I’ve taken for granted that I’m never around people who look like me. Black hair, chest hair, facial hair that rides near my eyes, etc. etc. Sometimes it makes me sad and sometimes, after some concentration on how fruitful it is to be proud of where I come from and what I look like, it makes me happy. Turkey, captured in the words [below] of a few locals, taught me to always be happy about my culture––and if I didn’t want to be, they would be happy for me.
A waiter asked me where I was from. I said USA. He said “no, you’re not USA, you’re my brother. You’re Turkey.”
When the clothier asked where I was ~really~ from, I said my family is Syrian. He said he knows Syrian when he sees it, and I’m “damned sure” not Syrian. “You’re Turkish.”
When I asked the guy selling me a PCR test (I’ve never been more certain someone wasn’t a medical professional) if he could speak English, he was stunned. “You look more Turkish than me, and I’ve never left Turkey.”
And on my way out, eating the baklava I left in my pocket overnight, I felt more purpose than I’ve felt for 2.5 months in Switzerland. Not that Swiss isn’t great, but that nothing beats a community screaming that I’m one of them. Community in a way that tells me I’d be happier around my family, that I’ve been missing out for 22 years.