I've been here almost a year now, but I find there are still new things to notice and learn. Here are today's new things:
1. Despite the fact that Turkey has a very high incidence of male pattern baldness (if I had more time I would research incidence rates), I have yet to see a comb-over. The men here seem to embrace their receding hairlines and wear them proudly, often going so far as just shaving off whatever is left (if I had more time I'd take photos, just shoot out any window to prove my point).
2. The Turkish word for cheesecake is... "cheesecake". Convenient for me. One less word to memorize.
3. Today, as the clouds rolled in, the taxi driver taught me the word for rain. I can say it but not share it as I have no idea how to spell it and it would seem to involve those Turkish letters that I have no idea how to insert.
Vacation?
I went on holiday to Crete last week. Here are some quick observations:
1. Chania, Crete is beautiful.
2. I heart Turkish Air.
3. I don't heart Olympic Air so much (3 canceled flights!)
4. Tirana, Albania looks beautiful from its airport but really shouldn't be a stop-over on the way from Istanbul to Crete.
5. It should not take as long to get from Istanbul to Crete as it takes to get from New York to Crete (thanks again Olympic Air). Thankfully...
6. Albanian airport employees are helpful and kind.
7. A shot of Greek raki (provided by a kind shopkeeper) may not help a stomach virus but it definitely doesn't make things worse.
8. While the food in Crete is good Turkish baklava really is the best.
9. It was very strange to hear a foreign language again and not even be able to communicate in my broken Turkish baby-talk.
10. After only 10 days away I forgot some of the little Turkish I do know and upon my return was reduced, once again, to holding up my fingers to my Turkish cabdriver when I couldn't remember the word for "ten".
Bursa
A few weeks ago I decided I needed to get out of town; I haven't been out of Istanbul since I arrived last August. So, armed with a detailed itinerary supplied by a knowledgeable Turkish friend ("First, you have breakfast in your hotel. Then, go out of your hotel and walk to the Muradiye Complex and look at..."), I took the ferry and the bus to Bursa which is famous for it's healing hot springs.
It wasn't the quiet getaway I envisioned, but I did have a good trip and found that the hospitality I've come to rely on extends beyond the confines of Istanbul.
Example:
One day I decided to take the bus into the center of town. Unfortunately, once on board I found you can't pay with cash and was confused because I didn’t know how or where to buy a token and anyway the bus was already moving. The driver waved me in and he and a passenger tried to explain something to me but I didn’t understand. There are many tourists in Bursa, it’s very crowded in fact, but they are all Turkish, and I was one of very few foreigners. Not many people speak English and those who do don’t know much so I was something of an anomaly there.
Eventually the passenger handed me his wallet and after he gestured several times I understood that I was supposed to take it to the front of the bus. So I did, and stood, still a bit confused, as the driver (still driving) took the wallet, passed it in front of a reader, something beeped, and apparently my bus fare was paid by the nice passenger. He refused reimbursement and I took a seat behind him, happy to step out of the center front of the bus, and happy, once again, for the seemingly limitless Turkish patience, generosity and hospitality.
Above are some photos from a parade that took place while I was in Bursa. I never found anyone who spoke enough English to explain to me what it was for, but since I was one of the few foreigners standing at the roadside with a camera I was able to get some shots of parade participants staring at me.
In the first photo I'm pretty sure the man in the red tie waving at the camera is the mayor of Bursa (I guess a politicial is a politician, no matter where he is from). The second shows a participant who would seem to be less concerned with her public persona.
Three bouquets, six kisses
Today I got three bouquets and six kisses.
I was busy today and have a busy week ahead. Four hours of Turkish class three days a week (too much time in those little chairs with attached desks), plus homework, plus studying so I remember the difference between a “carrot” and a “rabbit”, a “shoe” and a “car” (these are just some of the words I get confused). On top of that I have to put together the two-day seminar I am debuting this weekend on “Strategic Supply Management and Purchasing” (riveting stuff), and proposals for April seminars.
Lots of new stuff which can be either exciting and exhilarating or stressful and tiring, depending on my mood, the time of day, and the weather.
I also spend lots of time running up and down the streets between my flat and my cafe. The change of scene and the air help me focus and keep my energy up so today the people in between my flat and my cafe saw me passing back and forth, forth and back several times. Lots of life happens in the street in Sultanahmet. The shoeshine man and flower lady sell their goods and services on the street and every cafe and carpet shop has at least one guy out front encouraging you to come in. On most days shopkeepers stand in their doorways chatting and smoking and watching the people pass by.
