Put on workout clothes. These comprise a black yoga top with a rip in it, and running shorts. Feel confident, like the kind of person who could almost be mistaken for athletic. As you’re preparing to leave the house, your partner stops you.
“You look very nice,” he says, “but unfortunately, I think you should… not wear that.”
Remember that you live in a Turkish village on a mountain, where the word “conservative” has a very specific meaning, even when it’s 30 degrees. Change shorts for leggings. Leave the house.
You have a package to pick up at the post office! It’s a herbal supplement that cost a lot of money but is supposed to help with the peri menopause. When you are 45 years old and live in a Turkish village on a mountain, this qualifies as exciting.
Decide to take the scenic route, as nothing in the village is more than a 10-minute jog away.
Trot off with headphones in. Ah, it’s so beautiful here. The stone houses, the fruit trees, the dappled sunlight… Oh look, you’ve never gone this way before! Look at this beautiful stone house! What mysteries await around th-
Oh. Dead end.
Turn back. Pass the weaving place. The old lady standing outside asks you if you live in Grape Village, and invites you in. She has done this 3 times before, in exactly the same way every time. And every time, you smile and nod and promise you will. (Later this week you will go in, and buy a beautiful hand-woven rug for about $20, and have to stop yourself from buying up half the shop. She will throw in half a loaf of sourdough bread, some peanuts, and a pomegranate.)
Cat.
Decide to take the mountain path. Cardio! Turn the corner and start jogging. How is this steeper than last time? Also, one of the village dogs has decided to join you. She nips at your leggings at every step, which is endearing until a point.
Wow, this is really steep. Finally you turn back, and try to outrun the dog. She keeps up almost all the way, which, since her legs are 1/25th the length of yours, says something about your speed and agility.
Pass some guys chopping wood behind a stone wall. They give you strange looks, because why the fuck would anyone in their right mind go running up and down on roads in a ridiculous black outfit when there’s so much actual physical labour to be done?
Slink down a side street so as to avoid them on the way back.
Another dead end.
More cats.
Meet the street dog who lives at the local cafe, who joined when you worked there one morning last week. Pause for requisite cuddles.
Pass the same person you passed on a totally different street 10 minutes ago. Smile awkwardly.
Get to the post office, known here as the PTT. None of the three guys behind the counter look up from the computer. Having lived here long enough to know, you say nothing. After several minutes, one of them explains that the system is down. Stand there sweating while village men come in and look at you strangely.
Finally, the one guy asks for your parcel number. Then he asks for your partner’s residency number, since he had to make the order, for reasons too complicated to explain. You do not have the residency number. You call your partner, and hand the PTT guy the phone. Your partner asks the PTT guy why the mailman did not call when he first tried to deliver the package to our house.
“Oh,” the PTT guy says, laughing. “He doesn’t have a phone.”
Having retrieved your package,
walkdo a slow jog home.Find out two days later that the herbs in the herbal supplement grows in the mountains around the village. Buy some from a local flower vendor, for one dollar and fifty cents.
I wish that story was a graphic novel. Also, Django message me about that other dog and you are in trouble. xoxox