Dollar Signs

My mom and I talk on the phone every Sunday - sometimes hours at a time. Topics range from my job to her health situation and mostly we drill down on Turkish politics and economy. She asks me about my life here and takes me by surprise with how much she knows about local and national affairs. Many people read or talked about the Fed rate cut. I heard it from my mom. Wolfowitz visit to Ankara, I learned from my mom. The election outcomes -- my mom had a few things to say. Hillary's candidacy; again: mom!

Nowadays, she's most concerned about the mortgage market. She keeps asking me how much of my 401K is sunk in real estate funds. 'I dunno,' I say, trying to remember what funds I am in and with which investment company I am. I pull up an image of graphs and bank lingo printed on off-white paper, stapled for my recycling taste. 'I don't think I am in any mom...In any event, I am diversified," I say trying to calm her down. I remember the man who came to the office to coach us about our retirement investments had said diversification was good. "Well, what sorts of funds are you invested in?" "Uhmmm, some Fortune 500, some mid-size, some small, some international...don't worry," I say diversified and all.

"Anyways, I saw it on TV. People are losing their houses and crying..." And Gungor Uras (mom's favorite columnist and TV commentator in Turkey) said that housing prices may come down. You just be careful!" she says as moms often say.

"So, what is the sentiment in New York?"
"Uhmm, it's really hot. People were sick of the rain but the heat now is unbearable," I offer.
"No, I mean the housing issue. Are people selling? Holding on? Are they able to get mortgages?"
"I dunno Mom..."
"How can you not know? Even I know more than you do about your own country's situation!"
I laugh, impressed with my mom's wits. "Well, how do you know so much?" I ask, egging her to tell me more.

"We live by the dollar here. Dollar goes up, dollar goes down. Bush said this, Condaleza did that. Fed cuts, NASDAQ, it all affects us. Everyone's eyes are on the dollar - how can I not know? You guys are not concerned?"

I think about friends who avoid the city heat by taking the jitney to the Hamptons. On slow Sunday mornings I contemplate going down four flights of stairs to pick up the Times. I usually fill time watching Mun2 -- awesome music program on Telemundo-- and pretend I am in the Carribean or in Mexico. My mom on the other hand, keeps tabs on America.

Babylon

Finishing a book is never so easy. When starting a book, you take a deep breath and dive in. You read and stop. Comes in TV, work, friends and other things. The book carries through, the characters slowly pull you in and give you a seat at the table, a corner in the room, a lane on the road. You weave in and out. You plough through the pages. And there comes the last 50 pages. The drum beat gets stronger and stronger. Like a dancer spinning around and around, while waiting for that last hit to drop to the ground, you read on -- waiting for the end, squinting your eyes before the crash.

We are on the train to Babylon. G is tired from last night's work shift. He is snoozing on and off while the train rattles to the right and to the left. I charge on for the last 50. Here it comes, after 460 some pages of reading about 15 characters tied to Istanbul, gathered at the Ataturk Airport, I have to, have to finish it before we get to Babylon. The book, Istanbullular, by Buket Uzuner, beats on about the multi-cultural, diverse city in its modern day. People hailing from New York, Adana, Athens, San Francisco, Van, Maras, the Black Sea, Germany and previous lives to Istanbul.

The train is getting closer to Babylon, away from Istanbul. I am racing to the gates of the Ataturk Airport along with the crowd in the book. Racing onto the last pages where the main characters live on amidst the chaos of it all. They survive, they reunite in Istanbul. Their lives are changed, but they will add to the mix of Istanbul and re-create the city with their stories.

I look at G - he is drawing cartoons on a piece of paper he had stashed in his pocket with his fine tip, black ink pen. He is waiting for me to get out of that airport. He tells me Babylon is next. I have 1.5 pages left, I tell him. And I hold my breath - until I leave Istanbul and until we reach Babylon.

Uzuner brings Istanbul down with the story of an explosion at the airport and then promises the legends of the city will continue to tell their stories. The cyle will continue. I am far from Istanbul now, but she tells me that it would not be unlikely for me to return. And it would never be the final return.

G shows me the character he's drawn for our intended Istanbul-New York story. I smile. I am done with the book. I slap it closed and move my hand up and down on the back cover. He looks at my exagerrated ceremony, thinking I am being cute. It's not me who's acting up. Istanbul is pulling my strings.

We get off the train at Babylon. It's quiet, orderly -- as if the hundreds of people who all spoke a different language left. The town is covered with a coat of Hollywood studio backdrop for Pleasantville. We walk to the bus that will take us to the beach. The Asian kids are politely introducing their new friends to the circle. The white kids are annoyed by the delayed bus. The Spanish lady drags her metal shopping cart. The Jamaican family gathers around the father. We find ourselves a spot under the shade and listen to mixed rhythms of English.

Babylon is the end of the train line. We need the bus to reach the ocean. And over the ocean, somewhere beyond Europe, is Istanbul. Just as the book says.

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PS: Buket Uzuner thinks of Istanbul an old love that one never gives up; and New York as the first love that one is always excited to run into...here is an excerpt in English from her New York Log.