Blog 17- Essay 4

Aydin Reyhan
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, and PS3, heater and AC are the items that I appreciate the most in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what allows me to leave my fortress to travel to a place where I can escape the electronic adventure. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive. Stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits are control us on the road. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and Bp’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USA. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, what’s it like?
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is all-natural.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my sleeping place. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to change the color of the all white room. The two big windows separate me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to add a bit of decoration. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or even Wal-Mart here in the states. Out there, it’s a journey just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up on the outside, but once in, it’s a different story.
Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not driving any fast than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city and it’s as if we crossed a border from a different country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround as we cruise on the main avenue. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to drive to one of those stores.
In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as I sit in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day; signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God.
In America, people travel to churches temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man/woman singing into a microphone that reminds the entire city.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as the colorful edible that my eyes are feasted upon teases me with its delectable scent.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they polish like zombies.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is what I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. I picture the dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses. It’s not the city, but it truly feels like home.