Meklit Jazz

I was staring at her. I mean, I was trying not to stare at her, but she looked familiar. And once I scoured my brain for who I thought she was I felt the need to confirm that she was who I thought she was. To do that I'd have to get a closer look, and given that I was staring, a closer look also meant I'd need to speak. But I couldn't remember her name. Crammed into an overcrowded room in the Turkish airport awaiting my flight back to San Francisco, with time to kill, what else was there to do.

"Excuse me, you sing don't you?" I felt sheepish and probably looked and sounded a little crazy, but I'd started so what else was there to do but dig in. The woman, short afro with coils springing off in different directions and a guitar resting by her side, offered a small- and I imagine strained - smile and nodded her head affirmatively.

 "I  love your voice," I started and then raced quickly on. "And the lyrics to I like your Afro...'sweet as tej and delicious as injera'." I was paraphrasing what I'd read the lyrics (originally in Amharic) meant.  I had watched I like Your Afro before I left for Turkey and fell in love with the song as much as the video. It was all sexy and fun. And I knew Meklit- her name, I looked up once I had access to the internet, is Meklit Hadero- from Copperwire. I fell in love with her voice in Stories. It was like the coolness of a breeze on a sweltering day, you just want more of it. 

I walked away from her after my gushing moment, leaving my crazy level where it was and not ratcheting it up any further. Imagining how strange it must feel to have someone know who you are completely out of context. Seeing her inspired me though...more live music, more fun things that keep me grounded and happy like my trip to Turkey had been.

Last night I saw Meklit at SF Jazz Center. Her big smile and lilting voice accompanied by bass, trumpet, drums, and the occasional trombone was such a delightful treat. After I settled back into my non-vacation routine (once my sickness finally subsided and I stopped lamenting the absence of Turkish breakfasts waiting for me and hours to loll away on the Aegean sea) I had looked up Meklit's performance information and tried to herd my friends into going...to no success. I went by myself.

I didn't know most of the music. Some of the songs were in other languages. But her voice was still silken- still breezy - still nuanced. And her smile was still broad. She danced and fluttered her fingers in time- or maybe to subtly direct - the other performers on stage as they took turns in the spotlight. 

A few people up in the balcony area stood up and danced. I bobbed in my seat and rocked myself back and forth to the rhythm the group was laying down. But we dancing ones were few. I stared, mystified at the statue like heads, erect ad listening but not even the faintest sway in her breeze. Did they not hear her; were they not moved by the trumpet that conjured up memories of kissing my first high school boyfriend and almost made me blush?

They all clapped. When Meklit offered us her final song the crowd even moaned their sadness that it was over…but still they didn’t dance. We all experienced her in our own ways I suppose.

I stood in line to greet her in the lobby after the show. She must have been exhausted but she held actual conversations with people, took pictures, smiled brightly. I couldn’t decide if I should mention the Istanbul airport, would that be scary would I sound like a crazed fan? Ultimately, I offered in passing that I’d seen her in the airport a while back and her face, rather than darkening in fear, brightened in recognition. “That was you?” 

I nodded. 

“Well we’ve come full circle and now I’ve met you properly,” she said. 

I came home and listened to more of her music, deciding which versions I preferred. Comparing the arrangements they’d done last night to the older ones. And I was happy to have cause to revisit my time in Turkey and to cool myself in the breeze of Meklit’s voice.

My American was showing

Hasty.

My staff's assessment for me in Uganda was hasty. When pressed for specifics no one seemed able...or, maybe, willing...to give me examples. All these years later and I fear they may be right.

I booked my hotel before boarding the Blue Cruise so that my transfer would be organized for my late arrival to Istanbul. My reservation canceled on me the day I was disembarking. I hastily arranged a new place they suggested in the absence of the one I’d booked.

Yes! I’ll take that.

Only, after the exhausting travel and confusion that marked my return to Istanbul my focus wandered in and out. I wanted food. I yearned for sleep. But suddenly we were in a dark alley. No lights, no obvious hotel signs. I began to panic. Where was I?

I’d seen familiar signs...Taksim Square, Sultanahmet. Those were known places to me. This place was not. There were no shadows because everything was shadows, dogs lounged carelessly beside shuttered buildings. Trash was heaped at random intervals.

This was not my idea of a place to stay.

The hotel clerk assured me the full amount (for four days) had already been charged to my card - I suspect they are accustomed to people's less than receptive response to the location. I launched in, I do not feel safe here." my voice was curt- something I didn't intend. Unease and fatigue were exfoliating my travel presence. Unfortunately, my uncomfortable American was showing, not at all my best self.

