Erasmus Chelebi: The Glitchy Academic Pilgrim

Chapter 1: The Dream Come True and the Dung-Scented Wall of Fame

As the taillights of the bus disappeared into the fog, I was left alone with my suitcase in hand and a mixture of sharp manure and soba smoke filling my lungs.

The January frost was razor-sharp. Normally, my teeth should be chattering right now, and I should be debating whether the drop at the tip of my nose was going to fall or not —but no, it wasn’t time for any debate. Cold? What cold! I was burning up. It wasn’t blood flowing through my veins; it was lava. It wasn’t acid bubbling in my stomach; it was magma (okay, fine, it was actually growling from hunger). Because right there in my pocket, on my phone —screenshot taken and set as wallpaper— was the digital document that would change the destiny of my entire family: The Erasmus Acceptance Letter.

And it included an internship. Europe, wait for me, I am coming!

As I climbed that muddy slope leading to our house, I visualized the upcoming scene in my head as clearly as a movie. I would knock on the door. My mother would open it with dough on her hands. Then my father would appear. With his authoritarian yet compassionate voice, he would say, “Welcome, my lion.”

And I would deliver that historic sentence: “Dad, I’m going to Europe. To study. Your son did it.”

My father’s eyes would well up with tears, he would squeeze my shoulder with those large, calloused hands, and maybe, unable to hold back, he would kiss me on the forehead. Emotional background music would fade in.

Fireworks in the village square… Okay, fireworks might be an exaggeration, but at least the Muhtar (village head) would make an announcement over the loudspeakers.

Actually, I decided to offload the job to the Muhtar later; in the first draft of my imagination, the Imam was making the announcement, but what if he slipped into habit and recited the Sala prayer, announcing my death instead? No, no, let the Muhtar do it. Gotta play it safe.

When I arrived at the garden gate, I had only one prayer: Dear God, please don’t let my dad be in the barn. Please.

I didn’t want to deliver such huge news accompanied by that pungent smell of manure.

When the frame flashed through my mind, I realized there could be worse things and tried to suppress my surging emotions. This historic moment cannot take place there! It shouldn’t. This news should be delivered in the room with the guest furniture set, preferably next to the lace doilies. Serious ambiance was required. After all, we were making history here.

I entered the garden. No sound from the house. But familiar sounds were rising from the barn: “Girl, stop! That’s it… Good girl, Sarikiz.”

My dreams were razed to the ground with a cow’s “Moo.” He was in the barn. Of course, he was in the barn. Where else would he be in the dead of winter?

That was the man’s office. It was also his favorite vacation spot. He blacklisted all holiday booking apps and platforms simply because they didn’t list his barn.

I left the suitcase in front of the door. Whatever, I told myself. It’s not the venue, it’s the intention that counts. Napoleon probably didn’t make his war plans in a palace, right? Maybe he made them in a barn too? Don’t be ridiculous, what business does Napoleon have in a barn? Focus, son. I walked in.

Inside was stiflingly hot, like a Turkish bath. That dense, throat-burning, eye-watering smell of the “father’s hearth” hit me in the face.

My father was squatting behind Sarikiz (our blonde cow), conducting a serious operation with a bucket in his hand. Every time the cow swished her tail, my father’s cap slid to the side.

“Dad!” I said. My voice came out higher than I expected.

Without turning his head, my father said, “Ooo, welcome, Mister. Do you still deign to enter this place? Anyway, since you’re here, come hold this tail, she keeps smacking me in the face.”

Here we go. “Dad, forget the tail for a second,” I said, adding a bit more bass to my voice. I walked up to him.

My shoes immediately sank into the organic flooring. “I have something very important to tell you. You know how I said I passed my classes…”

“Good for you,” said my father, still struggling with the delicate balance between the bucket and the udder. “You passed them last term too. You’re studying, that’s your job. You want a medal?”

“No dad, this is different,” I said. The bass in my voice was history; my jugular veins were playing a high-tempo darbuka rhythm.

I took the deepest breath I could —which was a colossal mistake; you do not take a deep breath in a barn.

“Dad, I won the Erasmus grant. I’m going to Europe. One semester of school, one semester of internship. Passport, visa, all done, everything is ready!”

