Meet the (Turkish) Parents
Cheek Kisses, Yakamoz, Mashed Potatoes, and Love
I shut the car door behind me, and felt like I had one foot dangling off the edge of a cliff.
“I can’t. You have to cancel! Tell them I’m sick. Maybe I am sick. We don’t know. We can’t take that kind of risk, can we?”
“You’ll be fine. I promise.”
I wrapped my arms around the flowers we had just purchased at the little florist around the corner. It was a bushel of stems and plants that took a bearhug to carry, the traditional arrangement for the occasion.
“Wait, wait! Show me the kiss thing one more time.”
She shook her head and laughed, giving me a kiss on the left cheek, then switching to kiss the right. “See? It’s not that hard, now is it?”
“It is with you…”
I kissed her, not on the cheek. She had shown me a whole new world, and now it was time for her to introduce me to her world — her family.
This was no ordinary meet-the-parents, this was a Turkish meet-the-parents. The first for her Dad, and inşallah (God willing) the last. The Turkish dad, or Baba, thinks upon this day for their daughter’s whole life. Her Baba happened to be a retired fighter pilot in the Turkish Air Force, and current Captain for a commercial airline. Captain Dingersu (din-gahr-soo). I pictured a burly man, giving little expression and speaking forceful Turkish through a bushy mustache.
They buzzed us in, and we walked up the stairs.
“No turning back now,” she said with a grin.
I repeated Turkish words over and over in my head, I would win them over with my ability to say things like mehr-haba (hello), tay-shek-yoolar (thank you), and loot-fen (please).
The door cracked open, and two of the happiest faces I had ever seen pulled themselves eagerly into the gap.
“Jake! Hoş geldin! Welcome, welcome! Please come in!”
You don’t soon forget your first visit to a Turkish home — it’s a brand of hospitality made eternal in your mind, forged over thousands of years of hosting visitors from far-off lands, harkening to a different time and place altogether — it is, the most welcomed one will have ever felt.
We stepped inside and I saw pictures of her as a child, a tiny, little thing sporting a jumbo-sized smile, cheeks higher than should be possible, eyes beaming with joy. As we walked, her whole childhood passed by in still frames, Baba and ah-ney (Mom) as wide-eyed, twenty-somethings holding their happy little girl in a loving embrace, full of hope and anticipation. A little ways down a new face bounced into the frames, a bright-eyed red-head, with a puckish grin, Egecan, her little brother.
“Jake! Do you know Öyküm’s first word?” Baba paused, barely able to keep from excitedly blurting it out.
“No,” I smirked at Öyküm imagining what it might be, “What was it?”
“Danke! It was danke! Can you believe this?”
I could believe it, she was happy as a clam, and sweet as honey — of course her first word was “thank you”.
The German was no surprise either, both of our Dad’s were Air Force, and stationed in Germany at the same time. One of many happy, little coincidences we would discover, each one like another Easter egg found in a garden. Getting to know each other, it seemed, was as colorful as it was rewarding.
“Jake…” Her mom paused and nodded at the others, making sure she pronounced it correctly, “Please, sit.”
We broke into gleeful applause, making her blush as she insisted it was nothing. She knew English well, but was a bit shy when it came to speaking, much like my Turkish.
I surveyed the feast of colorful foods scattered about the dining room table. Hande (hahn-day) was in the spotlight now, proudly putting her wares on display, and one by one offering them up to me with an expectant, “Yes..?”, followed by heaping scoops, ladles, slices, and pieces finding their way onto my plate and into my bowl.
It was an adventure through time and place, tasting Mediterranean dishes I had only dreamed of, Turkish comfort foods, and of course, buttery mashed potatoes — some things, it turns out, are universal.
We drank wine, and ate, and ate, and ate. I finished my plate, and Hande, pleased with her food’s reception thus far, offered up one more dish…
“Yes..?”
I had read about this bit online. Rule #1 of Turkish meet-the-parents: DO NOT SAY NO TO A TURKISH MOM’S FOOD. This rule was without exception, no matter how stuffed you might be.