I composed myself.

"What is your name?" I asked. I apologize Rayan, it is not my intent to be rude; I am very tired. Please excuse me." Rayan smiled and offered me water. He assured me he would explain everything in the morning.

But here is where the haste comes in. Bathed in exhaustion, I climbed the steps to the top floor where my very palatial room(s) awaited. My previous Istanbul hotel was nothing if not compact. This hotel provided me with two bedrooms, one of the large enough for a couch and room enough for me to spin and twirl if I so desired. It also had two patios, facing two substantial mosques.

I also had the acrid smell of smoke that not only permeated the hallway but all of my rooms. I had a chill in the room and three non-functioning heaters. I had one sheet as my only cover (and eventually an additional one I pulled from the other bed. I had to decide, smoke or open windows.

Smoke tempts my asthma. The open windows introduced me to the neighborhood sounds...clanging of some sort, music blaring. I compromised and traded back and forth once one option proved too much.

I found a slug crawling his way across my floor. Where he came from, with me so many stories up, I have no idea.

I slept- finally. But before I slept, I booked a new hotel for my remaining days in the city.

I woke to a not cold but not hot shower and headed downstairs to the typical breakfast. Only this typical had warm bread and freshly pressed orange juice, no just tea.

In the light of day I probably wouldn’t have had such a visceral reaction. In the light of day I would have noticed the three huge beautiful mosques and been enchanted by the call to prayer launching from one and then then another and then the last…then fading away. In the light of day I would have found Rayan delightful and an intriguing person to talk to and learn from. In the light of day I would have realized how far removed I was from tourist food (I hate tourist food).

In the light of the next day I discovered all of those things.

Courtyard of my second hotel

I strolled around the area, found a magnificent view of the city from the grove/grave(?) of Mehmet Emin Tokadi Hz, a spot where people come to pray. I wandered through an actual neighborhood with mostly Turkish people going through their day. I listened to some music.

Still...I already made alternative plans. And if I hadn’t made them, I would worry about coming home from dinner winding my way - conspicuous as I am - through the darkened street.

In the light of that day…and the next…I enjoyed my respite from tourism, saw what I could see before departing for less personality filled accommodations. Next time, I’ll try to be less hasty....

 

The storm -The Agean Sea

I giggled to myself. I bounced a little in my bunk. The light suffused around me. It was no longer dark but hardly seemed like daylight. Phone buried in my bag at the foot of my bed, I didn’t want to look for my phone, unsure I wanted to know the time. I bumped around some more in the grayness and decided the bathroom wouldn’t wait. Resting my foot on the nightstand built into the wall, I scrambled down as noiselessly as possible so as not to wake Anne, sleeping peacefully (it seemed) in the bunk below.

My narrow perch was the result of my own selfishness. For a time I was certain we'd be adding a third person to our closet-sized room and the bottom bunk was a double bed. Not wanting to sleep with a stranger- in the literal, if not biblical sense - I volunteered for the skyward perch just shy of the low wood paneled ceiling.

Calmer waters

Finally down from my bunk, my biological needs met, I meandered to the bow of the ship to contemplate the late night or early morning...whichever I happened to be experiencing. A light rain fell onto the already saturated blue cushions, despite the canvas awning hoisted above. Not wishing to be wet or for the cold that follows wetness without sun, I walked quietly back to my room and nestled down in anticipation of sunup and breakfast and the general start of the day.

The next time I woke the waves, far from gentle, roused me from sleep. I lay listening to the wind and water outside the tiny window open by my head. The colored curtains flitted forward in brief intervals allowing more air in the room. The morning was warmer than it had been the previous night.

It was fun. A minor roller-coaster ride with expected twists and turns. And then there was a thump. The boat dipped low and I flew ceiling-ward, suspended in air for a long second before making contact with the mattress again. The fun was momentarily lost. Suddenly, Erik Larson's Isaac’s Storm, came to mind. Yesterday I'd been reading about the 1900 Galveston hurricane that killed more than 8000 people. True to Larson's style, there are vivid descriptions of boats creaking loudly as they strained against wind and water, much like the boat was now creaking.

Roller-coaster no longer, this was a motorcycle set free downhill, no railing.

Not usually prone to motion sickness, my stomach lurched a little and I was unsure if it was the raucous motion that stretched seemingly endless before me or if was simply hunger.

