I was prepared for the conservatism in Kilis, a city in Southern Turkey that was steps away from the Syrian border. If anyone should question why I was traveling with a white man (Dore) I would show my mother’s engagement ring. When we arrived at our hotel we presented our passports to the clerk. It was the eve of Ramadan. Maybe the clerk was in a bad mood or maybe his wits were sharpened because of the fast; he was dismayed that my last name was not the same as Dore’s.
“You’re not married.” He said to me.
“Yes I am.” I replied, showing him the ring on my finger. “In America, many women keep their family names instead of changing to their husbands’.”
He shook his head. Another man came and they discussed the situation. Then, as expected, many more men arrived and the discussion at times turned vehement. Dore and I looked on with amusement, wondering how the situation would be resolved.
There was always a wise man who came up with a solution that everyone thought was agreeable. “Look,” The clerk came back to us. “This is what the elders have decided. You may have a room with two beds for 40 liras. But if you want to sleep together in one bed, it’ll cost you 60 liras.”
We gladly took the room with two beds. It was big and spacious and the men must have thought they had prevented some kind of led act in their hotel.
In the morning I greeted the clerk at the front desk and gave him a candy. He popped it in his mouth without thinking when the man next to him reminded him that it was Ramadan. He promptly spitted the candy out. I wondered if he thought I was a temptress.
