My favorite season in Istanbul is fig season. Never having seen or eaten a fresh fig in my life, I was fascinated by this strange and delicate fruit. My first encounter with them was not in Istanbul, though, but rather in the seaside town of Kuşadası, when a great friend and I were on our way to catch a boat to Greece. It was mid-August, the air was sweltering, our backpacks heavy, and my eyes burned from the lack of sleep that comes with travel.
Halfway to the water, I stopped at the site of a woman crouching by the side of the road, a basket of fresh figs at her feet. Famished, we bought 3 liras worth and continued on our way, each with a paper bag full of figs.
An hour later we were on the boat, rocking in the rough water, and our skin covered in sea salt from the occasional splash on board. We examined the figs in their intricacy. They were plump and round, fitting nicely into the palm of my hand. Each one was a deep purple, fading to a bright green towards the small stem. Small flecks of white covered their skin, and as I looked closer, I found many other colors; blue, grey, pink, orange, red. I tore one open and we indulged on its seeded insides. Closing my eyes, I connected the sensation of our rocking boat with the subtle taste of nectar in my mouth, and the whole thing became a strange and beautiful moment.
When I recall this memory, I question what made the figs such a special discovery. Though it is difficult to find a specific answer, I realize that there are many reasons to explain my love of fig season. They are a reminder of that moment in my life when I felt so light, vulnerable, and in the midst of significant transition. They also represent a kind of routine, grounding and familiarity with Istanbul and Turkey. Because I came from a place where seasonal fruit is rare, I found figs to be special as I knew they would surround me for only a short time, and was comforted in the fact that I would see them with anticipation each fall.
After our jaunt to Greece, my return to Istanbul and the departure of my summer friend, I watched the figs fill every market place. They quickly became my daily purchase, and subjects in my paintings, drawings and photographs. Every time I tore open the ethereal skin I remembered that day on the Aegean, how my head rested against the side of the tipping boat, sunglasses drifting gently down my nose with the wetness sea water splashing on my face.
During fig season I recall Sylvia Plath, and my favorite passage from The Bell Jar. The passage is about choice, each fig representing a potential path in life.
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.
While living in this overwhelming city, I began to feel a connection to this idea in an entirely new way. Though Istanbul was offering me a new and exciting life, my first year in the city was filled with confusion and overstimulation. Despite my love for the city, I felt displaced and uprooted, and couldn’t find my focus. Each day was presenting me with infinite choice, and I only hoped to be picking the right fig.
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