Have Some Respect for My Tree!

Low lights, good Moroccan food, belly dancers twirling around us at Le Souk. Reych, Kat and I are hovered over the low table sipping drinks, stuffing our faces and discussing the usual - relationships. When speaking of reconcilable differences, the word somehow came around to the fact that my family, who are Turkish Jews, put up a plastic tree every new year's and exchange gifts as the clock hits midnight. Was this a weird habit of my family's? Would it continue if I shared a house with a Jewish man? I drafted a mini lecture on the spot:

Santa Claus is no stranger to Turkey, in fact he was born in Anatolia. Yet, admittedly the tree and the gift exchange is something more common among middle to upper-middle, cosmopolitan circles - be it a Jewish, Christian or Muslim household. Foreigners visiting Istanbul for the two weeks before new year's eve may be shocked to see lotteries, TV programs, shops branded by amiable images of "Noel Baba." He is usually accompanied by stacks of gift boxes encouraging everyone to max their credit cards. Some might call it global marketing, some might point to the city's Greek residents and tradition of religious tolerance. I'd say a harmless ritual that overlaps with other "European" habits. Don't you want a gift??

Kat nodded, Reych was intrigued but unconvinced. So, she said, raising the stakes higher. "If you had to choose between a man (she said something more direct, but dear reader, I leave it to your imagination) and the tree, which would you choose?" she asked. I screamed "The TREEEE!" as I slapped my knee with the frustration of not being understood. Kat almost rolled off her chair with laughter, breaking into a dance routine representing the moment and singing, "I want my tree! I want my tree!"

"You don't understand. It's not just a stupid tree, it is something that's part of my culture. He cannot accept the tree, he limits me. I cannot continue the rituals that make me happy. I feel resticted. If he feels threatened by the presence of something that's at most symbolic of blessings for the new year, then so be it," I said raising my voice above the music. "Really?" asked Reych unable to believe what I would give up instead. "It's a matter of principle!" I screamed and looked over to Kat for assurance. She nodded, understanding and perhaps feeling relieved that she and her man were both OK with trees. Reych pulled a "Wow," saluting my uncomprimising act. "Cheers to the tree," she raised her glass.

The bellydancer approached our table and we clapped our hands in loud cheer. "Habiiiibiii, Habiiibiii," the singer crooned. None of us cared what the origin of the song was; we didn't understand the language. We gave in to the rhythm, knowing well that it was just fun.

From Bueons Aires to South Carolina via Hatay

Almost everyone in my social circle emails, IMs and texts like mad keyboard artists, leaving only some time to in-person conversations. We're so connected and yet so separated. As the Bob Dylan song goes, I want "one more cup of coffee." I want the sobre-mesa chat where we linger at the table enjoying each other's company, avoiding to rush. Take a moment to talk and understand the other one. Be interested in their stories.

Gaston and I emailed each other over the years as colleagues. I published in New York, he pushed the knowledge to journalists in Buenos Aires. He wrote, I called. He called, I wrote back. I had no idea who he was, what he looked like. One day I got a note from him saying he was leaving the company and thanking me and my colleagues for being the wind beneath his wings. (Love the poetry and feverish sentimentality of Latin style talkin'.)

Then things started getting fun. Gaston kept emailing and I started getting links to YouTube videos, cartoons and coctail parties. I was in Turkey, he was in New York. I was in New York, he was in Buenos Aires. Finally, we ended up on the same square. Several years of e-friendship culminated in a meet-up at Barca 18 on Park Avenue. We quickly agreed on the list of things we liked and disliked. Tapas and bubbly drinks, yes. Men without good clothing taste and unkempt beards, no. His friends joined us. A childhood friend of Gaston, Julian, impressed me with his knowledge of Tarkan - of course, I showed him my mini collection on my ipod.

The stories extended to who knew who, who worked where and another friend who needed help looking for a job. He was also Turkish (from the southern city of Hatay) and could I talk to him? Yes, of course I said and met with Memo a week later. Memo was friendly and polite - a well-raised Turkish boy. Sipping our coffees, we discovered I shared the same alma mater with his cousin. We hugged while departing and promised we'd hang out again.

Fast-forward a couple of weeks, following a mild email and cell phone traffic, Julian, Memo and Memo's roommate Lisa -- a native of South Carolina -- found ourselves having early dinner in the Lower East. Conversation trickled. We ate and laughed. As Memo rushed to a second dinner get-together and Julian went off to his Brooklyn apartment, Lisa and I decided to watch the new Almodovar movie.

Sipping some post-dinner tea and waiting through the previews, Lisa in her captivating Southern droll told me about her time in Paris and her work in fashion. I learned about her family and her aspirations. It made me think back to my first job in New York and the youthful energy I had back then. I admired Lisa's curiousity in other cultures and languages. We hugged while parting and promised to stay in touch.

With just a few emails, but also with loads of trust, openness and genuinity I had had a journey from Latin America to Turkey's border with Syria and had flown back to the South. Only in New York, some might say. But I would say only with certain people who swing through borders.

32 and happy...

Phones rang off the hook, but I was so lost in my itunes I didn't ever hear them. My brother on one, best friend on another wished me happy birthday - half teasing, half singing. What was I doing? Nothing different. But I am different. Older and bolder. Wiser and happier. Onward, forward with confidence. I like what I see in the mirror. I like who I am becoming.

Volver

After slaloming through various hurdles, I am finally able to go home for the holidays. I bought my ticket and the countdown has begun. Already, everything seems easier - because America is less relevant in my eyes. I am already home. I start recalling my mom's face, my dad's organized living room and daily rituals. I am running up the two flights instead of taking the elevator to my grandpa's apartment. Body here, mind there.

Mahir It Is...

Heyt! I broke the news to my humble circle of friends this weekend that Borat was a Mahir wannabe. Now the media is catching on. Check out the article in CNN and in E! Online.
What can I say? Go Mahir! Sue them (that's how they do it in America.) Don't let this be another one of those tragic national plagorism events (remember, they stole yogurt and hamburger - ekmek arasi kofte- from us.)

Borat is Turkish

I am not sure why I didn't make the connection while watching all of the HBO series on Borat, but after being immersed in Sasha Cohen's raw humor world for two hours today something dawned on me: I knew him. I had seen him. That out-of-fashion cut suit, the naive perseverence, the delicate balance of manliness and awkwardness: It's not Borat, it's Mahir!! For those who have forgotten the "i kiss you" phenomenon, here is a reminder.