turkey with a splash of cran

Every time a Turkish person hears my name they ask the same question: Oh, Leilla? Where are you from? They seem disappointed, almost offended, when they hear my name's inspiration: Eric Clapton. But why? Surely they cannot dislike one of the most influential guitarists of all time. Perhaps, full of Turkish pride, they wish that my name were more relevant to their grand Ottoman history. Little do they know by being named after one of the greatest rock and roll songs in history my name actually predates the Ottoman Empire and most of the Middle East as it exist today, dating back to the Arabian Peninsula in the 7th century.

In fact, my name was indirectly inspired by Persian poetry, as this was the inspiration for the legendary song. Clapton had fallen in love with Pattie Boyd, the wife of his friend George Harrison, and was completely consumed by it. Another friend of Clapton's who was in the process of converting to Islam, Ian Dallas, introduced him to the 12th century story of Layla and Majnun, written by the Persian poet, Nizami Ganjavi.

Little known in the West, Layla and Majnun is one of the most popular stories in the Islamic wold. Considered by some to be the original Romeo and Juliet, it has inspired legends, poems, songs and epics from the Causcasus to Africa and from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean. As is common with Turkish names, the hero’s name mirrors his fate; 'Majnun Layla' means ‘driven mad by Layla.’ The story also inspired a Turkish colloquialism: to "feel like Layla" is to feel completely dazed, as might be expected of a person who is literally madly in love. The story also struck a chord (so to speak) with Clapton and inspired the name of his song, and indirectly, the name of me.

As the story goes, Qays was a beautiful boy who met his fate, Layla (named after the Arabic word for night for her large, dark eyes), at the age of ten. At that young age they both succumbed to a devastating love that would last their entire lives. Here there are differing versions of the story. In one, Layla's father had already promised her to another man and thus refused Qays' request to marry Layla. In the alternative, their love was noticed by others and became the object of gossip and scorn, so Qays refrained from seeing Layla and harming her reputation further. His heart broke and he slipped into melancholy until he heard that Layla's tribe had denied her right to see him in order to protect her (and their) honour.

Upon hearing that their love was forbidden he tumbled into madness; Qays became Majnun. "A madman he became - but at the same time a poet, the harp of his love and of his pain." Poetry became his salvation from the sorrow of heartbreak, the same instrument used by Clapton 13 centuries later.

Majnun retreated into the wilderness where he became unkempt and did not know good from evil. His father took him on a pilgrimage to Mecca to seek Allah's help in freeing him, but his madness only intensified. He struck the Kaaba and cried, "none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for love's sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is. Love is all I have, all I am, and all I ever want to be!" He thus continued to wander "like a drunken Lion" chanting poems of Layla's beauty and his love for her. He remained in the wilderness, preferring the company of animals to men despite the pleas of his mother and father as they lay on their death beds. Many people came to hear him and wrote down the poems he spontaneously spoke.

These poems eventually reached Layla, who had been holding their love quietly. As the poem goes, "she lived between the water of her tears and the fire of her love, yet her lover's voice reached her. . . . No tent curtain was woven so closely as to keep out his poems. Every child from the bazaar was singing her verses; every passer-by was humming one of his love-songs, bringing Layla a message from her beloved."

Layla refused suitors and instead wrote answers to Majnun's poems and cast them to the wind. Eventually a passer-by realized their hidden meaning and for whom they were intended, so delivered Layla's replies to Majnun in the hopes he would be rewarded with some of the poems that had become so popular. "Thus many a melody passed to and fro between the two nightingales, drunk with their passion."

Eventually Layla was married to another but refused conjugality. Majnun heard of her marriage and of her faithfulness. You can almost picture Majnun in the wilderness, scratching Clapton's lyrics into the dirt:

Like a fool, I fell in love with you,
Turned my whole world upside down.
Let's make the best of the situation
Before I finally go insane.
Please don't say we'll never find a way
And tell me all my love's in vain.

After the death of Layla's husband she openly mourned her love for Majnun and died shortly thereafter. Madder still with grief, Majnun died at Layla's tomb and was buried beside her.

