I’m meeting the poet’s parents today.
Yeah.
Some would call this a big step. He would be one of them. Traditionally, in Turkey, you don’t meet the parents of the person you’re dating unless it’s… you know, like, serious. But I don’t subscribe to those rules. I did, once upon a time, but this place has that effect on you.
I still have rules. I regularly take days and nights away from the poet, exploring the city solo, writing in solitude, building my own circle of friendships. And while he is totally fine with all of this, he also doesn’t quite get it.
“Is there anything you feel like you can’t do when we’re in the same place?” he asks.
Technically, no. At both his place and mine there are other rooms where I can meditate, exercise, take calls. I go for walks alone, sometimes heading off to explore a new neighbourhood for a few hours while he’s working. (And by this I mean: shop.) But the truth is, I struggle being around anyone for long periods of time. My own company nourishes me in a way no one else’s does. The harder truth: this also about fear. I’ve ridden the relationship roller coaster from “you are my everything” to “you again?” so quickly in the past that it’s hard not to be terrified of accidentally finding myself being taken for granted yet again.
Like Alex Hepburn sings, “If you’ll stay you’ll leave.”
And yet, here we are.
We hopped on a train Tuesday morning and came to his brother’s place, an hour and a half outside Istanbul. It was a last-minute decision, because no one plans anything around here. Since I’d met his brother already, it didn’t feel like a big step. Most importantly, we’d be surrounded by trees and sky, by the fresh air and silence we starve for in Istanbul.
“It’ll only be for a few days,” I told myself, even though we didn’t have a return date, (because no one plans anything around here). So far, we’ve been here for six.
The first night, the three of us and Django went for dinner to a restaurant that was on platform that jutted out over a lake. The sky was a swirl of colours, and the peacefulness of the air around us nearly knocked me over. We had fresh fish and salad and then went for a walk along the water, Django sniffing away on the sides of the path, delighted to not be dodging cars and pedestrians.
“So,” the poet said. “Do you you want to meet my parents?”
“Sure,” I said, confused. “I already said I would.”
“On Sunday,” he added.
“This Sunday?”
His brother burst out laughing.
Turned out his brother’s new partner was due to arrive for a visit on Saturday, and both brothers had decided hey, let’s just all do this, and also let’s enjoy the look on Natalie’s face when we tell her.
But after a second, I just shrugged.
“Why not?” I said, and then tried to push the poet into the lake.
I think—I hope—that this is a testament to how my time in this country has softened some of my edges. I am a tiny bit of a control freak, but here, in the land of No Planning, in a time of What the Hell is Happening Anyway, I might be starting to let go. I don’t plan so far ahead anymore. I embrace last-minute meals with people I’ve never met. I eat the food that is in front of me, even when no one can tell me what’s in it, or when it’s made entirely of sugar.
Maybe I shouldn’t be meeting the poet’s parents yet. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe, like another time I met someone’s parents in a foreign country, I will wave my hands around at dinner and knock a glass of red wine across the room so some of it splatters across a white wall and the rest ends up in their mom’s handbag. Maybe they will find me too Canadian, too weird, or too uninterested in procreating. Maybe I’m already on the roller coaster to Taken for Granted-Land and it’s too late.
Maybe, also, it will be fine, or even wonderful. Maybe things in this country and on this planet will get so messed up that none of it matters anyway. Maybe, as my teacher Derek says, life is just a series of course-correcting our mistakes.
We leave in a few hours. I’m not nervous yet, partly because my Turkish is still so bad that I don’t have to worry about small talk or trying to pretend I’m intelligent, and partly because it’s a 3-hour drive so I can still be in denial. I’ve promised not to write about the actual parental meeting (but you can bet I’ve been very vocal about how much that pains me). But if it is a Big Step in the Wrong Direction, you’ll know about it pretty soon, anyway.
In the meantime: wish me luck. Or, at least, white wine.
* The writing of this piece sparked a humbling realization about what can happen when I try to write about the truth. That’ll be Part II.
Good luck.