Mid-day I stopped in a favorite restaurant for a quick light lunch. The staff is always very welcoming, friendly, and attentive. They were receiving their flowers for the week as I ate and when I finished the waiter brought me a long stalk of white flowers and then some foil for the end to keep it fresh on the way home. As I waited for my change I smelled the big bouquet on the table beside me and when he brought the change he brought me more flowers, pink carnations and some other lovely curvy pink flowers. As I walked home past the usual cafes everyone teased me asking, “are those for me?” and I told them “no, no, you can’t have them they’re mine, they’re a present!”
At home I snip the ends and put the flowers in the carafe I keep on hand for that purpose, take care of some housework, trade my Turkish books for my laptop and notes, and head back out to the cafe to work on my seminar. On the way I pass the shoeshine man. I usually pass him in the morning and we exchange good morning greetings in Turkish. Today he is distracted when I rush by but I say good evening and he does the same and smiles broadly and gives a little wave as I pass. I work, work, work until my computer battery is exhausted and then head home. When I pass the shoeshine man is still in his spot and he stops me and tries to tell me something, and I think I understand that he’s saying something about seeing me run back and forth today. I laugh and nod and he pulls a small bunch of white flowers from the flower lady who sits beside him (his wife?) and tells me they are a present. He makes me smell them and then says over and over “cok guzel, cok guzel it means very very good in English. You.” He keeps saying “cok guzel” and touching his hand to my chest and then he starts kissing my cheeks, one side, then the other, then “cok guzel” punctuated by more kisses. He is very, very sweet and I am touched and happy that my work day is ending so nicely.
When we are finished I rush off again because I have to make a phone call but decide I better pick up dinner because I don’t want to take the time to cook and clean up tonight. I pass the restaurant where I had lunch. The waiter is in the doorway and says hello and asks, “where did you get THOSE flowers?” I tell him the shoeshine man gave them to me and he says, “because he knows you are a good person.” Really, these people barely know me and I am continually amazed by their generosity. I keep walking but then can’t think where else to pick up dinner quickly and double back to the restaurant. Most of the staff is sitting at a table outside eating and they turn to look and smile at me when I come back and my waiter takes me inside and helps me decide what to get for take-away. As I wait for them to wrap it up they sit me down and give me tea and then an even bigger bouquet of flowers with shasta daisies and carnations and good-smelling white spears and curvy pink flowers all wrapped up in paper. I think they are trying to out-do the shoeshine man, but they don’t know about the kisses.
I thank them profusely and head home with a big grin, past the same people who saw me earlier, who want to know where all THESE flowers came from. I try to share the wealth a little bit by giving my chocolate spoon from the cafe to a friend’s little girl. She is not interested but one of the guys I know is very pleased with it. It doesn’t really seem a fair trade, three bouquets for a small chocolate spoon and I think maybe I should start carrying little presents around to hand out so I can reciprocate some of the random generosity I enjoy so much here.
So, I arrive home, work done for the day, dinner in hand, with more flowers than I know what to do with. I have to empty some food containers in my kitchen in order to find containers for them. There are worse problems to have.
Things I can't find
Because I am too busy to make sentences for my blog, I have decided to make lists. Here’s the first:
Surprising things I can’t find in Istanbul
1. Horseradish
2. File folders
3. Vanilla extract
4. Rubber cement
5. Watercolors in tubes
Comments about the surprising things
1. Wasabi is a good substitute.
2. When I used the one file folder I brought from the US as a visual aid, it was opened, looked at from all directions, heads were shaken thoughtfully, and then I was asked in a vague tone of incredulity and amazement, "what's it for?" Then, when I explained, came the question, "how does it work?" And I am just as confused about how exactly the Turks organize their paperwork.
3. I now realize why Turkish desserts taste different.
4. May be available somewhere, but I don't have the verbal skills to explain. You try pantomiming "rubber". Then, "cement".
5. This one I was able to explain and was told, "oh, they aren't allowed in Turkey." And I'm pretty sure I understood that right but couldn't wheedle the "why" out of the salesman.
Surprising things I can’t find in Istanbul
1. Horseradish
2. File folders
3. Vanilla extract
4. Rubber cement
5. Watercolors in tubes
Comments about the surprising things
1. Wasabi is a good substitute.
2. When I used the one file folder I brought from the US as a visual aid, it was opened, looked at from all directions, heads were shaken thoughtfully, and then I was asked in a vague tone of incredulity and amazement, "what's it for?" Then, when I explained, came the question, "how does it work?" And I am just as confused about how exactly the Turks organize their paperwork.
3. I now realize why Turkish desserts taste different.
4. May be available somewhere, but I don't have the verbal skills to explain. You try pantomiming "rubber". Then, "cement".
5. This one I was able to explain and was told, "oh, they aren't allowed in Turkey." And I'm pretty sure I understood that right but couldn't wheedle the "why" out of the salesman.
