Today I ate the last of my Reese’s Cups. Usually this would be an inconsequential event, one that would hardly merit a second thought, but this time I ate the last of the Reese’s in Turkey. And Turkey doesn’t have Reese’s Cups… or peanut butter at all for that matter.
But Turkey does have leblebi: chickpeas covered in chocolate, honey, or any other topping you could imagine. Çorum is famous for them, and they are supremely delicious. As I struggled to buy my first bag — probing my brain for the Turkish words for “half a pound” that I never learned — I realized how much small victories can create an unparalleled form of happiness. It’s much more nuanced and gradual than the jolt of exaltation after something truly life-changing happens, like when I found out I’d be coming to Turkey last March. But the little things change your life nonetheless. Before I came here, I could hardly fathom how being understood when I order would fill my heart with beaming pride, or how getting a response from one of the three Turkish conversation starters I know would make me feel an intense sense of connection with the person struggling to understand me.
These feelings, however, could not occur in isolation. It took the other person’s willingness and encouragement for these interactions to elicit renewed engagement and not dejection. I have Turkish hospitality to thank for that. My sitemates and I have been offered a bounty of free çay (tea) or türk kahvesi (turkish coffee) to the point where I stayed up far later than my schedule warranted last night—doing absolutely nothing—thanks to a kindness-induced caffeine rush.
Despite great new friends and conversation, however, not everything is perfect. Being in a new place and not knowing how exactly to interpret other people’s actions (or how you are being interpreted) can be strenuous. That uncertainty is compounded with the certainty that we won’t be seeing family members for perhaps up to a year, which presents its own set of challenges as well. And when balancing those feelings with our observations of the world around us—watching the news and being able to place it in its very human context—it’s hard to see people living lives far, far more grueling than I could ever imagine and still feel entitled to label our own as “difficult,” if only for a moment. Despite these fleeting challenges, the sun radiates and the çay pours liberally and the call to prayer reverberates across the highland landscape. I wake up and feel incredibly blessed.
Today, after being treated anew to ample tea and coffee, the teacher hosting us invited all three Americans to dinner with her friends. She made the most delicious lentil soup I’ve ever had in my life, followed by mushroom chicken and various meze (starter dishes)… I absolutely had seconds. Then we all went into the living room as she and her friends serenaded us with traditional Turkish songs strummed on the gitar.
Afterwards, I gave into my chocolate craving and ate that last Reese’s cup. And suddenly, I realized that one of my last tangible links to America was gone. No more peanut butter, no more big groups of Americans, no more galavanting in Boston or hotel porch-loitering in Ankara. It was just us three sitemates in Turkey, our new reality, and what we make of it.
So the next time I get that craving for chocolate, I can walk down the street, pick up some leblebi, and have it the Turkish way. After all, that’s the most exciting part of this adventure.