Anne continued to sleep below and the boat continued to lurch and skip across waves, dive into the bottom of the swells and then rise again on uncertain legs. I joined Anne in intermittent sleep, waking with a start with any bumps of heightened intensity, and then drifting back to sleep with hopes that the unsettled feeling that left my stomach considering the idea of releasing whatever contents lingered from the previous night’s meal, mulling it over but uncertain of where it seemed to land on the matter.

Hot, drops of rain or wave pelting my face startled me awake a final time. I checked the clock on my kindle, well past breakfast, I wondered if I had slept through it, wondered how they might have managed to serve it given the uncertain footing and listing.

Mary was perched in her bed with the door propped open, eager to discuss the morning’s travails: her vomiting, and “the bullshit of it all”. I reminded her that no one, not even a Turkish sailor can control the weather (she reluctantly agreed) and then I wandered to the front cabin.

We were a hodgepodge there. Some who'd been awake since 6am with hopes of seeing the sunrise (they didn't), others too sick to stay in their cabins and praying for calm or solid ground. When I asked about breakfast there were giggles at my predictability (one day at sail and everyone already knew my appetite) and assurances that in our current predicament no breakfast had presented itself.

I sat outside on the bow, the fresh air calming my stomach, and watched as the indigo waters swelled and sprayed salty mist at us with accurate aim. The lounge cushions secured to the front of the boat with red rope, ignored their moorings and flew backwards, arching for sea. The heavy wooden chairs used at meals, heaved occupants forward ad landed with a clatter on the deck.

Finally a city emerged in the distance, hugging the coast, climbing upward toward sky. We anchored in a little cove, the calm waters a welcome respite from the six hours we'd been tossed in all morning.

The crew, no English spoken among them, looked nonplussed. They scrambled to restore order but did so laughing. Most pressing needs met, they readied the ladder so we could swim while they prepared breakfast.

I jumped in the water, holding my nose, anticipating the shock of cold water hitting my skin, but after a few moments, my body temperature dropping to meet the turquoise water, it was pleasant. Salt saturation buoyed me to the surface and for a little while the morning's chaos was forgotten.

Back on the boat, drying myself in the warmth of a slightly muted but delightfully strong sun, one of the passengers chuckled to himself. When pressed about the humor he pointed at the city in the distance, "that city is an hour and a half by bus from where we started this thing." All I could do is laugh with him.

Balloon sunrise- Cappadocia

I lay in the dark, unappreciative of the quiet, warmed to discomfort by the heater. Padding, first to the bathroom and then to turn off the heater, I laid down and waited for 5am –the time I was supposed to wake up. When 5am came and went, I waited for 5:45, when the balloon tour was supposed to pick me, and the three Argentinians, up. I sat outside in the brisk predawn air. My Kindle glowed a slight blue light and my head swiveled every time I saw headlights bounce over the stone gate.

By 6, I began to wonder who to call and if we'd miss sunrise. By 6:15 I was certain we'd been forgotten. Ten minutes later and a gruff driver pulled up with a dull and slightly impatient expression plastered to his face.

The ride to the launch site was short, a few turns and the balloons -in various stages of life - emerged. A few were already high over the horizon, their bright colors washed out in the emerging light. Some were mostly flat, their baskets the only upright form to them. Mine was almost filled, the balloon expanded and bobbing above a basket already filled with people.

I waited until last to climb in, a seeming generosity that was actually self-serving. The last person in, someone shared with me the previous day, ensures the coveted corner spot - ripe for pictures.

The cool air and quiet morning were intermittently shattered by the flash of blue flame roaring in our ears and singeing the exposed parts of my scalp; a welcome and terrifying warmth that made me wonder if my hair would have gone up in spiraled flame had I worn it loose.

Balloons all around us began to drift skyward, graceful like children’s bubbles caught in the wind.

My balloon finally joined them...rising, barely at first, then more steadily…with a collective inhalation of breath- joy and excitement and wonder. More roaring blue flame, more height.

I watched the horizon, broken by the jagged landscape of fairy chimneys, waiting for the sun to escape skyward. And it did, balloons dotted in front of it like party favors. We floated that way for a while, sometimes high in the clear blue sky, sometimes skirting the valleys below-close enough, it seemed, to touch the grass and rock, to jump out uninjured. And when the time came to land, we were pulled down into a field of oats. men who had been following us in a van since we first floated skyward, pulled on heavy ropes, held us steady, dragged the basket- making erratic crop designs in the field.

Champagne topped off our flight- champagne and it wasn't even 7am.