Blue mosque, gold tree
We've had three snowy days in a row this week. I have been busy, and when I haven't been busy I've been playing in the snow. So, in lieu of a thousand words, here are some pictures.
Blue Mosque in the snow, early morning.
Catprints on rooftops
My street, early morning.
Blue Mosque in the snow, early morning.
Catprints on rooftops
My street, early morning.
Territory
I’ve only been here six months but I already range over a larger territory than I did in New York.
At heart I am a creature of habit. I have routines and routes, it’s how I find comfort and security. I walk the same streets to the same destinations, day after day. I pass the same shops and people, see the slow steady progress of the buildings under repair. See the cobblestone streets being deconstructed, mysterious underground work completed, then reconstructed, usually in the space of three days at most. Miraculous speed in some things.
I marvel at the cobblestones which are taken up, piled on the side of the road, and then fitted back together. One of those low tech solutions that seems so smart. No pavements cracking and shifting in the cold or wet weather. No potholes or tree roots breaking up the roads. A little rough on the shoes maybe. I have to replace my heels regularly. I often wonder how old those gray-blue stones are. In the summer it takes longer for the dust and dirt to settle back into the cracks between the stones. A bit messy perhaps, but all the more reason to remove your shoes indoors, a habit I developed in New York and am happy to continue here. My apartment stays so much cleaner and I prefer padding around barefoot, toes sinking into my fluffy white carpets, to clomping around in shoes.
That is my home territory, what I see on my regular walking route between home and friends and my cafe and the shops I frequent.
But at times I range farther afield. I take the tram and the metro, sometimes to the end of the line (it’s not long). I catch buses which are labeled helpfully with their various destinations. They take me on crowded curving, looping highways. I look out the windows and I always feel that what I see is familiar— I know where I am!— and then realize that like any city this one has repetitive buildings and many areas that look alike. There are the pink buildings and the grey buildings and the yellow buildings. Pale sage green buildings. The colors don’t vary much.
I get off the bus at the correctly labeled spot. It all looks the same until I come this way often enough that it’s incorporated into my territory. Until I start to recognize that cafe, that shop-owner, that business where the yellow dog sleeps under a tree in a spot he’s worn into the bare earth.
It’s a strange feeling, knowing how to get here but not where I am.
Friends who know me well are used to the question, “Where am I?”
Having no sense of direction, the twisting highways confuse me and I know how to get to my destination, which bus to take, where to get off the metro, but I could never point to it on a map.
I couldn’t point home either. I have to retrace my steps to get there. I can’t move easily between the spots in my territory. I have to ask for directions or go to “home base”, my neighborhood or the city center, and start again from there.
At heart I am a creature of habit. I have routines and routes, it’s how I find comfort and security. I walk the same streets to the same destinations, day after day. I pass the same shops and people, see the slow steady progress of the buildings under repair. See the cobblestone streets being deconstructed, mysterious underground work completed, then reconstructed, usually in the space of three days at most. Miraculous speed in some things.
I marvel at the cobblestones which are taken up, piled on the side of the road, and then fitted back together. One of those low tech solutions that seems so smart. No pavements cracking and shifting in the cold or wet weather. No potholes or tree roots breaking up the roads. A little rough on the shoes maybe. I have to replace my heels regularly. I often wonder how old those gray-blue stones are. In the summer it takes longer for the dust and dirt to settle back into the cracks between the stones. A bit messy perhaps, but all the more reason to remove your shoes indoors, a habit I developed in New York and am happy to continue here. My apartment stays so much cleaner and I prefer padding around barefoot, toes sinking into my fluffy white carpets, to clomping around in shoes.
That is my home territory, what I see on my regular walking route between home and friends and my cafe and the shops I frequent.
But at times I range farther afield. I take the tram and the metro, sometimes to the end of the line (it’s not long). I catch buses which are labeled helpfully with their various destinations. They take me on crowded curving, looping highways. I look out the windows and I always feel that what I see is familiar— I know where I am!— and then realize that like any city this one has repetitive buildings and many areas that look alike. There are the pink buildings and the grey buildings and the yellow buildings. Pale sage green buildings. The colors don’t vary much.
I get off the bus at the correctly labeled spot. It all looks the same until I come this way often enough that it’s incorporated into my territory. Until I start to recognize that cafe, that shop-owner, that business where the yellow dog sleeps under a tree in a spot he’s worn into the bare earth.
It’s a strange feeling, knowing how to get here but not where I am.
Friends who know me well are used to the question, “Where am I?”
Having no sense of direction, the twisting highways confuse me and I know how to get to my destination, which bus to take, where to get off the metro, but I could never point to it on a map.
I couldn’t point home either. I have to retrace my steps to get there. I can’t move easily between the spots in my territory. I have to ask for directions or go to “home base”, my neighborhood or the city center, and start again from there.
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