Lonely Candy

"I'd like you to send me half a kilo of Mabel chocolates, tu sais des bonbons..." my grandpa told my aunt.
She huffed, "What for?"
"I need to have some sweets in my pocket. I run into friends. I give a little something to them as we catch up."
"I don't think they're expecting this. Dad, why don't you stop coming up with irreverent requests? Do you realize how much this costs?"
"But they are expecting it. Plus, they call me Seker Dede (Sweet Grandpa). I have a name to protect!" he protested.
"Dad, why don't you buy half a kilo of meat instead?" she smacked back, raising her voice.
"Fine, we'll see.." Grandpa hung up after a long, deep sigh.


Grandpa came over for lunch with Esma, his live-in aid. Since he lost much of his eyesight, Esma helps him around the house, cleans up after him, cuts his meat. Today at lunch, we all watched him chase his food. Esma pushed her plate aside and made sure his spoon was full of rice, his fork latched onto the tomato slice.

He knew we were watching. He ate so quickly--so that we could look some other way, Esma could eat her food and he could be a normal, competent man sitting in his chair.
"Do you want me to make you some coffee Grandpa?" I ask, trying to break the ice.
"Later maybe... Don't want you to get tired... Enjoy yourself, rest a bit after lunch..." he responds in a nonchalant fashion.
"No, no it's nothing... I'll get to it, " I insist.

We move into the living room. I sit beside him with our small coffee cups. He says he's not sure if he'll be around next time I come to visit him in Turkey. He always complained about this and that, but this time he means it. He's lost all hope. I can sense it. I know it.

My mom is about to slip off the armchair. She's exhausted. Grandpa takes notice, " Why don't you go rest a bit and I'll take off soon." Mom wants him to stay but go. He's lonely, he misses us, but she's still reeling from her operation. She needs rest. The simplest things, including putting a couple extra plates on the table, exhaust her.

Grandpa, with our and Esma's help, proceeds to the apartment door. We help him put on his jacket. Esma puts on his scarf, holds his bag. I kiss him good bye. He pulls two pieces of candy from his pocket and stashes them in my palm.

"A little something for you, " says Sweet Grandpa.

Manamu

During the holidays travel craziness, nations split into lines at the JFK airport. Moroccans in front of Air Morocco, Turks in front of Turkish Airlines and Greeks in front of Olympus. Then it all becomes a big mess when everyone drops off their bags and rushes to go through passport control. The Mediterraneans form close knit groups that forgo any sense of personal space. Israelis look for ways to cut in, Swedes stand tall and above it all, Korean moms make sure their children don't stray far. And all wave good bye.

While leaving for Istanbul this year, I lined up behind a Greek woman waving 'adiosas' to her family. I wanted to hear her speak the beautiful, lyrical language. I missed my Grandma Marianthi, I missed my family speaking in Greek with her.

The woman's little granddaughter kept yelling, "Bye bye Yaya! Bye bye Yaya!" She replied to her, calling her with all the love words I heard growing up, "Bye bye manamu, aghorichimu, naseharo!" Same words my grandma would call out to me after I told her a story, did a dance for her, showed her something new I got from the street bazaar...or sometimes in the middle of the day, just cause.

The family exchanged more phrases about going there, coming back. I looked up at the ceiling and then to the flight board ahead, with tears trickling down my cheeks. They had not said anything to me. They were not aware of my eves dropping. I counted the arriving flights to divert my attention: Air Morocco, Turkish Airlines, Olympus.

And the little girl continued screaming - good bye Yaya! Bye Yaya!

Bank at Home

I am obsessing over my retirement account - not that I have much in there. It goes up and then it comes down. I must have chosen my stocks poorly. Or I simply lack long-term vision, as the phone-assisted investment analyst tells me. I worry even more about the little amount of money my parents put into an account for me in Turkey. I don't get quarterly updates, although I was promised personalized emails. I keep asking my mom if she has gotten anything in the mail. She says, "Don't worry, we'll figure it out at the end of the year." Everybody trusts their business to God in Turkey, but I am used to the American way: A detailed breakdown please. I want to see a plus sign somewhere and a fat booklet in gibberish about why the analyst team worked so hard to bring my .0001 cents to .0002, managing that fund.

I don't get anything in the mail, so as any well-trained daughter would do, I nag my mom. She has access or she can get it, that I am sure.

"By the way, have you gotten anything from the bank?"
"No, I told you,"
"Still, I wanted to ask. Maybe something changed since last week. Never mind... I am pulling my money out!! Out! That's it!!"
"Your principal is too small to report. That's what I think is happening..."
"Ma, don't be ridiculous. Bank doesn't care how much I have. It doesn't have feelings or a strike of politeness to spare me the embarrassment of seeing my account details..."
"Offf, tamam, tamam...ok ok..." she says.
"We'll sort it out when you visit here," she brushes me off.

Following week, I get good news. The bank representative has agreed to share information. She heard through the grapevine that my mom is still recovering. She doesn't want my mom to get tired so she will come over to my parents' and go over everything, in-person, in our living room! I am sure Mom will offer her coffee and she will insist that the rep stays just a bit more and have a tiny bite of something.

That beats my online banking, I say.

The Subway Stare Down

I've been accused of staring at people in the subway before. I always intend to read and mind my own business but sometimes I am just too tired. I blank out and I stare.

I look and look until the person across from me crosses his or her eyebrows and gives me the silent NY diss "Whatchuwant? Huh?" Then I wake up and pick someone else and then someone else. I continue until the doors are about to jam close and I need to dart out.

This time though, I got stared. I looked up and pulled away. She did too! She opened her book, turned to where she had left off. But then looked up again, curious, forcing her mind to match my face to someone she knew. Did I know her from some...place? She...looked...familiar... As we pulled from Delancey into Brooklyn, I placed her! She had the Moroccan gift shop I loved to frequent on Court Street.

I used to go into her store, Kasbah, stare, stare and touch and play with everything in sight--jewelry, rugs, painted glasses, ornate shelves, goat skin lamp shades. I loved these exotic escapades. Then I would buy the token of the day: a small tin lamp like Aladdin's or a blue tea glass and say farewell until we met again the following weekend.

She moved her shop: first to Red Hook, then to East Village. It's called Timbuktu now. It has a wider variety of gifts and relics. For some reason, Timbuktu is more accessible for the American crowd than a Moroccan Kasbah.

I smiled at her. She remembered too. She smiled back, nodding her head; miming "How are you?"

"Off to Red Hook?"
"Yes," she said.
"Same place?"
"Yes," she said.

I smiled and looked down. She returned to her book. I decided to stare at the baby in the stroller -- the one on the left.