An Awkward Moment in Kapadokya

With the end of Ramadan last week, I was invited to accompany Willemijn, the Dutch host of my writer residency, and her Turkish Canadian friend, Ustun, on a visit to several older women still living in the partially abandoned part of our lovely village, İbrahimpaşa. 

The women live next door to the residency, which Willemijn and her partner carved out of the ruins six years ago. Most of the neighborhood's former residents -- mainly farmers -- have long since moved into modern apartment buildings lining a paved road to the busy highway between Ürgüp and Nevşehir, Cappadocia's main centers of commerce and entertainment. 

The neighborhood has rough, cobblestoned and deeply sloping streets -- alleyways, really -- that cannot be navigated by cars although some tourists don't realize that until they get stuck and must do 10-point turns to avoid the already crumbling walls. In the past, everyone used burros to get around and some still do. You can still hear and smell the animals nearby, and watch women with their long white outdoor headscarves leading them with their cargo along country roads in the distance.

That afternoon, when we knocked on Mrs. Rukiye's door, she invited us in, warmly embracing Willemijn and Ustun, whom she knew well, and just as warmly shaking the hand of the stranger. 

After taking off our shoes, we followed her into a small, dark room with a floor covered in thick carpets. Single beds draped with colorful blankets lined two walls and the three of us sat on one while Mrs. Rukiye, who was quite petite, perched on the other. 

Ustun pointed to the scrolled metal bars on the one window and told me in English that this meant we were in the women's part of the house, not, as Willemijn later assured me, to keep the women in, but, rather, traditionally, to keep the wrong men out.

After placing a bed sheet at our feet to catch our crumbs, Mrs. Rukiye bustled to the kitchen and brought out a huge round tray stacked with little bowls of treats -- dried apricots, unshelled and seasoned pumpkin seeds, garbanzo beans both plain and coated with a sugary white powder, pistachios and other items I didn't recognize -- plus three glasses of hot instant coffee with milk. 

Mrs. Rukiye wore a patterned long-sleeved blouse, floor-length skirt and delicate, lightweight head scarf that covered every strand of her hair before flowing down over her shoulders. She complimented me on my blue eyes, which are, of course, unusual here, and I, through Willemijn as interpreter, returned the compliment. Her hazel eyes were highly expressive and sparkling. 

Ustun and Willemijn kept telling her not to make a fuss over us but it was obvious that Mrs. Rukiye not only enjoyed making a fuss but she greatly enjoyed that her guests were insisting she not do so. The delightful fuss amplified, naturally, the delightful fuss. 

After much nibbling and sipping, we were invited to visit her rooftop terrace. Every old house here has such a terrace and because the buildings essentially climb up the hill -- their cave-like rooms dug out of the volcanic ash -- each looks down on those of its neighbors. 

Ustun was the first to head up through the narrow doorway and I was next. Somehow, though, despite my small size, I managed to bump my head hard on the overhead door frame. Without thinking, and reacting to the shock more than pain, I ducked, slapped my hand on my head and said “Ow, ow, ow” really loudly, just as I would back home. 

Willemijn, who was right behind me, quickly rubbed my head and whispered “Forget about it, forget about it.” 

I instantly understood. Willemijn had already told me several things about the Turkish people – one, that they have a “no problem” culture; that is, problems are never to be acknowledged; and two, that no one should draw attention to themselves when hurt. Mrs. Rikiye, I knew, would be deeply embarrassed that she and her house had caused me harm. 

I clamped my mouth shut, stopped my whining and stepped out onto the terrace where we all loudly enthused over the view and the potted flowers and vegetables she was cultivating under the constant sun.

Still, Mrs. Rikiye was looking at me with a combination of alarm, regret and sorrow, and she reached up to gently touch the top of my head. I smiled, briefly put my arm around her shoulders and felt her slip her arm through mine. A moment later, we were gazing out over the stunning white landscape holding hands, which we continued to do until an easy moment arrived to separate.

She then offered me a fresh tomato from her rooftop garden and, after reflexively and foolishly looking around for a way to rinse it (some of us are slow to learn), and being told it was perfectly fine as it was, I bit into the fruit, as one would an apple, and discovered it was one of the most delicious tomatoes -- sweet, savory and variations in-between -- that had ever crossed my lips.

Photos:

1. All taken with my cheap Sony Cybershot.

2. Views are from the residency's terrace, not Mrs. Rikiye's, although they are similar.

3. Traditional Turkish women do not generally want their photos taken, especially by someone they just met. Wanting to avoid another awkward moment, I respected that wish.