Too Many Cups of Tea

Chamomile

He writes that he wants to stay for a month, but a month is a long time to spend with a complete stranger. And my recent experience with a B&B guest who had to be forcefully evicted by my beefy next-door neighbor hasn’t left me in a trusting state of mind.

“OK…but we’ll reevaluate after two weeks,” I tell him, and he hesitantly agrees.

I clean the house thoroughly, even going so far as to smudge all the rooms with sweet-grass and sage to dispel the unquiet spirit of my last house-guest.

But now that Mehmet is here, I try to open the door with an open mind.

My dog, Amarillo, bounds outside, jumps up to rest his enormous paws on my new guest’s shoulders and licks his face. Mehmet lets go of his suitcase and drops to his knees, and welcomes this giant ball of happy into his arms, laughing. And I start to relax, a little. After that we all proceed down the tiled hallway into the living room. Since it’s a chilly evening and he’s spent all day traveling from the East Coast, I decide to welcome him with a cup of tea.

Mehmet tells me in halting English that his wife has recently died after a long illness. After selling their home, which held too many painful memories, he has decided to wander for a while, with no particular destination in mind. He has traveled, today, from New York — and after Albuquerque, he plans to take a bus to Flagstaff and then visit the Grand Canyon, a life-long dream.

It’s getting late. We finish our tea and head upstairs. The dog is visibly torn between our two rooms and parks himself in the hallway, but I try not to take this personally.

Lemon, Ginger, and Thyme

Mehmet is up early, fixing a light breakfast. His Turkish grandmother taught him to start each day with a glass of water steeped with ginger, lemon, and fresh thyme leaves. He rubs his mid-section and says it’s the best way to keep a flat stomach and a trim physique. Observing that he's built like Dick Van Dyke in the Mary Poppins movies, I decide this is good advice which I will soon put to the test. After the lemon-ginger-thyme water, Mehmet moves on to the main course: a quarter cup of olive oil, seasoned with red chili flakes and more fresh thyme but no salt, which he consumes with chunks of good bread. Finally, he eats a total of seven, shiny, black olives — seven for good luck.

Hibiscus

Mehmet walks to the grocery store and returns with hibiscus tea, a Mediterranean specialty also savored in New Mexico for its cooling, refreshing properties. And, it’s delicious. After his late afternoon rambles, I offer to take him to my favorite place in Albuquerque to enjoy a glass of wine, and he lights up like a Christmas tree.

As the sun sets and the evening air cools, Mehmet presents himself in the living room, cleaned and pressed, after asking to borrow my iron. I wear a sweater dress, fleece tights, and black boots — and my hair is up in an alligator-clip because it’s so windy this fall. We drive to "Campo" at Los Poblanos, a beautiful former pepper farm now re-purposed as a lavender farm and boutique hotel. Although it's smack in the middle of the Rio Grande Valley, it looks like it's straight out of Provence. As the twinkle lights come on and the sky dims to purple over the Sandias and the peacocks parade past on their way to this evening’s roost, Mehmet looks around in approval. He charms the waitstaff. He approves the good Italian wine. He exclaims over the view, leaning back in his chair, utterly relaxed. As a brisk wind picks up, he notices my shiver and immediately gathers our things and moves us to a more sheltered table. He darts over to the waitress and asks her, please, to turn on the outdoor heater. His attentiveness is so foreign to me — a man I scarcely know, concerned over my comfort — that my mouth turns up at the corners. Both of these events seem like such a novelty. It's been a rough few years.

Green Tea with Jasmine

Mehmet says he wants to cook for me. Something called "menamen," or Turkish scrambled eggs. It’s a special dish he often made for his Kurdish construction workers on the projects he managed in Istanbul. I can’t remember a man ever cooking me breakfast, but, surely, it must have happened at least once in sixty years. I sit comfortably, in gratitude, sipping from my fragrant mug.

Soon the kitchen is filled with the indescribable scents of ripe tomatoes, crushed garlic, and New Mexico green chilies sizzling on low heat in a healthy puddle of olive oil. He carefully cracks two eggs and briskly scrambles them into this deliciousness, then pours, yes, pours, it all out onto two plates. He dots his own plate with red chili flakes, dips his bread into this luscious and colorful mess, then wipes the plate clean. Another Kurdish custom, he says, looking up with a twinkle in his dark hazel eyes.

Mehmet always hired Kurds whenever he could: They were the strongest, the hardest workers, the most dependable. He recounts stories of managing construction and design projects throughout the Middle East and the Mediterranean. He was located in Saudi Arabia for two years, he says, the only place he did not really enjoy. But he was separated from his wife by geography for much of that time, which was awfully hard on a young marriage. He really loved her. I can tell. And it is so sad that she is gone.

After breakfast, I take Mehmet on my favorite neighborhood walk, through an older neighborhood of weathered adobe homes slowly sinking into the native desert vegetation. The views of the Bosque are incredible, as always, but, just now, below us runs a river of gold. For the first time in a couple of years of my own wandering, I don't want to be anywhere else.

