Some days are just good

It’s Wednesday. Wednesdays are my worst days at work. I teach six out of eight school hours. Three of those are with my two most difficult classes. Two of those hours are back to back. If I can get even one of these groups to open their notebooks by the fifth time I’ve told them to do so, I will have achieved a great goal.

Despite Wednesdays, I do enjoy my job teaching 7th graders. Yet, there’s something missing in the order of an intellectual challenge. At heart, I’m an art historian. I miss researching and teaching it. I miss the kinds of questions we ask of objects, wrapping my brain around what something built/painted/constructed/sculpted might just mean and why, not to mention how those things are made. And I miss talking about such things with other people who care about them. Rather than just complain about it in my recently developed lazy fashion, I decided to find a project. I am now going to learn about Anatolian kilims. Just for fun. No papers to write, no tests to take, no proving to anyone that I am a dedicated student.

There is a very special carpet and rug shop in Ortakoy, run by a kind and generous woman. She’s one of those elegant and graceful people who would make me feel like a huge bull in a tiny China shop if she weren’t so very nice. Once I sat in her office for a good while, sipping tea, staring at a kilim hanging on the wall and wondering why its weaver made some odd design choices. On a whim, and possibly because it’s Wednesday, I decided to venture to Ortakoy, tell her (the shop owner, not the long-dead weaver) about my project and ask for her advice. Since it’s a bit presumptuous for a relative stranger to ask someone for advice out-of-the-blue, I brought pastries for her and her family for “iftar,” the meal that breaks the sun up to down fast during Ramazan.

I was warmly greeted. I was warmly thanked for the pastries. I explained my project and why I needed to have it. She was excited and pleased, maybe because I had asked for her help, probably because she loves kilims, even more than rugs. She led me to her book shelf and pulled out a large volume. Lovingly, she opened the pages, pointing out illustrations of how wool is cleaned and certain patterns are woven, and charts of various ingredients for dyes. The symbols, she said, are not the most important thing. Oh no. It’s the wool and how it is prepared. I was convinced. Reading is a good way to start, she said, but the best way to learn is to watch the making of the kilims. (That’s a project for further down the road.) She assured me that it would not be a bother if I came to ask questions. I left after a story or two and happily walked home to Besiktas.

I stopped at the bakkal (convenience store) across from my apartment. It was just after fast-breaking. Ahmet Bey and his helper were hunched over their meal, a pan of eggs and pastirma (a salty, dried meat), a dish of pickled vegetables and bread, set on a low, paper-covered table. I respect those who fast and do not want to interrupt their long awaited meal. As I was setting 2YTL on the counter for a carton of milk, Ahmet told me, in no uncertain terms, to sit and eat. His assistant brought me a fork with which I ate from the same pan as these friends. Last year, one of my Turkish students critically called Turks uneducated and primitive because they often eat from the same dish. I disagree. Maybe I misunderstand this ritual, but I like how it makes us hunch together, both literally and figuratively. But god help me, I’m the messiest eater and had dropped more than one chunk of pastirma in my lap. I don’t think anyone really noticed. After a glass of hot tea, I thanked Ahmet and excused to go home.

I weighed my Wednesday work day against my random experiences and decided that overall, some days are just good.