I feel as though I smile too much, facial muscles primed to crease into their familiar contortion.
There must have been something ‘political’ about smiling in the London of the late sixties, early seventies. I remember being dazzled by smiles from proud and free women as we passed in the street–a smile that broadcast their liberated beliefs–smiles that were full of the certainty of changing the world through love, flower power and the smile.
A brief period, which came to an end as disaffection and disillusionment bit, as the world didn’t change and women turned to feminism to inform their protest and move to greater equality and freedom. There were the encounter groups where I was challenged about my smile. We were instructed to “get more real”. And at the end of the decade (1979) Mrs Thatcher strode on to the stage to give us more doses of the same medicine–”get more real” or perhaps it was, “I’ll wipe that smile off your face.”
I’m no longer feeling that I smile too much.
One of my experiences of Istanbul, which must be shared by most visitors, is the charming, cloying, intrusive actions of the army of kilim sellers. Smile, smile; “let me show you Turkish hospitality”, was a common refrain. Meaning a glass of apple tea and listening to a sales pitch which might include history, the plight of the women producing the carpets; and at this price, how can you say no: if you like it, buy it.
What a heel I was to refuse.
On the other hand there were the border crossings: Hungary/Serbia; Serbia/Bulgaria; Bulgaria/Turkey. Men and women in uniform–police, customs, pasport control–all armed–all wearing what now appears in memory as identical severe expressions.
I often found myself uselessly smiling.
Zidane suffered on the pitch, his face expressing the whole gamut of human emotion–he certainly wasn’t selling kilims–and when he did smile it was radiant with generosity and affection.
I hope my smile approaches Zidane’s when I meet those I love.
ak