When we get home, he asks me, tentatively, if I will ‘permit him’ to walk the dog when he gets up in the mornings, so much earlier than me. It would be nice to have that daily chore done so that I could get to my writing more quickly. Of course, I agree — and Amarillo has been solidly “Team Mehmet” from the beginning.

Lemon Ginger

When I wander down to the kitchen this morning, Mehmet has just come in from walking the dog. His thick, dark hair is windswept and he and the dog are both grinning happily. He puts the dog in the back garden and sticks his head in the sliding door to ask me for a brush. I can’t believe he’s offering to groom my perpetual shedding machine, but I happily hand it over.

As I finish the breakfast cleanup, I wonder what I can do to thank my house guest for being so kind to me. I can’t think of anything to do but ask him. So, I do.

“Oh, please, if you could be so kind and take me to my favorite bookstore!” he answers, after a moment of thought.

“Albuquerque has lots of small, independent bookstores. Good ones. What were you thinking of?” I ask.

“Barnes and Noble,” he says, with reverence. “But, only if they have a café, please.”

I locate the Westside Barnes & Noble and confirm that it indeed contains a Starbucks. Then, to make it more of a scenic adventure, I take him on the long, winding road through Los Ranchos de Albuquerque, past freshly cut meadows filled with returning Sandhill Cranes, acres of grazing Canadian Geese, and the dried stalks of blue corn. Mehmet marvels at the hulking shapes of the ancient, twisted cottonwoods, now wearing their autumn crowns. He shakes his head, silently, in amazement.

Americano with Honey

At the bookstore, Mehmet quickly locates the magazine rack, pulls out two of his favorite architecture magazines, and finds us a couple of plush chairs in a quiet corner. We drop our coats and head to the Starbucks counter for chocolate cheesecake, brownies, and coffee. I pick up Debra Levy’s memoir, The Cost of Living, which I’ve been wanting to read, and we settle in for a few quiet, hours. It is very companionable sitting side by side like this and it’s something I’ve never done before. For such a long time I have been mostly on my own in a sea of strangers. For years, it seems.

As luck would have it, this month’s Architectural Digest features the Mediterranean, Mehmet’s old stomping ground for most of his career in architectural design. Our quiet reverie is punctuated by his occasional stage-whispers of “Cote de Azur!” and “Sicily! You MUST be visiting Sicily. The Mediterranean side. Call me, please — I am telling you where to go.”

He turns a few more pages before nudging my elbow to show me the ruins of a Roman Coliseum he once visited — Leptis Magna — somewhere in the deserts of Libya, east of Tripoli. And then, a shot of the Mediterranean at sunset. Mehmet is a little homesick, I think…

Suddenly, he takes off his trendy eyewear and looks at me intently, imploringly, “you must be painting again! Promise me. Tomorrow. Okay? Only be painting something small and giving to me.” He holds his hand in the air like he is holding a paintbrush, and moves it back and forth across a small imaginary canvas.

Mehmet has noticed the artwork throughout my house, and although we haven’t spoken about it, he thinks I should add painting back into my life. That writing is not enough for me. I explain that I am trying to paint in words, but Mehmet is not buying it. He tilts his head when he looks at me, just like Amarillo. Again, he moves his hand back and forth across an imaginary canvass, even smaller now, so as not to be intimidating. His gentleness is attractive. So is his persistence.

That night I show Mehmet all of my photographs of San Miguel de Allende, in the Guanajuato State of Mexico, with a suggestion that he wander there, next, in his travels. It would be spectacular to experience this historic city over the Christmas holidays, to witness Mexico’s cultural traditions, I tell him. Mehmet is particularly interested in religious history, and he visits whatever house of God is in his vicinity, every week, wherever he is in the world.

He, in turn, shows me his spectacular photos of Nepal’s Khumbu region, the Nepali people he met, and the Everest Base Camp, which he visited at this same time last year. Then, in a wistful moment in which I can feel his sadness, he shows me a few photos of his home in New York, in winter. Then, another image of some small ponds in fall glory, dotting his favorite hiking preserve in Connecticut. Mehmet is a sensitive artist and photographer, and I am happy to be seeing these things through his eyes.

Hibiscus, Redux

Mehmet fixes us both a cup of tea and we sit by the fire sharing stories of our travels. Mehmet simply can’t believe that I have never been to Europe, which he calls “Europa,” and he is frustrated by my lame excuses for this obvious oversight. His son and grandchildren live in Amsterdam, and he says he will eventually return to live in “Europa” permanently.

“You must be going to Europa. Very soon. Promise me,” he says, an urgent look in his dark eyes.

In the near future, Mehmet most wants to visit Argentina, especially the mountainous regions near South America’s tip. He shows me a photo of Mt. Fitzroy and another photo of Patagonia’s deep-blue glacial lakes. That is what he most wants to be seeing. When I tease him that he may have to eat beef when he’s in Argentina, he makes a face in disgust. I am not brave enough to mention pork.

Lemon, Ginger, and Thyme

I sleep late this morning, but Mehmet has prepared a cold, mini-mezze for me and left it neatly on the table atop a clean white napkin: olive oil with chili and thyme, seven glistening dark olives, avocado slices, and walnuts — for a good brain. When I am close to finishing this delicious breakfast, he carefully peels me a single radish and brings it to the table in a small dish.

