Simon Says...

As I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge last midnight in a cab, my grandpa's memory flashed beside me. I knew he was suffering in his sick bed in Istanbul. I knew his death was imminent. I knew he had lost his connection with us and much else. But I still wanted him to hold on -- I was not used to the idea of not passing Dominican cigars to him, not hearing my dad checking on him every night, not carrying jars of pickles from his house to ours.

I checked my watch. 7:30AM in Istanbul. I would call in the morning to see how his morning was. I did not have the courage to talk to him. I wanted to remember him like I always knew him: stong and independent with the driest sense of humor in the world. I feared the wheezing sound of his chest, his short-stopped breath and his painful cries as nurses moved him from side to side.

I woke up at 9:00Am in New York. I kept my eyes semi-shut as I made my way to the bathroom. I didn't want to wake up just yet. I could go back to that lull phase and have a few more nonsensical dreams. I slid back under covers. The air-conditioner was getting louder by each tick-tock from my watch. I was sleeping in a boat's engine room. No use in staying here, I thought. I needed to get up and start folding clothes that I had carelessly thrown around throughout the week. Did I want eggs? I had stocked on skim milk finally. Maybe coffee and cereal? I needed to be in the city by noon. OK, let's give it another shot.

10:25AM. I was passing by the phone as it rang. I hoped with all my heart that it was my friend Rachel asking me how the hell we were going to get to this midday birthday party on the beach. She was not the type unable to find her way around, but she may have wanted to double check if I were coming. It was not her.

I knew it before I heard my father's voice. My grandpa had passed away five minutes ago. I was amazingly collected at first. I had been crying on and off for the past three months anyhow. But I still had something left in me. My dad's consolations were useless. I knew grandpa had to go, but that didn't mean I was going to miss him any less.

I dialed my mom's cell. She was at the hospital, newly orphaned. She told me to be reasonable and not to come. I could not make it to the funeral. It would be crazy to fly such a long way. I was too weak and cowardly, so I said "OK."

I'll be awake tomorrow at 7:00AM. That's when my grandfather's funeral will start in Istanbul, 2PM. I will wait in my living room until the procession reaches the Jewish cemetry in Ulus. After they lay him down, I will leave my apartment. I will go down four flights of stairs, together with his caskett. I will go underground in the subway, as they cover him with soil.

Simon Sofer - lived a full 85 years of life starting in Bucharest, ending in Istanbul. He came to Turkey at 18, escaping from the horrors of WWII. Met his green-eyed bride Ida and went off to the army for four years. He worked hard all his life and provided for his family. His two daughters were the apples of his eyes. He toured Baghdad Street on the Asian side of town on his 1950s Vespa, with his grandchildren in tow. He barbequed for 10 at a time, with oregano and a tinge of onion meshed into marinated red meat. He was a master of crossword puzzles, sharp as he was. A pipe smoker who knew how to have "keyf" and a man with direct words who didn't beat around the bush. I loved him very much. He was Dede because he was my mother's father and he was my Buyukbaba because he resembled Heidi's grandpa in that 70's cartoon show.

Simon would always joke about the time he would go to Patagonia; the end of the world for him. Simon says, it's time to go.

Little Nutsa

I watched passengers flock to their seats with such haste that one might have thought none of them had assigned seats. Bags resisting to squeeze into overhead compartments, screaming kids, separated couples arguing with stewardesses to sit together...Despite the brouhaha, my row was pretty quiet. Could I be so lucky as to fly solo for the next 10 hours? Not so fast. A little hand nudged my shoulder. I turned around and saw a little girl with thick, wavy red hair motioning to get to the window seat. I recognized her from the waiting lounge. She had opened her arms like wings and pretended to fly relentlessly up and down the window curbs as we waited to board. Great, now this energy ball was going to be my travel companion.

But where was her mother? Was she alone? Hi, I said to warm things up. She smiled and said hello with an accent I could not immediately recognize. Where is your Mom, I asked. In America, she carefully replied. And so our hours worth of conversation began. She was eight, wait she had just turned nine. She had not seen her mother in seven years and the lady sitting in the back was a family friend taking her to finally unite with her mother.

She asked my age. When I told her, her broken English got replaced with a long, bouncy "wooow!" learned from subtitled movies. Then we exchanged names, countries, sibling stories, make up and drawings. We finished all the puzzles in her activity book. She listened to my iPod and asked if she could buy it in America. She would tell her mother to buy it for her. Her mother would do anything for her, she was convinced.

Between the in-flight TV show and the meal she picked through, she fell asleep. She had woken up in Tiblisi that morning - very, very early. She could not show Istanbul on the map but she knew she had been there so that she could take this flight to New York. She didn't know exactly where she was going to live but she was told her new friends may not speak Georgian or Russian like she did. Only English from here on!

She got restless between the 7th and the 8th hour. Much to my cautionary remarks, she explored the light and stewardess call buttons on and off, on and off. Our seats flickered like a bar in the dark aircraft and we got Pepsi delivered five times more than anyone else around. Hey, traveling with little Nutsa was funnn!

As we started to descend, I begged her to get down from the little mountain she had created with our pillows and blankets on her seat. I suggested she looks out the window to see America. She was thrilled with the idea. She threw her pink and blue pile down and pressed her face on the window. The clouds were letting through some green brown land. No houses or cars were in sight yet.

"This is America?" she asked, holding her breath for my answer. Yes, I nodded. She let out a little cry, blushed and went back to the window for a second look. She turned back suddenly and gave me such a tight hug that my idle arms snapped to my chest. She pulled back with reddish cheeks stealing the glow from her Barbie makeup. "This is America! My mother here," she screamed pulling her T-shirt down to her knees almost to cover her excitement.

I could not say a word. I watched her transcend.