How to Make Long-Term Relationships Really Work
(A: I have no idea.)
In a classic example of things you can’t make up, we spend the poet’s birthday on the same beach where I spent my honeymoon.
We got up late, and didn’t leave the house till noon. I’d already starting beating up on myself for not planning the day better, even though Not Planning is a national sport in Turkey. Planning is considered weird and something foreigners do. For example, the poet has told me he’s going on a trip to Istanbul and his hometown “soon”. When I ask for clarification on this, depending on the day, I get the following answers:
I have no idea. Why does it matter so much?
Probably on the 1st.
Probably on the 7th.
Actually, I might not go.
I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.
He finds my tendency to plan hilarious. He doesn’t realize that, compared to how I used to be, I have, living here, practically become a feather, blowing in the breeze.
Back to the birthday.
The poet mentions he’d like to spend it at Kabak beach, which is about an hour away. Quickly, I juice some oranges from our garden (#sorrynotsorry) and pour it into bottles. We stop at a nearby cafe, and I get us coffee and croissants. We hit the road.
I’ve been wanting to go back to Kabak, too. It’s one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever been, even though I spent most of my honeymoon days recovering from having unknowingly drank Turkish tap water, while trying to reconcile with the fact that I had just agreed to spend the rest of my life with one person.
It’s raining when we arrive. We sit inside the car, him taking phone calls from well-wishers, me contemplating the podcast we’ve just listened to. I’d found it during a really rough period in our relationship, stuffed in a newsletter I rarely read (but should, obviously). The way the writer described the podcast episode caught my attention:
“How to make long-term relationships really work, especially when there are a lot of big feelings in the mix.”
(I can state for the record there aren’t many parts of my life where there aren’t a lot of big feelings in the mix. Probably not even showering.)
I’ve never heard so much useful information packed into one podcast. Including (but not limited to):
how to ask your partner to do not do something
how we create a “Core Negative Image” of our partner (ie. a personal of all their worst faults) and then react to that image when we’re in conflict with them
(my favourite) why you should never bring up facts when you argue
We had nodded in agreement the whole time we listened.
Now, as the rain drums against the windshield, I think about where we were, relationship-wise, a month ago. I didn’t think then that we’d make it as far as listening to this podcast. I didn’t think I’d be celebrating the poet’s birthday with him at all. That’s how hard things got.
The rain stops, and we walk down to the beach. We take off our shoes, our feet freezing in the tide.
I think back being here as a newlywed in 2009. It it rained one of those days, too, and I dragged my new husband him into the sea in the rain, and we watched the droplets bounce off the surface of the water like diamonds. It was one of the beautiful things I’d ever seen.
The poet and I sit on the sand, and I look up at the bungalows on the cliff, wishing I could send some psychic messages back in time to my 32-year old self.
I know you’re scared.
There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.
None of this stuff is in your control.
My husband even said to me, one day, on this very beach:
“You need to give yourself a break.”
Obviously, I didn’t listen.
What would my past self think if she could look through a pair of magic binoculars and see me now?
If she knew she would, one day, live an hour from this very beach? With a dude who is not the one she married?
With a dog who is not her beloved Ruble, because Ruble is gone?
She’d think, How the HELL am I going to survive that?
She’d never be able to understand how much happier and at peace she is now.
I feel her shoulders drop with relief.
Even on a birthday one can’t survive on croissants alone, so after a couple of hours, we make our way back towards the city. I’ve chosen a restaurant for dinner (because you can’t completely take the planner out of the girl), but that’s not for a few more hours, and we’re starving. We pass a hand-painted sign on the side of the road.
Cafe, it says, and underneath:
Art gallery. Arts & sciences. Healing drinks.
We look at each other. The poet pulls over. There’s a potholed, water-logged gravel driveway which goes up the hill.
“There’s no way it’s open,” I say, because I am a hopeful and un-cynical person.
We sit in silence for a moment. I think of a couple of times lately I’ve said something wasn’t, or I couldn’t, and was proven wrong.
“I’ll just go and check,” I add.
The poet nods.
I run up the hill to find a small building looking out towards the sea. Two men are sitting inside, drinking tea. They smile and wave, as if they’d been expecting me.
“Are you open?” I call out.
“Yes! Come in!”
“I’m just going to get my…”
I pause. As a grown-ass-soon-to-be-47-year-old, I struggle with the word “boyfriend”. But “partner” is not a word a lot of Turkish people are familiar with.
“My family,” I say, finally.
My past self’s eyes widen.
I run back outside and make a “come up, it’s open” motion. Django hurtles up the hill. We realize we’ve met one of the men before, at a my friend Askin’s birthday party a few months ago.
The building is hung with beautiful pieces by local artists. The whole area is created as a community space, with a garden teeming with vegetables, herbs and orange trees.
The owner brings us lentil soup, pickled tomatoes from the garden, homemade spinach borek, tea made with herbs from the garden. And later, a little bowl of chocolates with a stick of wood balanced in it, which he lights it as a candle for the poet to blow out.
We stay for two hours.
We talk about community, and paying it forward with art. I am reminded, again, how art and creativity should not be a luxury. How they connect us in ways nothing else can. How they are tools for peace.
As if reading my thoughts, the owner motions around us. “This,” he says, “is the resistance.”
Django chases the cats and steals their food.
The sunset from up here leaves us speechless.
They invite us back anytime we want.
Back in Fethiye, we change our clothes quickly, head a sort-of-fancy restaurant, and warm up at a table by the fire. The food is really good. The service is really good. The dinner would be unaffordable for anyone on a local salary.
The place is almost empty.
I still work mostly on Canadian time, and have a meeting at 9pm I can’t cancel it. It’s for a film I wrote and am co-directing, that we finally got some funding for. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever worked on.
Proof of this: I started it before the honeymoon.
Back then, it was my husband who was the filmmaker. His project kept him away from dinners and family events, shuttered in his office editing and re-editing for months, much to my resentment and nagging.
Now look at you.
I feel terrible (from experience) at the idea of the poet sitting alone at a restaurant on an important day. I’ve already apologized profusely, and he’s waved me off.
Now, another friend texts us to say he’ll join us after dinner, and “take over” during my meeting.
We drink cups of Turkish tea while I take my call, the poet’s eyes lighting up as he talks about the day.
Wow that restaurant experience sounds cozy and amazing. “This is the resistance” 🤯
This was lovely to read dear Pen Pal Ith. Also the photo of dogs on the beach engaging in their national sport is hilarious!!! Happy Birthday to dear Ozan from me!! xoxoxoxoxoxo