Tan skin

Pink bodies in the sun, soft along their ribcages and across their chests. They rub oil all over themselves and lay motionless; surrender their skin to the sun. 
Still they are pink. They will not tan. 


Tan, instead, are the locals, whose skin maintains a rich brown year-round, built deep through the layers over years of being in the sun. 


"Time for another beer!" The pink ones yell.
Lots of beer, but just one brand, so they booze themselves the same way day after day. 
They're happy to do it.
It's holiday, after all. 


The locals bring it, smiling back, in a different way. 
Is there anything else?
Not right now. Cheers. 


The pink ones eye the tan shoulders as they walk away.
They slather on more oil. 


It is the benchmark against which they measure the success of their hours beside the pool.
And it is simultaneously the identifier of who to call at, when it comes time for another beer.  

Turkish coast

Off the Turkish coast, the water is warm; almost too warm. And it is like nothing I've ever been in before, with the calmness of a lake, but the salinity of the ocean. Diving in, I momentarily forget that this is the Mediterranean Sea and not the freshwater my intuition knows; as my body breaks the water and I taste salt along the inside of my lips, for a second, my instincts feel deceived, and I suspect there's something wrong with the water.


By the time I surface, however, rationale - always the slower companion to our instincts - has reminded me that it is only a nook of the Mediterranean, which in turn is only a nook of the world's oceans and is, as such, salt water.


I wipe the water from my face, pressing the flat underside of my knuckles to my brow. The water clings to the skin, latching to the body even where it is submerged below the surface, and after several separate efforts across my face, I can feel that the salt molecules remain. I acquiesce.


The body floats easily in salt water, rendering swim and play more enjoyable; leisurely. The entire boat - over a dozen of us - dives into the water from the railing. 


The water, however, though it is welcoming, also corrals us away from the sloping, rocky shores; though nearly dead in sea life, one creature prospers here. 


"Sea urchin," we decipher through the charades of one of our boat companions, whose English, much to our amusement, offers the initial translation of "sea eagle."
Sea urchins, all along the shore, with needles that cannot be pulled out, she warns us - as attempting to do so leaves broken fragments buried beneath the skin - and must instead be doctored with olive oil.
"You cannot go onto the shore."


I nod, but am skeptical, sensing that the warning is not a real danger but rather the precautionary result of one or two accidents shared between boat captains after tours like ours. 
I wager that the shore could feasibly be conquered around the sea urchins.


However, our next anchoring, pulled closer to the shoreline, reveals, just under the surface of strikingly clear water that occasionally rivals the Caribbean, dozens of black mounds the size of tennis balls tucked between rocks only a little larger. The ratio of urchin to rock is roughly 2:3.


I quickly calculate the logistics: urchin density, foot size versus footing size, likelihood of accurate foot placing.
I decide that they're probably right. 

Turkish coffee

"It's perfect," we assure him.

The table is no more than a piece of laminate wood - reminiscent of desktops from school days, but with no more surface space than a pizza box - braced unevenly on four long legs; shafts of cast aluminum.
It wobbles. It is the cobblestone sidewalk and it is the table.

The café owner, an older man who just moments before was deep in conversation with the only other patron in the restaurant, is holding the table with both hands, one on either side, trying to reposition it evenly.

"It's perfect," we say.

We wish we understood the Turkish word for "perfect."

They probably have one even better than ours – a word that serves the purpose of expressing not only evaluation, but gratitude.

Such diction would suit them.

He steps back from the table, only mildly satisfied.
We order two coffees.

"Şeker?" He asks.

It's close enough, when spoken aloud and in this context, that we understand.
"No." Simply, without thanking him for asking.
Here, we grant one another the courtesy of simplicity.

He stares at us.

He thinks it's him - you can see immediately, there in his eyes: a flash of concern.
He wants us to be happy with our coffee, and he knows coffee takes "şeker."
Especially when ordered by the tourists.
But he's nervous to ask again, so doesn't. And leaves.

Moments later, however, he returns to our table, with two teeny empty coffee cups, two teeny saucers.

And the şeker cubes.

He gestures as though to drop a cube into one of the delicately painted cups, repeating: "şeker?"

He urges us to understand the question; to understand that our proper answer is "yes."

"No," we try again, as gently as we can, so as not to bruise his efforts in hospitality.

He looks down at the tray, bewildered, and retreats back inside.

A few minutes later, he brings the coffees - no şeker - leaves them on the laminate, and goes back inside.

I brace my knee gently against the table to steady it, so that the coffees are not inadvertently capsized.

We each take our teeny cup between two fingertips, and bring them to our lips.

I am sure he watches us from inside the cafe, and, as we drink, likely experiences a wash of relief and surprise; a sentiment of pride.

We drink slowly, to savor his efforts.
We maintain that at least that should be done "right."

The coffee is good, as they all are.
It hangs in temperature, warm from first sip to last - a balm to the senses.
And it is marked by the same gentle-gritty charm of the table, of the neighborhood itself.
It is vibrant but understated - a comfort without pretension or showmanship.
In that sense, the coffee is a true extension of the people.

It's perfect.