“Tabiki!” I said with Oscar winning conviction, lolling in my chair.
A pleased look swept over her face, mission accomplished, Mom’s guest was well-fed, and her food had become love — some things again, it turns out, are universal.
Baba chimed in and saved me from one last deadly scoop of deliciousness,
“Jake, are you ok? Do you want anything more?”
“I wish I could, but I’m too full. It was all amazing though.”
Baba asking if you want more, it turns out, is the stomach-saving loophole to Rule #1.
“Tamam. Tamam. Turkish, Turkish, something Turkish, more Turkish,” they mulled over what seemed to be a plan in the making.
“Jake, actually…the temperature is…not too hot. Maybe we can walk by the sea for a bit?” Baba Varol (vuhr-ahl) said through a smile, brow raised, and finger pointed up in a pose fit for an “aha”. He spoke with the tickled tone of someone having their best day ever, delighted, curious, and just plain happy to be there.
“Sure, sounds great!”
“Tamam then, gidelim.”
We moved back to the foyer, and put our shoes back on with the long shoehorn. Down the stairs we went, toward the shared underground garage — four families lived in the building together. The garage was crammed with awkward turns and walls, partitioning spaces from each other, and creating a labyrinth that looked difficult to navigate. I looked on a bit puzzled as to how these cars managed to get in, and more importantly, how on earth they might get out.
Öyküm had fun letting me try to map it out in my mind a minute.
“Just watch,” she finally said with a satisfied smile.
The others had the same smile, except for Baba. He had a look of focus and determination, one you might expect of someone who hurled through the sky in F4 Phantom jets. Cool, but ready. We plopped into the back seat of the lengthy Mercedes, and our Captain entered the cockpit. The passengers had fallen silent, not wanting to disturb the pilot’s pre-flight rituals.
A little wiggle of the rear-view mirror, a quick glance at the left and right side-view mirrors, brake pedal depressed, engine start, shift transmission to reverse. Initial checks complete. The fasten seatbelt sign turned on, and we buckled up for the ride.
Egecan was to be the ground crew, helping direct our pilot to the runway. It was more of a formality though, as it quickly became clear this was a path Captain Dingersu had taken every day.
He looked back toward the tricky angles and obstacles, peeking over the rim of his glasses to visualize the route. Two turns of the wheel left, and just a bit of thrust; one and a half turns to the right, and a bit more; straight, straight, stop; gentle thrust forward, heading ninety degrees; reverse thrust straight back…little more, little more…and stop. Baba continued his dexterous dance of back-and-forth with only ever centimeters to spare, passengers looking on with oohs, ahs, and nervous eeks. He waved Egecan into the cockpit. All pre-checks were complete, passengers and crew were seated, and seatbelts were fastened.
“And now…we go!” He said, looking back at us with that same joyful smile, satisfied with a job well done.
His crew and passengers were filled with pride, including me. He was a dutiful Captain, loved and respected by his family, and willing to navigate the hard paths every single day, with a smile.
We walked along the sea wall, damp air blowing warm across our path. We laughed and smiled, enjoying those special first moments with childlike curiosity for one another’s culture, language, perspectives, and dreams. Along that sea wall, we came to know one another, and began to love one another. I had happened upon the most delightful family in Turkey, its most loving girl, and its most treasured city.
I looked out at the peaceful night sea, the big moon splashing its light down into the water, a wonder I had no words for.
“Yakamoz.” She said, looking calmly out at the water.
A culture existing for thousands of years, it turns out, had made words to describe even that which seemed indescribable. Yakamoz: the light of the moon cast into dark waters.
I looked at her, looking out there, and couldn’t help but smile.
“Yakamoz”, I repeated back. A new word, for my new world.
Some years later, we would be married at a palace overlooking the river Bosphorus. We danced under that same moonlight, watching the yakamoz twinkle across glassy black water. We would share happy memories and stories over a hundred cups of hot tea, eat olives in the garden with sunlight peeking over the hedges, and we would walk along that sea in the evenings, watching plane after plane make their final approach just above the water.
It was a special place, filled with special people. It was her world, and I felt lucky to be visiting it.
