Shawarma reinforcement

After three weeks of gray Dutch skies with a single day of blue to remind us it was possible, my definition of “good weather” has been adjusted. Lately, gray skies above are mirrored by gray skies within, as updates from my homeland push frustration toward desperation, compassion toward resignation, hope toward disillusionment. Like cliffs inside, that I don’t want to reach. It’s a constant pressure in the soul to know the worst among us are doing their worst, growing greed from a vice into a religion.

Gray skies.

But yesterday was good weather. Not raining. Just gray, cold, windy, bleached. Adding lunch to my errands, I pedaled until my backpack was full and stomach empty, digging out an upbeat song to sing to myself like a war chant.

The Turkish waiters greeted me in Dutch, and I appreciated that they continued even after hearing I’m not a native speaker. The man behind me was welcomed in Arabic. The next two women in Turkish. The next guy in English, his accent perhaps Polish.

The boss nodded to me in recognition even though I’ve only been there a couple times. I ate slowly, watching the community flow through. No one asked for a menu. Some kind of soup was popular. Head scarves and strollers, dirty workman boots, teenage boys who came in looking tough but giggled like schoolmates before long. Elders, friends, cherished children clutching noisy telephone games. Me. A community sharing a warm space.

Each of these people has their own universe, even as we share this one. What have they seen? Who do they miss? How long have they known what some of us are still learning, that the expectation of safety and concept of justice are privileges of the lucky. Fragile things. Where do they find the iron to go on loving and straining anyway?

That restaurant makes the best ayran this side of Istanbul, and their fresh flatbread is so good it feels like eating cake. I knew it would save the rather bland lentils I made the night before. Reading my thoughts, my waiter buddy brought me a bag with a wink. Cai on the house.

Belly warm, shoulders relaxed well away from my ears, I stepped out into the still cold afternoon. My inability to promote my tours the way they deserve was still gnawing at my stomach, but heaping the universal human language of smiles and sustenance had soothed it. Overhead the solid cloudscape looked like an armada of misty ships sailing across the heavens now. Not blank. Not crushing. Humans all smile in the same language. We all want warm meals and friendship, immigrants bring hospitality wherever they go, and community can counter the worst weather.

I’ll ask for the soup next time.