Pink Pomegranates

Have you ever seen a pink pomegranate? Its thick outer covering is painted with blotchy spots of blushed yellow, and in between delicate folds of white, the inside contains troves of tiny pink pearls. Each pearl encloses a drop of sweet nectar, more delicious than its red pomegranate cousin, but if you reach for the seeds too quickly they will burst, staining your hands bright yellow. Quite frankly, it’s a frustrating fruit, because the more eagerly you try to devour it, the more ends up on you instead of inside your belly. So you must instead practice patience and care.

I had never seen a pink pomegranate before coming to Turkey. In fact, I had never seen so many, if any, pomegranate trees. But they symbolize not only the unfamiliarity and beauty of this place, but also my first months in my new home, Alanya.

Although the Georgetown (and a Wellesley) students live and study together in this program, we are each given a host family from the community to spend our free time with. It is one of my favorite components of the program. The other night, as I was sitting with my host dad and brothers on their porch overlooking the Alanya harbor and sharing roasted chickpeas and apples, my host dad glanced over and said, “We must take a picture of you right now. Because in two weeks you will come back from your study trip in Syria and Turkey will look different. And then you will go to Cyprus and again Turkey will be new to you. And after the tourist season closes and it becomes winter in Alanya and there will be fewer people in the street, again you will know a different Turkey. So after your time here and your travels and your study, then we will take another picture. And then we will talk.”

And I know he is right. Like the seeds of a pomegranate, each encounter and experience that I have here are tiny treasures. They will be perhaps incomplete in themselves, and they will require patience before I can piece these moments together, but they are important to my overall experience and the understanding I will walk away from this country with. And so I will share with you some of the small treasures Alanya has given me in my first weeks as an official resident.

Alanya is nestled at the feet of the Toros Dağları, or the Taurus Mountains, on the coast of the Mediterranean. When our bus first came into view of the town, I was struck by its beauty. I walked around in a sort of awed daze for the next 24 hours. Our apartments are positioned on the side of the harbor, halfway up the mountain that juts into the sea and boasts the Seljuk Kale (the relatively intact castle from the time of the Seljuk Dynasty, 11^th-14^th centuries AD). Each school morning, the thirteen of us trudge further up the mountain, taking the shortcut through a forest and then passing under the castle gate to reach the McGhee Center, an old restored villa donated to Georgetown in 1989 by the former Ambassador to Turkey, George McGhee.

When I entered the villa for the first time, I could only think of one thing, especially in my delighted stupor: tree house. You know, like the tree houses in Peter Pan, or the type that occupy the dreams and scribbles of children as the ideal abode. The ceilings and floor of the villa are made of weathered planks of wood, and its three stories are precariously built on top of one another. Cushioned seating lines the walls, giant sun designs are carved into the ceilings, and the sun room juts out from the front of the house, the three walls of windows overlooking the Mediterranean. And like any good tree house ought, the villa is surrounded by lush gardens and fruit trees.

The first couple of weeks in Alanya were a balancing act, as I tried to reconcile my desires to explore and swim in the sea with the realities and onset of schoolwork. However, I at least started to feel more familiar with my surroundings. It’s been a process, and it’s slow, but even the small successes are something, and the memories are something more.

I loved my first time going to the Mediterranean, just at dusk, and watching as the water became as dark as the night sky. I braved the length of the high castle walls and learned how to swim in the ocean without getting swept away by the waves, both on the same day. I have witnessed the intensity of Alanya’s thunderstorms, taken belly dancing classes, and learned how to cook a “Fainted Imam,” a specialty eggplant dish that was so good it allegedly caused an Imam to swoon. I’ve also been privileged to experience the extent of Turkish hospitality. I found out that showing the slightest interest in a pair of pants displayed outside a store can lead to three cups of tea with the store owner and an hour of conversation and family pictures. Not to mention a mini lesson in traditional dance. The host families have welcomed us in and gone out of their way to expose us to their way of life, and even the owners of our little corner market and breakfast café have shown us much kindness.

My picture will change, and, like the pink pomegranate, the memories will be both bitter and sweet, but so far this is more than I bargained for.