CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY drinking wine. The oldest woman especially attracts me. She is dressed in the faded elegance of old velvets and brooches, and the tiniest pair of silver-threaded slippers grace her feet. Her English is American; her smile, Munchkin. Her name is Tommy and she invites me to come to her house anytime for coffee. The next day, Michael and I awake to the realization that we should stay in this place, that some things here are reaching out to us, and it seems only right to hurry over to Tommy’s to ask for her help in finding us a place to rent for the winter. We have never been to visit her before, so part of the morning is spent meeting her cats, admiring her accumulation of oddities collected from around the world, eating crispy nut biscuits and drinking rare and expensive imported Nescafe. Friends have smuggled in the coffee as an extra-special gift for Tommy, and she urges us to have more. As we chat, we learn how this 70-year-old woman came to spend the past 11 years in this particular place. Between working for newspapers and embassies, she had been in China on the eve of Mao’s takeover, in Paris during the Algerian riots, and in a British compound in Egypt under daily fire during the 1950s Suez Canal strife. Seeking a quieter life, she began coming to Turkey on vacations, and one time she never went back. With a happy coffee buzz on, the three of us tour up and down the village’s dirt streets as Tommy haltingly inquires about vacancies. She says that she has a mental block against speaking Turkish and this embarrasses her, although she seems to understand the language very well. Tommy remembers a house which belongs to friends who are going to Paris for the winter. By that afternoon we have made the arrangements and committed ourselves to taking charge of their home for three months. We are staying for the winter! Eagerly we rush to Recep’s shop, hoping he is there among his carpets and copper. The door is open and he joins in our celebration. Beer appears, and soon the chai boy is at the door, too, bearing a round silver tray loaded with dainty tulip glasses of tea on square saucers. Recep seems very glad that we have decided to stay in his village. We plan wood-gathering expeditions to the forest, mushroom hunts, maybe a trip together into the hills to the more remote villages to buy kilims and copper. His ignorance of our language, and ours of his, are no impediments to sharing dreams. From the first day Michael and I wandered into Recep’s shop just to have a look, acceptance and trust were established between us. We were fascinated by the beautiful weavings he had collected from all over Turkey, and in his slow, self-taught English, he explained to us about their colors, patterns and origins. Sharing words with Recep, we slowly, slowly begin to hear the sounds of Turkish become words and phrases we could understand. We begin to drop by daily to have tea and biscuits, or sometimes breakfast together on bread, cheese and olives in the sunshine behind his shop. Our presence gave him a chance to “ westernize” himself more, which he wanted very much. We, in our turn, were looking to understand and maybe incorporate into our own lives the ways of a simpler society. Out of this sharing grew respect and love. The autumn progresses and Michael and I settle into our house Night Travels to Tibet #3 There is no plastic in Tibet. I trade long rolls of plastic sandwich bags for frankincense and myrrh . A bag for every use: to store chillis, aspirins, leaves and twigs. Suddenly everyone wants one. I do not have enough to go around . Three lamas explain they could keep rain water, powdered gold and spirit cookies in bags. 1write home, "Need more bags." A shipment is airlifted from Delhi but comes apart in the air. Thousands of plastic bags parachute to earth . The people go crazy catching them with butterfly nets. Marilyn Stablein and the village routine. 1awaken each dawn to the song of the prayer caller from the mosque near the house, and soon 1 can sing the chants with the caller. The house is small, only two usable rooms, but I am happy for the privacy and sense of home. We spend a good portion of each day walking the beaches to gather driftwood to burn in the tiny wood stove which our neighbors have given us. Every afternoon at sunset 1walk down the rutted lane to get milk and yogurt from another neighbor, who keeps her cow and calf in a little lean-to adjoining her stone house. She likes me, I can tell, and teaches me new words each time I visit so I can talk with her. Our village has only 350 people or so, and the shops are very small. Therefore, to buy what food we need, Michael and I must do as the neighbors do and go to “ town” on market day twice a week. The seven-mile trip each way is made in a collective taxi. My Turkish improves from trying to follow the conversations around me and answer questions from other shoppers while we are squeezed tightly together in the mini-bus. Food selection is sometimes very limited and I must shop at many different stalls. The butchers are totally unreliable, and when they do appear, our choice is usually only goat, freshly killed that morning with all the rituals still observed. Chicken is a luxury, gourmet eating, - and we haven’t had any in months. At first I am overwhelmed by all the people who come from the mountains, the colors, displays and smells, but 1soon look forward to each Monday and Thursday along with the rest of our village. One cold, windy morning, Tommy seeks warmth in our small, sunny courtyard and a cup of tea. We have been spending a lot of hours together, and I realize how lonely she is. We pass Time back and forth, and she gives us an almost daily condensation of the BBC World News. Her personal life seems in almost as much chaos as the world’s situation. She married a Turkish man from Istanbul two years ago. It was her first marriage, and they managed to live together for six months before he ran off, taking her camera and owing everybody in the village money. Now she has no idea if she is still married to him or not. Michael, she and I sit on our steps and share more tea, discussing the severe lack of petrol in our area and what to do about Christmas. We are all feeling far from home, even though Tommy hasn’t been back to the U.S. in 30 years. She suggests a dinner at her house for the three of us. “ Are there turkeys in Turkey?” We think so, but trying to talk a butcher into getting us one on the right day may be beyond our skills. Recep has just purchased some kilims from two traders who have come from near Lake Van in eastern Turkey. Tommy gets the news and hurries over to tell us to meet her at his shop. By the time we arrive, Tommy is trying to decide whether to buy the long one with the funny pink color in it or the big one, chocolate colored, that costs more. All of us sit around on various piles of rugs, drinking Tuborg beer and eating pistachio nuts from a big copper tray, while Recep and Tommy discuss a “ friendly price.” The conversation wanders on to turkeys and Christmas. Maybe a goose will be easier to find, Tommy suggests. Michael looks up “ goose” in Recep’s dictionary. “Kaz — we want a kaz, Recep.” About one week later we are riding down the bumpy Mediterranean coastal highway in the back seat of Recep’s little red car. Recep and Tommy, up front, discuss the delicious details of the lunch we’ve just eaten, while I wish Recep wouldn’t drive so fast. Suddenly Recep’s gold tooth flashes in the rearview mirror as he points to a flock of big white birds gathered by the side of the road and slams on the brakes. We zoom furiously in reverse and then we are off the road and down by the side of a pond. So it’s a kaz. Or looks like it’s about to be, maybe. But it is only the middle of November. We introduced the idea of our wanting a goose too soon to Recep, who is sometimes quick to act. Tommy, Michael and I realize our mistake too late. The three of us get out of the car and huddle in a timid group, while Recep waves his arms in the direction of the geese, who are moving out onto the pond. He seems to be trying to conjure up the owner of the flock, nd the magic works, for a man with a shotgun nestled on one arm, and a small boy, appear. The Turks huddle in their huddle while we stay in ours, Recep turning at times to gesture at us, then to the geese. It may be too late for us to get out of this if the actual bargaining has begun. 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