It’s 2 a.m. and we walk towards the bright lights that shine NARGILE. Everything is bright here. Neon lights flashing and lamps of every shade of glass adorn the outside porch as if this café was a beacon of light, a safe haven from the darkness that had settled outside.
Should I?
Everyday, as I walked the streets of Istanbul, old and young sat together smoking from this mysterious contraption. Relaxed. So relaxed they looked and I wanted to try it all the more.
NARGILE. NARGILE.
Like everything else in Turkey, the inside décor was overly done, The plush and colorful sofas, the pillows of every size and shape, the ornate rugs all beckoned us in like sirens to sit and enjoy.
I had never inhaled smoke of any kind before, unless it was second hand, so I sat on the plush sofa anticipating the unknown. Tired and fatigued, I leaned on the others…half delusional from exhaustion.
Across from me the view of a mosque glowed a yellowish gold and it looked surreal. Fake. It was a painting that was etched into the night sky to pose as reality. The sirens were playing tricks on my eyes. I stared and rubbed my tired lids. Open. Close. Open. Close. Still a surreal image. It was as if I could hold out my hand and be certain I would be touching a canvas smooth with dry paint. I held out my hand but only touched air, cool air that lightly wisped and caressed the palm of my hands and in between my fingers.
I touched nothing.
On our table a tray of delicious fruits and nuts were arranged in a way that called us to eat one or else the fruit would overflow into our laps and onto the floor, wasted. Cold water, unopened, placed right in front of us, only a hand reach away.
“You eat or drink and you have to pay,” states one of my friends. Jarring me back into reality, I don’t touch or eat but just stare. A very good marketing strategy.
The server approaches us wearing a sparkly red vest and a white collared t-shirt. The sparkly red vest attracts my attention as he waits for our choice of nargile. Of course, his outfit has to stand out but why in such a cheap way? Where were the authentic Turkish waiter outfits, if there is such a thing. I felt our server was an impersonator.
Istanbul, a beautiful city overflowing with history from every corner also seemed like a city that was cloaked with a façade. A façade that wasn’t Istanbul. Istanbul the impersonator, Istanbul the appeaser, Istanbul the fake. Where was the real Istanbul? Were the restaurants adorned in red and crystal chandeliers the real Istanbul? What about the building all decorated in white with huge light fixtures spanning the ceiling that housed synthetic flowers—was that the real Istanbul?
Melon. Melon was the choice of nargile and as that same waiter brought out the contraption and prepared the nargile, my fleeting thoughts of “real” Istanbul disappeared in the air like the puffs of smoke that dissolved and became one with the night. Invisible.
The pipe started to be passed around and the world began to be a haze of melon smelling smoke.
How is this done?
Just inhale and let it sit in your mouth, then breathe out.
My turn. I take the pipe and place it gingerly to my mouth.
Inhale.
The taste of sugary artificial melon sits on my tongue and the smoke settles in the back of my mouth near my throat.
Breathe. Out.
I feel nothing. No coughing. No tingly sensations. Nothing.
This isn’t too bad at all.
The pipe is passed around, once, twice, until I lose count and I feel like a pro, deeply inhaling and breathing wisps of smoke that would float up, up, up and away, disappearing into the night. Sometimes I would breathe out the smoke all at once, in a stream, like the smokers in their designated areas, quickly trying to smoke their cigarette before they briskly go on their way. Sometimes I would slowly let the smoke unwind from my mouth and let it curl every which way upward and out until a thick filmy haze would cloud my vision.
Then it hit me. My shoulders began to relax. My head began to feel heavy. And a weird sensation settled within my chest and crawled its way upward to the back of my neck. I kept on smoking until I realized that this weird sensation was getting stronger.
The back of my neck began to tug upwards and my head began to settle downwards and no matter how plushy the sofa was, how shiny the lamps were, how enticing the fruit was, this uncomfortable feeling would not go away. Fresh air did nothing. I reached out for a container of water. O, right. I have to pay for this water. I laid my head back to try and calm the whirl of motion that suddenly overcame me.
I knew it. I knew I was being tricked by someone, something, maybe the Sirens. I was tempted by the neon lights and now trapped in a haze of confusion and dizziness. The mosque in the moonlight was really a painting. The server was an impersonator and I was sitting in fake Istanbul.
I left fake Istanbul and made my way home where upon reaching my room I began to gag. Heaving, convulsing, I threw up an orangish yellow mixture of beyti kebap, chicken pudding, icecream, and cookies. I flushed and watched the blob of ugly color swirl down the drain. I stood up and the heavy sensation did not leave me, unsatisfied, I wiped my mouth, washed my red and pained face, crawled into my bed and stumbled into the sheets.
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