By Anna Frisk
“Come in,” said two Turkish men.
Admittedly, I didn’t understand the burble of their native Turkish, but the universal gesture of summons they made with their hands fluidly communicated the verbal invitation in my mother tongue: welcome.
The men were seated on a sidewalk, in plastic chairs at the height of my knees. Before I could accept and sit, I was presented with a saucer and a tulip-shaped glass of black tea. As I squatted down to reach their level, seemingly hovering above the ground, a new Turk appeared to want to usher me off. Apparently, I needed to meet the rest of the gang. The presence of a foreign female was an exception that demanded attention.
Around the corner, in a non-descript glass-paned building was a gathering of men. Only men. In the swirl of backgammon, card games, and gossip, not a single female could be spotted. There was no kitchen, only a teamaker’s cubicle, a framed photo of Atatürk (Turkey’s uniter and the symbol of the Republic), and the thronging men.
Before I could actually enter, the self-appointed leader rushed over and told me in unexpected English, “Come meet the teacher.”
Surrounded by a pile of scattered game tiles, “the teacher” pushed a chair toward me. Sit. When their attention could be diverted from the game, they asked. Alman? Rus? I knew these words from their repetition, like a record, in Turkey. It was part of the introductory script that flowed from every native’s lips and satisfied some of their inherent curiosity. German? Russian? My blonde hair hinted thus, always making the real answer a constant surprise: American. With the growing crowd of circling men, the answer was accepted with a smile and a grunt of affirmation. “America, good. Obama, good.”
“Turkey, good?” they asked, as the traveler’s script mandated.
The question always presented a particular challenge. I knew the Turkish word for yes, “evet.” However, to sum up a country and its people with one coy word demonstrated little personal opinion. At best, it satisfied and signaled a loose agreement on what the word “good” could mean.
In the Turkish tea house, it came to my attention that the same word could get tangled up in assessing what it meant to have a female-free zone. Sure, it was “good” that men could gather together to have male-bonding and male discussions that flowed freely without a female to cast her judgment. But what about the women?
Where was the meeting point for women? Their own one-gender-only source of backgammon-filled play, or whatever folly they yearned for in secrecy.
The easy answer came from a Turkish colleague a week later. Tradition dictates the Turkish tea house is a place of gathering for men; it is a cultural institution. Why would women be there? Turkey is still conservative, he imparted to me, and it has a history so rich, so deep, it can’t be explained with a wave of a hand. The reasoning seemed as lucid as sliced cucumbers, tomatoes and fresh feta-like cheese for breakfast. Each and every day, year after year. Because tradition in Turkey dictates that.
It’s not just the who that is dictated by tradition, but the how. The decorum of those present at the tea house I visited seemed possessed by this same binding tradition, defined by time. In the more conservative Southeast of Turkey, the spirit of the Middle East becomes even more evident. The çay evi, as the tea house is known in Turkish, rules the neighborhood; and in turn, there are rules to follow. If you don’t like your tea, the tulip-shaped glass is flipped. The upside down nature signals its inadequacy. If you can’t drink anymore, the glass is placed on its side. Words aren’t exchanged, nor are they needed. It’s the social pact.
As I passed from table to table, making my way deeper into the tea house, the character of the place changed from what I originally saw from afar. Because the knowledge of my presence had diffused as efficiently as the sounds of the breaking of a daily fast at dusk during Ramadan (that clatter of plates heard everywhere, all at once), in the tea house everyone’s attention seemed diverted for a moment. Tables waved for my attention; each man wanted to meet me. Or, as I heard from clicks of a shutter on several cellphones, retain evidence of what they had seen inside the tea house– just as I, admittedly, was doing as well.
The subdued chaos of the çay evi continued as I left. Tiles clinked, plumes of cigarette smoke drifted in the air, and the teenage tea runner (a boy, of course) shuffled through the tables with his charge of incoming tea. The social decorum continued, as unchanged as it had for centuries.
To be invited into a Turkish tea house is like being invited into a secret society. Accept it with dignity and linger long enough to sip at least two glasses of tea.
A note to tea connoisseurs: Turkish tea, which is infamous for its strong brew is prepared with a no-nonsense approach: no milk, just sugar. The leaves are grown in the northeast region of the country.
Anna Frisk is a modern nomad seeking a yurt (or tipi). Since leaving her humble home of 200 in Iowa, she has lived in Okinawa, Japan; Beijing & Zhengzhou, China; Santiago de Chile; Baeza & Madrid, Spain; and currently Fethiye, Turkey. Her next big move is scheduled for Arequipa, Peru. Follow her nomadic lifestyle on her blog, Nomadic Ventures, or elsewhere in the digital realm. —nomadicventuresmedia