I waited. I thought the world stopped in that moment. Even Sarikiz stopped chewing her cud. My father slowly straightened up. He set the bucket full of milk aside.

That moment, was the moment. Our eyes met. An expression of surprise appeared on his face. His lips parted. He probably didn’t know what to say out of pride.

He was standing before the family’s first academic gateway to the outside world.

“Europe?” he asked.

“Yes, dad! Germany, France, Spain… I’ll travel, I’ll study. Mostly study. I just said travel as a figure of speech.”

My father looked at me. Then he looked at Sarikiz. Then he looked back at me. The expression on his face grew serious.

“It gets cold there now,” he said.

“What?!”

“I said it gets cold. Did you pack your ichlik (thermal underwear)? Those godforsaken lands freeze over, and I heard on the news they’re turning down the natural gas.”

“Dad,” I said, my shoulders slumping in disappointment. “I’m talking about an academic career, international vision, internship… You’re talking about long johns!”

My father bent down and picked up the bucket again. “Son, vision doesn’t fill your stomach, ichlik keeps you warm.”

Before I knew what to say, my father changed direction. Don’t do it, dad. Don’t go there. I’d kiss those rubber boots on your feet regardless of what they’re covered in, just don’t go there. Stop, please stop.

At that moment, Sarikiz smacked her tail right across my face with a loud “Thwack.” Guess I needed to wake up. I followed my father, trailing behind his suppressed, whispering laughter.

“Do you see this?” my father asked, pointing a finger at the framed document on the wall. “Have I ever told you the story of this?”

Standing there in the middle of manure, with the mark of a cow’s tail on my face, I realized there was no escaping some things. I knew very well that my answer wouldn’t change what came next.

“Only a few hundred times, but there are probably parts I’ve forgotten. I’d be happy if you reminded me, dad.”

“Oh son, don’t you ever forget. My father was well-off. We had enough land and animals for farming. You know how much I love animals. I never had the urge to study. However, higher education was much cooler back in my day compared to now. While I was happy with my livestock, everyone would giggle in the corners. I got stubborn and said ‘I will study,’ and when my friends heard this, they laughed and mocked me openly.”

I had listened to this story so many times that I knew the very next letter he would utter, but lo and behold, my father would enter “telling it for the first time” mode, and I would unknowingly fall into the astonishment of hearing it for the first time.

My eyes took on the “So, what happened next?” look, and my father continued, unaware of what was going through my mind.

“They got into university and went to the city. On the first day of school, they were surprised to see me at the university they went to. They laughed and asked if I came to watch them enter class. I still remember the rising laughter when I said, ‘I came to class, I’m studying here too.’ Spiteful of them, I walked to class with a cool swagger, and they couldn’t resist following me all the way, watching me through the window for the entire lesson. After class, when I asked who came to watch whom entering class, they couldn’t answer. Reciting the Basmala, reading one Fatiha and three Ihlas prayers, and filling the answer sheet randomly left me with a net score of one point, which was enough to place me in a department applied by only two people. Our professors were very, very good people. They really liked the fresh milk, yogurt, and chokelek cheese I brought them every single time. Anyway, without the sake of those things I mentioned —ahem— I finally graduated. The first university graduate of our lineage. My professors insisted I do a master’s degree, but I didn’t want to. My livestock was waiting for me, and I wanted to spend more time with them. The moment I got my degree, I had it framed immediately and hung it on the widest wall of the barn, and it’s been standing here ever since. Education is very important, son, but knowing your past is even more important. It’s your responsibility to tell our story from generation to generation. Don’t you ever forget it.”

He continued, pointing at the empty space next to his degree. “If you finish whatever-rasmus you’re doing and get your certificates or diplomas, know that there is always a place for yours right next to mine.”

So, my epic European adventure was as important to my father as a reserved spot on a barn wall!

Who knows, maybe one day I’ll find hidden messages in all of this, but right now, all I wanted was to reintroduce my lungs to fresh air.

As I asked for permission and left the barn, I heard my father mumbling: “The rascal grew up and is going to Europe, huh… Wow.”

That “Wow” was enough for me. Now my only problem was how to fit those thermal ichliks into my suitcase.