Clapton was profoundly moved by the story of the boy who fell in love with a beautiful, unavailable woman and descended into madness without her, as it mirrored his own life. Clapton wrote 'Layla' based on his reaction to the story and hoped its message would convince Boyd to leave Harrison for him. Eventually she did just that, but the marriage was not to last.

His is but one chapter in an extensive list of great works inspired by the 7th century story, a list which I am happy to report includes me. So, my apologies to all the locals who mistook me for a Turk, but as it turns out, my story goes back to a time when the Ottoman Empire and Islam itself were but babies in the womb.

I made the mistake of visiting my mom in the suburbs a few days ago. It rivaled one of the worst days of my entire life.

Most of the time when I visit her I do so in a way reminiscent of a presidential motorcade traveling through a slum: windows up, gas pedal down. Get me through this, as fast as possible, in a comfortable car. This is a fine way to experience the area known as the 'Tri-Cities,' a name less apt than 'Strip Mall Meadows' or 'Port Industrial Heartland.' A friend's Lonely Planet on Canada included a warning about the Tri-Cities along the lines of, "this area is a desolate wasteland, do not visit there for any reason." I'm not exaggerating. It actually said that!

On this fateful visit I had made the unwise decision to sleep in, miss the European-esque, uber comfortable, super speedy, and picturesque train into downtown, and instead spend the morning at my Mem's. Operation Laziness meant I would travel back to the west side via public transit, aka the Welfare Wagon, aka the Rock Bottom Express. It was very hot, made worse by the Tri-Cities distance from the ocean and the source of clean, cooler air. It was also very humid, heat was reflecting off the miles and miles of pavement, and there was nothing nice to look at. I wanted desperately to arrive at my destination: the beach. Luckily one of my best friends called from Toronto just before I arrived at the bus loop so I happily boarded as 'that girl' who would be speaking on her phone unashamedly for everyone's eavesdropping pleasure. Little did I know my excitement to talk to her caused me to get on the wrong bus. We pulled out of the bus loop and the Suburb's Evil Plot of Torture began.

Quite soon into the journey I realized something was not right. We turned left instead of right and were headed east, toward even scarier cities than the three I was attempting to leave. The girl beside me confirmed that we were headed toward downtown - downtown PoCo. Imagine my horror! I do not ever want to imagine what that downtown would look like let alone see it for myself, so I hung up with Julia, had a mild panic attack, and readied myself to get off at the next stop. At that point the girl beside me offered to take me to the correct bus stop on the opposite side of the road. On the short walk there she told me every significant detail of her life, her upbringing, her marriage, her dog, her dog's bathing habits, then asked if I wanted to be friends and exchange numbers. It was a truly impressive feat to say so much in such a short time but my awe was interrupted by the fact that this stranger (in every sense of the word) had just asked for my number. My mind raced as I thought of potential answers. She was married so was not hitting on me, so the "I'm not into girls" line wouldn't work. How do you tell someone you're not interested in friendship? Sorry I have way too many friends as it is, I'm trying to diversify my friendship portfolio so am not making friends with white girls anymore, your ability to speedtalk is bizarre and freaks me out. Uncomfortable with all my options I gave her my number. Thinking back on it, we were in the suburbs so she was probably drunk or high or married to her cousin or all of the above and won't remember the entire incident. Inshallah!

Eventually the correct bus came but not before I had a figurative and literal meltdown. The bus stop faced south on the side of the Lougheed highway meaning the glass caught all the heat, noise, exhaust, and road rage that typifies the area. All I wanted was to GET OUT but the suburbs were not letting me! And everyone who roared past and tossed me pitying looks from inside their air conditioned gas-guzzling SUV made me want to scream.

Half an hour after arriving at The Worst Bus Stop on Earth the bus came. My journey would be another hour and a half without the bus and new friend fiasco - not what I signed up for. The bus ride itself typified the crassness of the suburbs in a satisfyingly frustrating way. An overweight woman attempted to short-change the driver who then took it personally, leading to a showdown of words that spanned the length of the bus and at least two of the Tri Cities. I speak for all the passengers when I say they made us feel quite uncomfortable, not at all alleviated by the incessant meowing from somewhere near the back. It was like that poor animal was the only one who vocalized the discomfort we were all feeling. My favorite part of the journey was when a rather cute construction worker sat beside me and proceeded to fall asleep on my shoulder in slow motion. Either that or he was blatantly staring down my top, but I let it slide as he provided some distraction from the screaming/meowing symphony.

