White Baboon

According to Bill Bryson, whose book, A Short History Of Nearly Everything, I totally recommend, the English word “uncertainty” doesn’t translate perfectly into German. Did you know that? It’s just too vague for them. You could say weltschmerz, but this translates as uncertainty about the world. Or maybe, zukunftsangst, but this means uncertainty about the future.Languages are often a reflection of the culture where they reside and are said to evolve to fit the needs of those using it. Germany is often fairly assessed as a land full of detail-oriented and organized folk, not big on religion, for example, or. . . .gambling. They’re not big on trusting in the universe and prefer a concise means of self-expression. Therefore, in German culture, it’s easy to see why a vague term such as “uncertainty” just might ilicit the response: Uncertainty of what? Be more specific!So even amidst uncertainty, they want to be certain.Sounds a little like me. I don’t have any German roots I know about, but I found this especially poignant. You see, I’ve realized that my worrying, my craving for certainty, my neurotic level of planning, is actually an addiction. And I don’t like it at all. You might call me hardwired this way. But I’ll go one step further by saying that my insatiable need to know things will “turn out” (a more and more dubious phrase) actually represents a staggering lack of faith in the universe.And, I can’t explain it right now, but this is not who I want to be.So, I have taken action. Or rather, I have chosen not to. And the universe has rewarded me. I had read, for example, a few days ago, that Bursa, Turkey, was famous for its shadow puppet theater—oil-soaked, camel-hide figurines which are painted, then lightcast against a white cloth. Apparently, a hunchback called Karagoz amused himself with such crafts while working on Bursa’s famed Ulu Cami, a twenty-domed, calligraphy-walled mosque from the 12th century. The Sultan, infuriated by the goofing off, had his shadow-puppeteering friends put to death. Perhaps not an uplifting story, but this revived art form seemed like a quirky and innovative look into a legendary Turkish subculture.In the past, I would have copied down the address and mapped a route, holding tight to expectations and remaining determined to accomplish my goal, missing the forest of mosque minarets and Turkish barber shops for the shadow puppet trees. But I chilled. Our first day we took a wander round the city in no particular direction. Eventually stopping to rest for a street-side glass of tea, I was taking in the terrace when I saw a banner. About the shadow puppet theater. Right there, that night, in the very café where we sat.But wait, then it happened again. We were In search of a ferry from Istanbul to Muldanya. After chasing our plans down a maze of rickety lanes, onto a tram, across the Galata Bridge, and past three ticket counters (all the wrong TYPE of ticket counter), up the hill, into the train station, down the hill, and back up the hill again, we finally made the ferry at Yenikapi Port, JUST in time. Yesterday, via email, our first Turkish couchsurfing host, Meric, said to call him when we arrived.But the phone didn’t work. Or maybe it was the number. Or the confusing rules about area codes and zeros and mobile phones using longer numbers. Or just that whole “we’re in a different country” thing. Sometimes I hate it when real life appears.I did not panic, which is really so huge for me and so pleasant for Michael. We knew that we needed to somehow check the validity of our phone SIM card or login to the website and double check our host’s number. So we lugged on our packs and began walking into this coastal town on the MarMara sea. A mere half a block later, plastered with glowing lights and several harmless loiterers, was a Turkcell store and an Internet café. Side by side. Nothing but kebab shops and convenient stores squished along the rest of the lane. Exactly what we needed.And I thought: OMG. This really works.