ottservations

The language journey is a spiney one. It's colourful and challenging, but painful. And then there's this question 'how many languages do you speak?' From where this hangs is dependent on so many tiers of the sprawling vine of language knowledge, and a short interchange about tomato types in a market to chatting with a friend's family over tea to handling customer problems on the phone in Italian can bring about completely different outcomes. I've had 'you speak like a native' to 'there is a language barrier, is it better to speak in English?' With Russian it's the same. People are surprised when they hear I speak Russian, and often say 'and where did you learn such good Russian?' but I also got from a baker in a dusty bread booth 'you speak Russian badly, don't you', so matter-of-factly, I just laughed.  The job I have currently involves solving problems with printers. 'I'm so jealous you get to practice your Itali...

The Sulphur Baths The marinating process has begun. I am cocooned in layers of shlopping and pattering sounds that reach me at different intensities, the ceaseless and formless sounds of water. It is a dank and foggy cocoon. I am melting in an eggy fug. The walls are like mud. The ceiling is domed like a church with a cylindrical crown on top where one would expect to see frescos. Instead, a grimy glow comes from a window that hasn't been cleaned for decades. I'm in a blue-tiled pot. Simmering, stagnating, steeping in sulphur steam. Flesh is all around. We turn into dough. Russian and Georgian echoes from the naked masseuses. I have deeply seeped into oblivion. "Girl, come." I am laid on a concrete slab. I'm kneaded and crushed, slapped and stretched. I am scrubbed in coffee grounds. I feel like I'm in a burrow, condemned to damp gloom. No shame here. Legs wide open, women shaving pubes. Folds are lifted to access various crevices. The water splatters down. Th...

A few days prior to 26th May, my Georgian colleagues darkly joke that this might be one of the last independence days. On the same day, my friend tells me he wants to live in Europe because he is sick of living under the constant fear of a full-scale Russian invasion. This stress of insecurity has intruded on his whole young life. His childhood village was in South Ossetia which was stolen by the Russians in 2008, robbing him of memories that once were simply part of a happy childhood. Now it's painful for him to remember. I am squashed within the patriotic crowds. Children are on men's shoulders and wave Georgian flags clutched in sweaty hands. It's getting hot. Children clamber up pillars and wave flags on the ledges. I see a kalashnikov tattooed on someone's neck. Children are crowned with flowers and wave the flag of the European Union. I can smell puffs of garlicky breath. Sweat beads on faces. Children's backpacks, of the flowery or ladybird or superman variet...

Recently reflected on how I've spent most of my work life shovelling excrement. Horse, cow, rabbit, ferret, pig, human, dog (does snail count? Used to own two African snails, god bless, Peter & Judith), bird, and most recently, mouse. My brother kindly reminded me of this fact when we were catching up outside at home. We were sitting at the table looking out over the view of hills that roll far beyond. A slice of field, yellow with flowers, cut through the green. I wasn't really listening to what he was saying and interrupted, reminiscing about the time when during his GCSE 'revision' period (he was mostly taking selfies for his insta) he had come downstairs to this very same table when my mum, dad and I were having tea together. He had gazed into the distance at the aforementioned rolling hills. We all thought he was gathering himself to recount his hard day's findings on Heller's Catch 22. Instead, he breathed out deeply and said, 'I wish I was a cow...

*Read PART I first for context PART II 27th April, Izmir to Kars Izmir, morning  Went for a run, wafts of bread and orange blossom on air. Saw piles of cut lemons in bowls and wondered what they were for. Bought a bottle of tahini. Walked along the pier and did a few voice notes. What on earth was last night?! Saw Pirate and had a nice chat. Drank coffee with some men in a kahvehane (coffee house). They smoked inside and constantly fuelled their çay cups with sugar cubes from coloured plastic pots. There were carpets on the tables, a portrait of Mustafa Kemal, and a light sellotaped to the ceiling's fan. They didn't let me pay for the coffee.  Late morning  Checked out and met the Frenchies again for çay before bus to Ankara. Three cups in plastic red saucers, two sugar cubes each. Victor measures the price of goods in cups of tea. Cook from last night walked past, shook our hands, and again scraped his middle finger down my palm. Asked Frenchies what they thought it mean...

This entry is written in note form to firstly condense style, secondly to give more freedom, and thirdly was inspired by a chapter in my book. N.B. *no details made up or exaggerated in party scene *çay (pronounced 'chai', means tea in Turkish) Part I 26th April, London to Izmir Stansted Airport   Fined £100 for not having a railcard, even though I did. Why can't these ticket men understand that life isn't black and white and defined by tick boxes? Smooth check-in and security check. Bought myself a hot pink lipstick, 'it's non-smack' the lady told me. Proven to be a lie as was swiftly removed when I ate my sardines in the toilet. Sardines are my 'go-to' snack when travelling, in fact, my 20kg suitcase was mostly made up of these handy tins. Pros: transportable; very healthy; a good hangover cure (seem to always be hungover in airports); filling. Cons: attract strange looks so mostly one must eat in public toilets; the oil gets everywhere; is embar...

The more we're hurt by beauty, the more we love the world; and the more we love it, the more we're saddened when earth becomes sky and the sun cuts it out into shadows and  edges and wedges of light. Electric, we exist in two forms; bitten in half. Angels and trees fall onto mountains and the face of your friend smiles, a mirror of light's perfection. It dazzles you with the sorrow that it all must come to an end. "Beauty is precious, you see, and the more beautiful something is, the more precious it is; and the more precious something is, the more it hurts us that it will fade away; and the more we are hurt by beauty, the more we love the world; and the more we love it, the more we are saddened that it is like finely powdered salt that runs away through the fingers, or is puffed away by the wind, or is washed away by the rain."  Birds Without Wings, Louis de Bernières