It was with great relief that I finally arrived to my destination and plunged into the ocean at Kits. The salty water and sunshine washed away the stress of the day and I embraced everything west side. I only wished that I could have wrapped myself in fresh air and those big, beautiful mountains. Of course I will be back, my Mom lives there and there are actually lots of fun things to do. However, never again will I believe myself hardened enough to tackle the Tri Cities via public transit.

The dream life is over and reality has struck. I'm home. Job-searching is the new globe-trotting and cover letters are devouring all of my writing time. Instead of searching for delicious Turkish treats I am in search of the elusive 'income.' Rather than facing the Sea of Marmara underneath Istanbul's iconic silhouette I am faced with a well-intentioned tidal wave of dear friends asking what I'm up to now. Analogy to the rescue!

I am a handicapped Dutch bicycle. Let me explain.

I had the great fortune of spending my last night in Europe in Amsterdam with one of the funnest people on the planet. George is the sort of person who thinks every idea is a great one, especially the terrible ones. He is best described as 'dangerously optimistic.'

The night began in typical fashion. George and I were trying to meet his friend Scott who was lost and phoned to say that he was 'by the water.' In Amsterdam. The best part was that George seemed to recognize the landmark and march off toward it, which also meant marching away from it as we were standing beside a canal at the time.

We finally managed to find Scott (by a canal as chance would have it) and carried on for a Red Light District bender. Anyone who has been there will know the uncomfortable fascination that always results in you consuming way more than if you were drinking in an area without naked prostitutes lining narrow streets. George's 'that's a GREAT idea!' mentality was contagious and soon we found ourselves over-served, enthusiastically buying a bicycle from a homeless man.

From a distance the bike was beautiful. She was shiny with a large frame and big perfect tires. She had simple elegance without the fuss of bells or whistles or horns. 15 euros was a bargain for a bike such as her and it was no effort to convince George of the merits of owning a bicycle in Amsterdam for the night. There was a flash of Euros and BOOM - she was ours.

It turns out looks that can be deceiving. We soon found ourselves with 3-way joint-custody of a handicapped child. Our silver stallion was sadly without brakes or a chain, making her little more than a bicycle-shaped skateboard that we couldn't do any tricks on.

Some irritating bystanders thought the whole thing was quite funny and like any good parents we ignored them. Our little girl was perfect just the way she was. In fact, she could do all the things that an able-bodied bicycle could do, just in a different way. She could still accelerate if you only used your feet a little or had a push from behind, and she could still stop if you only drove her into a wall or fence. Plus once she got going she rode like a champ.

We took her on a late night joy ride through Amsterdam's empty streets, an infinitely satisfying activity after trying to navigate them with millions of terrifying cyclists during the day. Then we got lost and we got tired so left her on the sidewalk outside the hotel. What? It was just a bike. That is where she was stolen by one of the city's numerous bike-thieves who either sold her to other 'dangerously optimistic' tourists, or has freakishly long legs and loves her as much as we did. I hope it is the latter.

You are probably wondering what the hell I'm talking about and how a bike remotely resembles being unemployed with a masters. As I said before, I am the handicapped bike (this analogy may have more parallels than I first thought... please don't read too much into this one). I have no chain and no brakes, so all I can do is try to look good from a distance and point myself in the right direction with the hope that someone fun helps me along, because once I get going there will be no way of stopping.

I need more feet: two to carry me between life-highlights, two to kick my heels with joy at the fantasy life I am living, and another two to dig my heels in, feet firmly planted, so that I cannot be moved. Let's reflect on the past few weeks so you can appreciate my pedi-predicament.

