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Road Stories: Social Distance, the Smell of Coffee, and Getting Lost

I wish I could write these lines to you from a time when concepts like Corona, testing, quarantine, and social distancing were not part of our lives. Maybe while sipping an ice-cold beer in Prague or taking a coffee break at the first café I saw after getting off a local bus in Thailand… Now, however, I am sitting in a hospital garden, looking at everyone who approaches me as if they were an enemy, and writing with mixed emotions.

It’s an ordinary morning in Ankara. People suffering from various ailments pass by. As I sit here, every time I close my eyes, I find myself lost in the streets of another city. In my memories, there are no concepts like social distancing. I’m in the white city of Belgrade. I’ve lost my way trying to find a vehicle. I have no internet, and there aren’t many people around. With a backpack full of orders from my colleagues, I try to figure out which way to go. A couple walking their dogs approaches. I ask them for help. At that moment, I might be the luckiest person in the world. I meet Maya, who has hitchhiked through all of Europe and the Balkans, including Turkey. After an excited conversation, they invite me to their car to take me where I need to go. I accept without hesitation. We walk to their small Volkswagen. I settle into the back seat with their dog, Alex.

 Cake, Coffee, Lahmacun

Everything I touch in the car falls apart. While I’m struggling to close the door, Bogdan reaches back with a string and ties the door handle to the front seat. As I try to suppress my laughter to avoid embarrassing them, they both start laughing at my efforts. On the way, Maya turns to me and asks if I have a thermos. I say no. She asks if I have time for a quick stop at her home. I agree, and we stop in front of an apartment building that I can’t quite place. I stay in the car with Alex because it would be hard to settle back in. They run into the building. In less than 10 minutes, they return with the same speed. We hit the road again.

While driving, Bogdan talks about simit, döner, and lahmacun, which he claims is the best thing he has ever eaten. We’re at the place where they will drop me off. The conversation has progressed so much that we can’t seem to part. They invite me to their home for my next visit, and we exchange phone numbers. Suddenly, Maya rushes to the car with a bag and a thermos. The smell of homemade warmed cake and freshly brewed coffee fills the air. After hugging them again, I watch them leave. Unable to resist the smell of the cake any longer, I sit in a corner and pour coffee into the thermos cap. Feeling like a new lover who just left a date, I text Maya that the cake and coffee are delicious and thank her. “We’ll miss you, come again,” she replies. Right now, I truly am the luckiest person in the world.

A little old lady just touched my arm and asked for the location of the elevators. I looked at the arm she touched with fear. I took two steps back. I didn’t want to tell her the location of the elevator. I wanted to take her there myself. I haven’t approached the elevators for days. I just pointed in the direction with my hand. It’s not a normal day. If it were, I would walk with her to where she was going. On the way, she would talk about her grandchild or complain about her daughter-in-law. I wish she had the strength to climb the stairs. Maybe then I could hear all the stories about her grandchild.

Social Distance Can’t Block the Smell of Coffee

I smell the cheap coffee I got from the cafeteria. It doesn’t smell like the coffee Maya brewed. I close my eyes again. I’m in the back streets of Baia Mare. I’m an incorrigible smoker. I left my friends just to buy tobacco. All the buildings look the same, it’s extremely hot, and I seem to have lost my sense of direction completely. I don’t remember how many times I passed the same spot, thinking it was the right place, only to find it wasn’t. I have no credit on my Romanian line, so I can’t call anyone. Because of my countless disappearances, no one bothers to look for me anymore. They joke that, like a stray cat, I’ll find my way eventually.

I sat on the edge of the sidewalk. It’s a beautiful street, and I’m in no hurry. It doesn’t feel like I’m the one who’s lost. The curtain of the house across from me keeps moving. I’m calmly rolling a cigarette. An old man keeps peeking out from behind the curtain and then ducking back in. Finally, I laugh and wave. He waves back. He gestures for rolling, and I motion for him to come over. He comes out with a lady about the same age, and I hand him the tobacco packet and papers. We’re sitting on the sidewalk rolling cigarettes together. I remember wondering how we must look to others passing by.

How do you say “I’m lost” in Romanian?

I’m completely carefree. It doesn’t feel like I’m the one who’s lost. I’m the person sitting on the sidewalk, smoking with two elderly Romanians I’ve never met. The lady looks at my hands, searching for a ring. I say no. She says “copil” (child). I say no. She strings together all the Romanian sentences I know. Where are you from, where are you going. I think about how to say “I’m lost” in Romanian. I should learn it from Laura as soon as I get back. Asking about the cathedral only occurs to me while we’re rolling our second cigarettes. “Unde este catedrala?” I ask. He gestures to the right and keeps talking as if I understand. I think all Romanians are like this; they do the same thing even in the market. They know I don’t understand, but they keep talking in paragraphs. Some get angry because I don’t understand, and some laugh heartily. When they laugh, I laugh too. There’s nothing else I can do. I don’t understand.

Finally, the old man realized I didn’t understand. He stood up, looked around, then grabbed my arm and pulled me up. When I stood up, the lady did too. The man walked ahead, pulling me by the arm, with the lady following us. We walked about 30 meters and stopped by a dusty car. He drew a stick figure and said, “This is you, this is you,” laughing. Despite the lack of hair, at least he didn’t draw me as overweight. He mapped out all the turns I needed to take from our street to the main road leading to the cathedral. I now had a personalized map drawn on an old Renault’s dust.

Universal Aunty Pressure

I guess my friends are right about my luck in always landing on my feet like a cat and finding my way back home. I sat down by the car. I handed the tobacco to the man. They never say no, and we started rolling again. I stood up to set off before I forgot the map. Time to say goodbye. We hugged, and the lady stroked my cheeks. She kept saying “copil, copil” and making a ring with her finger. That day, I understood better that telling you to get married and have kids is a universal elderly lady issue.

Sitting in a hospital garden in the heart of Ankara, I’m afraid. Afraid of distancing myself from people, of not being able to listen to them. While not being able to travel has hurt us world lovers deeply, I’m afraid of not being able to touch lives, of not being able to live my stories.

My coffee has gone cold. It still doesn’t smell like Maya’s.

Published on October 23, 2020, in Gezgin Gazetesi.

Next in the series: The Gypsy Girl and the Plush Bear

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