Yes! My parents bought it for me when I came to University!” Sibel’s voice rattled out from the depths of her throat. It was rich but sweet and fit her demure sexiness like the soft cashmere wrap-around top hugging her large breasts and expertly tailored grey trousers that grabbed all of her curves in one smooth run. Her cheeks and chin were round but balanced by a slender nose and sparkling set of brown-black eyes made more so by a thick tracing of black liner.

“Yes, her parents paid for her to leave the house!” The backseat chorus broke into loud fits of laughter at Duyduergu’s perfectly timed interjection. Sibel continued to smile and nodded her head eagerly, as her small hand pulled the Peugeot into third gear with a jerk.

“Yes it is true they wanted me to go to University,” she slid down the leather seat a bit and leaned in towards me. “My license is suspended, but it’s ok,” she grinned at me impishly. I raised my eyebrows with immediate concern. She then exploded with playful laughter and patted my leg, “It’s ok, it’s ok—just don’t tell anyone.”

“We all know you can’t drive. Left here!” Sibel followed Duyduergu’s instructions dutifully and winked at me before she looked to make her left turn.

“What did it get suspended for?” I just had to ask.

“Driving too fast and drinking.” My face relented to a smile at the pride and carelessness with which she disclosed her offence. “It’s ok, it’s ok,” she repeated, winking again and pulling the Peugeot into a tiny spot on the side of the street under Duyduergu’s watchful eye.

“This is a real American restaurant—” Duyduergu’s husky voice trailed off as she slipped out of the car well before the others and stood outside my window, lighting a cigarette while I fiddled with the seatbelt contraption. She was barely five foot tall; and her round, wide face was overstretched with flawless skin tinged with a quiet undertone of darkness characteristic to Mediterranean women. A pair of deeply settled dimples interrupted the perfect sheathing twice. They were on either side of her small lips—a dimly lit cigarette dangled from between them. Her eyes gazed down the busy street but weren’t focused on any one thing—they were just as brown as Sibel’s but set wider.

“Is Elif coming?” I asked, having finally freed myself from the belt. Her short arm slipped into the crook of my elbow.

“She is. She will come later.” She spoke between long drags while weaving expertly through pedestrian traffic. University students packed the street outside of the American themed pub in desperate need of a post-class drink. Every 18 to 24-year-old seemed to end their day at exactly the same time in exactly the same fashion. “She must call her boyfriend and see when he can meet us.” She turned, darting me a knowing look with a slight and mischievous smile.

Using all the strength she had in her petite body, she heaved the wooden framed glass doors open. A neat spattering of American kitsch was on display behind them: walls plastered with images of cowboys in stirrups on horses, bucking broncos, old-fashioned bottles of Jack Daniel’s, license plates from Las Vegas, Hollywood and Texas. The entire wall on the far right side of the bar was draped in a Confederate Flag. Sibel, Mugel and Buket squeezed in behind us after battling the heavy doors.

“We should sit there,” Duyduergu decided, pointing. We would sit at the longest table available, next to the windows. I took the window seat, so I wouldn’t miss anything inside or out. Duyduergu sat next to me. She motioned to the waiter to bring clean ashtrays and they produced slim cigarette cartons on cue. I perused the menu.

“So, do you like?” A cigarette lay in suspense between Sibel’s fingers, and her eyes searched mine for acceptance. I didn’t notice it, until I looked up from the menu’s offerings of “buckeye burgers” and “topless taters”. I shook my head.

“I think I’ll have the calamari,” I decided, closing the menu. They all smiled at me encouragingly.

“Aren’t you going to order anything?”

“No,” Sibel started, still smiling, “I don’t eat anything. Just drink!” Mugel winked at me, and Duyduergu chuckled.

“Yes we are all forever on a diet to be thinner.” Her chuckling ceased, and she paused at the thanklessness of the idea, “thinner”.

“Well I’m ordering.” Buket turned her menu over to inspect the desserts. She began frantically fanning away the thin billows of smoke drifting towards her.

“Do you smoke?” Buket asked me.

“No.”

“Me neither.” Her intonation suggested we had our non-smoking and other secrets in common. Duyduergu rolled her eyes and blew a soft rush of smoke in Buket’s face, following it with a playful grin. Buket ignored her and continued.

“My father is an American, a doctor, and he doesn’t like it, so I don’t do it.”

“Your father is American? So is your mother Turkish?” I was eager to steer the conversation away from smoking and food.

“Yes but he does not live with us.” She had my full attention, “an ice cream sundae for me, and she will have the calamari.” A skinny, handsome waiter with black hair and glass-green eyes took our orders. He nodded as she handed him her menu.

“Yes and we will have three pitchers of beer.” Duyduergu motioned towards the untouched menus at the end of the table. He cleared them before disappearing with an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

“So where does your father live?”

“In America—in Oregon.” Her accent revealed itself most obviously in her pronunciation of each vowel in the state’s name. “I’m going to apply to go to graduate school at the University of Oregon. My father says it is a good school. Do you know anything about it?” I shook my head. “Well my father says it is excellent, and he is going to help me with my applications.”

“What are you going to study?”

“Education, I think.”

“Well it sounds like you have a good plan.” Her eyes communicated a mix of great hope and great anxiety. “I can help you with your applications as well, if you’d like.”

“Yes I’d love that!” she brightened up, and I detected flecks of brown in her hazel eyes. The mix of color matched her hair, which began darker brown at the roots but was pulled up into a blonde bun atop her head. Her nose was long and bony, and her eyes and lips were small and slanted giving her face a shrewdness that made her unique from the others.

The food arrived in large, pristine portions. We could have been in any number of chain restaurants. The fact it was in Turkey just seemed to amplify the vague weirdness of the inauthentic Americana.

“What are you all planning to do when you graduate?” I interrupted the streams of Turkish again, picking at the hot peppers garnishing my calamari. “Will you move back home?” I directed the question at Sibel, who had moved to Ankara to attend the University of Baskent, but everyone pitched their future plans.

“I want to teach.” They were the only words to leave Mugel’s wide, matte lips. She had a clean freckled face with warm eyes that were brought to life by immaculately manicured eyebrows and thick lashes. She smiled at me with assurance after disclosing her plans.

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