Two weeks ago I handed in the final essay of my masters degree (BOOOYA!). Having two legs was just fine at that time because I was moving in one direction: completion. Once I had crossed the academic finish line I was full of boundless energy, more than these stems knew what to do with. They treated me to a personal best run of 21k because I had the time (why not?) then trotted me up a tarmac staircase and onto an airplane headed east for a victory lap with Emilie.

Joined by Seb, the three of us made excellent use of all our limbs as we explored the area around Trabzon and Kars. Initially, however, the 5 am departure caused our extremities' energy to be subdued as we wandered through the faded and scratched out frescoes inside the Sumela Monastery.

We broke bread in the spirit of Christ (and olive tapenade) but it took a meandering bus ride through the countryside toward Kars to revive our tired limbs.

Not wanting any residual Soviet stiffness to creep into our bones, we made haste to escape into the ruined fields of Ani. Mottled sunlight on lazily-rolling hills illuminated centuries-old stone buildings, formerly the Armenian capital.

The peace and striking beauty of Ani was so great that amazement manifested into movement and we became Mexican jumping beans, bouncing and leaping through the fields. If legs could sing ours would have put a southern gospel choir to shame. It was incredible.

Ours were not the only feet hard at work, though. Soon our flailing sexped was joined by a multi-hoofed herd consisting of cows, goats, two shepherds and one ass.

It is not every day you can befriend dashing young Turkish shepherds and ride their donkey through such a landscape. We celebrated our new bond by sneaking into the fenced off area and taking silly pictures, as you do.

Of course no trip would be complete without a freak storm, so we were lucky that unexpected hail, wind, torrential rains and cracking lightning directly overhead marked our frantic scamper back to the bus.

The energy in our limbs was similar to that in a rising crescendo: every sight was a note higher; it made our hair stand on end a little more and our smiles a little wider.

Of course our legs could hardly contain themselves, so the following day when we rounded the final bend of the grassy trail high on the inside of the gorge leading to Seyan Kale it is a wonder they didn't high-kick us directly into the river below.

When our crescendo reached its climax beauty was everywhere. Wandering the dusty, forgotten streets of Kars we stumbled upon precious old men who tugged at our hearts by simply walking down the street or sitting on a bench.

It was around this time I began to wonder if I could use a few more limbs to make use of all this happy energy. I bet octopi have no problem expressing themselves when they are super duper happy. Lucky spineless jerks. And it's not only that. On top of having a lot of happiness to get out I also feel like running in many different directions: back to Istanbul to get a job, to the nearest travel agent to cancel my flight home, to the magnificent Mediterranean seaside to cannonball into its salty embrace. It's not easy having such a wonderful life. I expect you are full of pity, and I thank you for that.

This is not the Istanbul I know. Touring the famous parts of the city has become exhausting and the throngs of tourists (of whom I am nothing alike) annoy me to no end. The men selling balık ekmek in Eminönü wear little stupid hats now, belittling their ottoman roots. They never did that in the winter. Cute waiters with perfect English keep asking which hotel I am staying at. I LIVE HERE. I am nothing like these foreign people who whirl through town like the dervishes they buy overpriced tickets to see. This is my city! The ferries, the chaos, the history, the rakı, the beautiful cats, the mangy dogs, the Bosphorus, the broken pavement, the spices, the casual backgammon and nargile, the çay, the cultural richness, the silhouette of the most beautiful city in the world from the Asian shore - it's all woven into the tapestry of my life now. Taking a drunken dolmuş between continents (where I write this now) is a normal part of my routine. My limited understanding of Turkish is my constant inner monologue, and bartering my way down to a 'Turkish' price for things is a precondition for any sale. Being told that my accent sounds Turkish makes my head buzz (in a good way). I have seen more of Turkey than most of the Istanbulus I've met here and eaten pretty well every important Turkish dish. My name is Turkish for goodness sake! I feel uncomfortable exposing knee or shoulder regardless of temperature and expect men to move on buses so I can sit beside another woman. I have internalized countless cultural habits, most of which I probably won't be aware of until I get home and feel completely out of place. I have fallen in love HARD with this city and this country in a personal way. Istanbul is in my blood.

My eyes burn thinking of this next sentence: How will I ever leave?