3. Down Under Meets the Bosphorus
3
DOWN UNDER MEETS THE BOSPHORUS
I dress quickly, determined to embrace the holiday spirit, despite my Grinchy tendencies. I settle on a cozy, red turtleneck sweater and my favourite pair of skintight blue jeans, pairing them with some stylish black boots.
As I stand in front of the mirror, I take a moment to assess my reflection. My hair? While somewhat under control, it still has its own wild and untameable charm. Since Ayda was born, I usually throw it into a bun and pray for the best, but today I let it hang free, my dark, spiral curls darting in all directions. My boobs? While they’re not exactly contained, courtesy of their breastfeeding duties, they look pretty festive wrapped in the sweater. And as for my bum, well, it’s always there, proudly making its presence known.
I definitely look like a woman who’s just been thoroughly ravished by her husband. My chin bears the tell-tale signs of rash burn, and my lips are swollen, kissed into a plump softness that no amount of lipstick could ever achieve. This is so not the look I planned for my long-awaited reunion with my mother—I was aiming for “put-together adult,” not “just tumbled out of bed.” I quickly grab my makeup kit and start the delicate task of repair, dabbing concealer over the reddened spots and adding a touch of powder.
Satisfied that I’m presentable enough, I join Aydin, Emine and Ayda and we cross the courtyard to the main house, where the enticing aroma of breakfast greets us. My mischievous nieces, Ava and Zoe, my sister Sadie’s twin daughters, are wide awake and bursting with excitement. They catch sight of Emine, their exotic Turkish cousin, and dart across the room, giggles filling the air. The idea of these three little rascals forming an unlikely trio of cousins from different corners of the world never fails to amuse me.
On the other side of the room, however, my sister lies listlessly on the sofa near the crackling fireplace. She waves at me with a half-hearted gesture. “Those two were up at four!” she exclaims, a mix of exhaustion and exasperation evident in her voice.
“That’s terrible, sis,” I sympathise, finally having some understanding of the trials and tribulations of early morning awakenings.
“I’d cry, but at what point do the tears stop meaning anything?”
Her recent divorce from her husband, Ashton, has left her feeling adrift, spending her first Christmas alone since she was seventeen years old. It’s safe to say that Sadie isn’t exactly handling the situation with grace.
I bend over, enveloping her in a warm hug, hoping to provide a small glimmer of comfort amidst her emotional storm. “Sadie, if tears were currency, you’d be a billionaire by now. But we’ve got a crazy day ahead of us and you’re going to need your energy dealing with our mother, so you’ve got to get off your bum and eat!” I gesture towards the kitchen where the mouthwatering scent of breakfast waft through, making Sadie’s stomach growl loudly. Laughing, I pat her on her growling belly. “Nothing says ‘holiday cheer’ like drowning your sorrows in b?rek and menemen .”
Sadie sniffles, pushing my hand away. “You always know how to make things better, Ginny. Or at least more calorific.”
“Calories don’t count on Christmas… or in Istanbul for that matter.” I nod, matter-of-factly. “It’s a scientific fact.”
Leaving Sadie to wallow about her marriage and the number of calories she’s consumed since arriving in Istanbul, I walk into the kitchen to find my father, with his thick Australian accent, in the middle of an animated conversation with Aydin’s aunt, Refika, who responds in her strong Turklish, a little bit of English mixed with an excessive amount of Turkish. I know her English is actually excellent, but she puts on a bit of an act for visitors—it’s all part of the charm of staying at her pansion . I’ve seen her fumble over words, pretending to search for the right phrase, her brow furrowed in concentration as if English is a challenge for her. But I’ve also witnessed her switch gears in an instant, arguing like a seasoned lawyer when she needs to, her vocabulary suddenly sharp and precise, cutting through any misunderstanding with ease.
I can’t help but smile as I watch her with my father. He has taken to Türkiye like a duck to water, travelling all over the country in the past few months and diving headfirst into some crazy adventures. But this is going to be a tough day for him as well. It will be the first time he’s seen his ex-wife in a quarter of a century. Still, watching him now, his enthusiasm for storytelling matching Refika’s, he seems pretty relaxed—more relaxed than Sadie or me, that’s for sure.