As Mehmet heads out the door, he pauses to look back at me, ensconced on my comfortable couch, holding my laptop. “You are having a very wonderful life,” he pronounces.

He is off to walk all the way to the volcanoes he can see in the distance. They are miles and miles away, and I offer to drive him, but he wants to walk. As I sit and read, making notes on pieces I might want to write, my brain is cheerfully content to operate on the keto-fuel Mehmet provided to start my day. He is easy to have around. I could even get used to this.

My writing goes well. An offer of some freelance editing work comes in. Later in the afternoon, I found Debra Levy’s The Cost of Living so captivating that I read it quickly, sitting in the warm, afternoon sun that is streaming into my south-facing bedroom. Mehmet is right: I am having a very wonderful life.

Cappuccino

That night Mehmet asks to take me to dinner. We eat fabulous Italian food at M’Tucci’s, and he keeps asking probing questions about the state of my mind, and the state of my heart. He says, talking, as always, with his hands: “there is before, which is no longer existing." Before, is on the left. "And after, when before is no longer important." After is apparently to Mehmet’s right. "But YOU are living in the MIDDLE!” He grimaces, tightening his jaw, as if the middle is a very bad place to be.

“I’m not!” I protest. “It’s been five years. I don’t think about him at all — unless you ask me, and then I answer.”

“I am asking only because I try to know you better,” he says, with a gentle shrug of apology, his sweetness returning immediately.

“But I’m not stuck. I have done a lot of moving on: four states in five years, a new career, and…I’ve even been dating some. Have you? Have you dated at all since your wife passed?” I ask, knowing that it's not fair, and it's not the same. My ex is alive and well and living with his new wife two thousand miles away.

“No. For me, there is only one wife. We are together for forty years. Now, it’s finish.” He gestures flatly with his hands and quickly changes the subject back to me. Mehmet is adept at making his point, powerfully, in multiple languages. “But, you — why, you are still alone? You have good looks, good house, good life. You have a very good brain. I am talking with you about anything. Music, art, nature — even weather.”

I don’t know what else to do but shrug, then waggle my head side-to-side, a Central-Asian habit I picked up from Mehmet. I wasn’t feeling stuck, but I feel stuck now, pinned by his persistence.

“You are alive. You have a good heart…,” he sighs. He actually gets a little choked up — I can see it in his eyes. “Okay. Okay,” he says, shifting into Mehmet-problem-solving mode. “You must be going to the top of the mountain. Stretching out your arms. Saying it loud: I. AM. HERE. Saying it as loud as you can. Promise me!" He picks up his fork, returns his focus to his plate. "But I am talking too much.”

Mehmet takes another bite of his ravioli in mushroom cream sauce, leaving me to digest perhaps one of the most loving and profound things anyone has ever said to me.

The waitress bags up our leftover wine, a New Mexico custom, and we head out the door. Both of us are both quiet on the short drive home.

Mehmet is tall and attractive. Although a little older than me, a man that still regularly climbs mountains is still in the ballpark. He is attentive and kind, maybe because he is a man who has seen loss and hardship: the death of his wife after forty years of love and tenderness, and geographical separation from his family. Mehmet sees me. He tells me, “you must be going to Sicily. You must be going to Paris. You must be painting again. You must be having a wonderful life.” He is concerned about my comfort and welfare. He tells me gently, “it is the man’s job to pour the wine.” I can’t help imagining what an attentive husband he must have been once — and how much he must miss having someone to shower with his tenderness.

But Mehmet, too, is starting life over again. He doesn’t know whether his new life will take him to Amsterdam, or Argentina, or back to Istanbul. But for certain, he will be moving on, finding his new place in a world without the woman he loved for forty years. Mehmet tells me, “the whole world is my home now. Where I am does not matter.”

There will be another evening talking by the fire, another breakfast, another cup of tea. There will be an evening filled with jazz and authentic blue corn enchiladas with red chili, and then, Mehmet will be gone.

His English isn’t perfect, yet we are able to communicate quite well most of the time. He says “too much” instead of “very much,” “too many” instead of “so many.” Most troubling, he never speaks of the past as the past. He says, “my grandmother is taking care of me, my father is teaching me,” as if he feels their presence with him still. He speaks in the present tense, or the future tense. It is shocking when he says, “my wife is dying and I am missing her” in the same sentence, and my first thought on the night we met was, “then what are you doing here?”

Before he leaves, Mehmet tells me that many animals, including dogs, can read people’s energy — very plainly — and that is why Amarillo reacted so warmly to him. He could see that Mehmet was full of love and happiness, and dogs are not often wrong. Even after his brief visit, Mehmet is in the top tier of the many people Amarillo adores.

After Mehmet leaves, I am starting my days with a cup of lemon, ginger, and fresh thyme. I am telling myself, “I am going to Sicily, the Mediterranean side. I am going to Paris. I am buying myself a better camera (too much easier to carry than painting supplies). I am having a very wonderful life. And I am going to the mountain top when I am ready.