Where am I?

Where am I?

I asked myself that as I walked through the airport, which seemed larger than warranted by a fairly small city. Making a statement? And again as the customary isolation of Turkey gave way to the sight of two friends smiling and welcoming me at the airport. It's been a long time since that happened.

Where am I? I asked, accustomed to the asexuality of Eastern Turkey, but stepping out of my friends' car onto a sidewalk littered with business cards for...strippers? Prostitutes? I was too bemused to check what the lingerie-clad lasses were selling.

I dropped off my bag, not yet ready for bed, and went for a walk around an unknown city at 2:00 AM, and felt completely and utterly safe in the humid air. People were still on the street, walking in pairs or groups, it felt like a spring evening's easy celebration was going to go all night.

What planet are you from? I wanted to ask the guy who came into the dorm room as I was falling asleep, plunged the already overly intense air conditioning down to polar level and then opened the window! Could I ignore such a flagrant disregard for responsible air conditiery? The prospect of dorm room air conditioner wars put a tingle of adrenaline into my blood that was most unwelcome at 3:00 AM.

Where am I? I ask myself that a lot here. Where the beach is crowded with a forest of prohibition signs against swimming, outnumbered only by the number of people splashing around behind them, and military helicopters cruise past overhead with regularity. Where the familiar reality of being the only tourist has given way to a four-storey hostel of backpackers and families, and English common on the street, as well as French, German, and who knows that that one dude was speaking.

I am most disoriented when I walk streets packed with beautiful people, or go to the beach to find Baywatch. Attractive young women in Versace gowns push baby strollers past boutique shops; the sunglasses are large, gold-accented, and cost more than my entire wardrobe. Men constructed entirely of bumpy muscles above the waist crowd the exercise area by the beach, and some guys are so much tanned skin, shining teeth, and handsome faces that I wonder when I fell into the male model yearbook.

Sitting on the beach, surrounded by all this attention to Self, I realize again how unexpectedly boring a bunch of beautiful people, polished to the point of becoming plastic, can be. Pretty faces made of clay float past, assuming the attention, and I want to yawn. Ik zou liever met iemand, precies één iemand, kunnen praten. The nail parlors and hair salons do a brisk and continuous business.

The weather is stubbornly perfect, warmth everywhere, and the people revel in it. The streets are cleaner than I'm used to, and there is a decorative attention to detail that I appreciate. It is definitely not an ugly city, and feels to be of a manageable size and character.

But it's not Santa Barbara.

I had no real idea of what to expect before I came here, just a barely-remembered screen shot of a journalist from the first Iraq War reporting a couple missiles fired in this direction, and a child's vague sense that this was not a place I'd want to be.

Fortunately for me, I was wrong about that. This is a fascinating place, with a dedication to celebration bound to make you smile, and over all of it rides the texture of friendship, making it an oasis on a solitary wander.

In an hour I'll be eating fresh-made hummus, served warm. Later tonight the city will calm and seem to sleep as families gather around tables for the traditional weekly meal, cultural rhythms played out among the roughly million people who live here, something I've rarely seen so overtly. (I wrote this Friday morning, but didn't have time to post it.) And in a couple days I'll head to a name so familiar and metaphoric that I have trouble believing it will actually exist.

Where am I?