“I hope you’re not driving poor Refika mad with your stories, Dad,” I say, planting a kiss on his cheek. Turning to Refika, I repeat the gesture, saying good morning in Turkish, “ Günayd?n, yenge. ”
“ Günayd?n, k?zim .” She responds with a smile, setting her bread knife down on the counter and reaching out to take Ayda from my arms. “And good morning to you, my angel.”
Eager to lend a hand, I grab some plates and head back to the main room, carefully setting up the table. The sheer size of it could easily accommodate a platoon, so I navigate the doorway with caution, determined not to drop anything.
Just as I settle into the task, the main door swings open, and my cousin Olive appears with a grin. “Ginny! Let me help you.” She passes the mountain of presents she’s holding to her boyfriend, Deniz, and hurrying across the room. “Are you ready for today?”
“Whatever do you mean? Just because my mother is coming for Christmas lunch for the first time in over 25 years...”
“Well, that too, but I just meant Christmas, we all know how much you loathe the holidays!”
“Aydin has hidden the coal so I won’t be encouraged to hand it out.” I giggle as I set down another plate. “Did you ever hear back from Rosie about coming today?”
Rosalia Russo, Olive’s younger sister, has been absent from our lives for over a year since she left our home in Bodrum to travel. While we know she’s alive thanks to her active social media presence, she has distanced herself from the family for reasons known only to her. As an adult, I respect her decision, but I know that Olive is suffering without knowing what happened to Rosie and why she has ghosted the whole family.
Olive shakes her head. “Whatever happened must have been pretty awful for her to ignore all of us… including me!”
“Don’t blame her, to be honest.” No one understands the complexities of our family’s dynamics better than me. “We are known to be very dramatic.”
“You maybe,” Olive sighs and sticks her tongue out at me. “I just want to know she’s okay. I just wish she’d call me.”
I return to the kitchen, where Deniz is now holding Ayda, who gazes up at him with adoration. She already loves her uncle Denny. I don’t even get a moment to dote on my daughter as Refika is now ladening me down with platters of food.
I return to the table just as my friends Leyla and Nate make their way downstairs. Nate, ever enthusiastic, exclaims, “Food! Great. I'm starving!”
Leyla slips her arm around his waist. “You're always starving!”
Nate settles onto the long bench, helping himself to the feast before him. “I never knew Turkish food could be this fantastic!”
Leyla playfully teases him, “Better than that granola you insist on eating, anyway.”
Leyla was my first friend in Istanbul, and our connection was instant when I found myself unexpectedly stranded in snowy Istanbul instead of sunny Sydney for Christmas. She became my rock during the time I fell in love with Aydin and the city itself.
Nate, on the other hand, is a close friend from London. A self-proclaimed hipster with a health-conscious lifestyle, he typically avoids Turkish cuisine due to its liberal use of olive oil and his most recent aversion to meat. However, the fates intervened bringing Nate and Leyla together, and they have been deeply in love ever since. Although they currently navigate a long-distance relationship, thanks to Leyla’s sold-out debut at London Fashion Week, she is finding herself visiting London more and more often, and staying in my old bed-sit in Pimlico.
Among the missing faces at the table are my two best friends, Meg and Courtney. Meg is currently on tour with her rockstar husband, Kaan, travelling across Asia, while Courtney is currently in Edinburgh, spending Christmas with her girlfriend’s family.
And then, of course, there’s my mother, Valentina Knox. Or more correctly, it’s now Valentina Werrington… apparently.
Although Aydin had arranged a room for my mother here at the pansion , she turned it down without a second thought deciding instead to stay at the fancy Four Seasons in Besiktas. I couldn’t help but let out a loud snort when Aydin told me where she’d be staying. Good luck to her trying to navigate through the crazy peak hour traffic to get to Sultanahmet!
I let out a big sigh and try my best to push aside the fact that I’ll be having Christmas lunch with my estranged mother in just a few hours. Instead, I shift my focus to the incredible kahvalt? , aka breakfast feast, laid out before me and the table filled with amazing friends and family.
Who needs family drama anyway? I’ve got enough cheese here to solve all my emotional problems.