Cyprus

I went to Cyprus. As a tourist with an American passport, of course. I booked my trip through a travel agency. An all-inclusive package with cab rides to and from the airport. All that was left up to me was the in-between. I flew into The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, recognized only by Turkey, and, by default, a place that does not exist in the eyes of the rest of the world. I had no agenda.

I saw all of Guirne by the end of the first day, which consisted of a harbor and a castle. The next day I went to one pool and two casinos. I immediately lost 20 lira on video poker. Afterwards I took advantage of the free drinks and an overly friendly waiter who offered me cigarettes with my coke. I refused but he gave me chocolates instead. A consolation prize, I thought. First place money, second place smokes, third place sugar. At the second casino, the power went out twice over the course of a few minutes. No one moved. I imagined the legalities, and then remembered I wasn’t in the U.S. Everyone stood silent and motionless waiting for the lights to go on. I imagined the anticipation of the high rollers at the roulette wheel and craps table. Listening to the dice or that little white ball plunk on their lucky number, knowing their fate was sealed but unable to divine the outcome from darkness. We tried to go back the next day, but they wouldn’t let us in because my friend was wearing flip flops. I didn’t mind.

I figured we should cross the border into the Greek side because, well, because we could. You can’t say that about every border between contentious nations. When I looked back into Turkish Cyprus, a sign above the concrete boat reads: Northern Republic of Turkish Cyprus FOREVER. Didn’t have the same appeal as Welcome to Las Vegas or anything. I walked into Greece.

We took a shared taxi from our hotel in Guirne to Lefkosa, the border city. From there, we walked past a park, past a pile of bloody sheepskins surrounded by a halo of flies (likely slaughtered recently during Kurban Bayram - the sacrifice holiday), past deserted looking stores and down a tree lined street toward red and white striped security hatches in the distance. When the Turkish army invaded/intervened (your choice - depending which side of the fence you’re on) in 1974 during the Greek coup d’etat, their actions were justified/rationalized (again, choose your own adventure) by this statement: "each of the three guaranteeing Powers reserves the right to take action with the sole aim of re-establishing the state of affairs created by the present Treaty.” I will leave this ambiguous and open to interpretation, as did they.

We arrived at what appeared to be a ship sailing in cement. Actually, it was just a white oblong building with circular windows like portholes. As far as borders go, I was unimpressed. It wasn’t the vast militarized desert I looked upon through a fence on the Israel – Lebanon border. There was no hurry up and wait or excitement that comes with the potential nefarious activities as when heading to Tijuana. A border is a neutral zone, a no man’s land, neither here nor there. In theory. In practice, they are highly controlled and defined. Anyway, I went up to the window and displayed my passport. The woman behind the desk looked at my face, then down at my passport, then up at my face again. Stamp, stamp, stamp, and I was free run for the border.

Mythologically speaking, Cyprus is the birthplace of Aphrodite. Goddess of beauty and love. I’d like to be her, especially if I could look like Botticelli’s version. I would straddle the border and distract the military until they no longer knew what they were fighting for. These days, Goddesses get about as much respect as the tooth fairy.Just beyond the border, we passed an incongruous Ivy League looking building surrounded by a fortress style brick wall. I would’ve guessed it had some official function, not only because of the UN’s olive branch seal on the doors, but because privilege and power are always hidden behind impenetrable walls. A coil of barbed wire snaked atop the wall like an elongated notebook spiral. Heavy chains bound the doors, and through the crack I saw an armed guard. Buildings that looked as though they belonged on a southern plantation and cars with ornate hood ornaments were interspersed with charred, dilapidated houses. I wondered if it was left that way for effect.

On the Greek side I went to Starbucks and McDonalds. I went to a department store that resembled every other department store in the (first) world to the currency exchange on the top floor. I was bored and restless and intrigued. Every move I made. How disgustingly predictable, how totally pointless, how to make sense of the fact there was nothing out of the ordinary to make sense of. What was I supposed to do? Grab the microphone from the grade school choir singing Christmas carols in Greek and start interviewing people on the spot about what really happened? I drank my latte.

So throw me a bone – a time machine, a crystal ball, fluency in five or more languages, so that I can at least have the means to tell you more than you can read on Wikipedia.

I like to shop and eat, and when that is over, I like to walk around until it is time to shop and eat some more. Then I can put another pushpin on my National Geographic world map (or that silly places I’ve been Facebook application) and tell everyone about fantastic times here, there and everywhere. Or I could simply tell you this.

Winter Wonderings

It finally feels like winter here. Yesterday the air smelled deceptively of snow, but it turned out the heavens were only brewing cold air and freezing rain. Unless it is the bone chilling cold of the winters I grew up in, I refuse to believe I need a hat and gloves. In my mind Istanbul is still the sweltering city I came to over four months ago now. This is a new side of the city; the hard to catch a cab, swaddled under layers of clothing, can-see-my -breath–so-cold-side. It is a sort of cold that is usually thawed out by Salvation Army bells and decorations in the Marshall Fields windows (before it became Macys) and shopping for presents that will likey be returned before New Years. In recent years the cold only means its getting dark earlier, there is slush on your good boots, and your bus is delayed, you’re eating more and worrying about getting fat, or feeling motivated to go to Bikram yoga to work it off and feel warm for awhile. I do not much like this cold side of Istanbul that lacks the perks of winters I know, but then again I’ve been chasing warmth for many years.

I am headed South tomorrow, but I don’t know if Cyprus will be to Istanbul what Miami is to Chicago. The holiday coincides with Kurban Bayram, which traditionally is a day for the sacrific of cattle. My students gave me chocolate and told me eating sweets is what the holiday is all about. I’m sure it is both, or neither.

At a British hosted holiday party, some Turks asked my American colleages what their Christmas traditions were. Going shopping? Gorging ourselves at the dinner table? The beach, someone offered. We go to the beach and toss the frisbee around. That’s a nice tradition. Anyone can participate. You probably don’t have to be of a particular sex or age. It does not involve the ritual slaughter of animals. It does not involve a particular set of beliefs, like reverence to the frisbee god or frisbee commandments. The closest thing to a tradition I can think of is celebrating my mother’s Christmas birthday. Traditions seem passe, don’t they? I could give you a litany of what Jews do on Hanukkah, or Christains do on Christmas, but as for myself, well, I am not sure if there are many things I did then, plan to do here in Istanbul, or will do in the future.

The value of a thing comes in its repetition. There is nothing intrinsically special about the act of hanging ornaments or lighting the menorah. It is sacred or special precisely because it has been done before; specifically with the people you care about.

I am working on Christmas day, but there are plenty of holiday parties and events to keep me busy. I went over to Joanna’s to put up her fake Christmas tree. We listened to carols and ate hummus and beyaz penir (a cheese similar to feta) sandwiches on olive cibatta. I drank tea instead of diet coke, and eventually got a cab home in the freezing rain.

For the record: I am not a fan of airing ones dirty launry in public. Nor do I find value in blogs that document every hangnail and heartache as though worthy of front page news. I know, I know, its the facebook phenonmena, but there is something to be said for keeping some things to yourself. See what I mean? Now you're wondering what they are....

So lets just not call this dirty laundry....I mean, its not really laundry if you fold it neatly and put in back in the drawer even if it has stains, right? So please, be my guest: examine my blouse with the coffee stains, my dirty gym socks, my skirt with the red permanent marker on the behind. I haven't sorted it into light and dark.

Why does a woman spends her Saturday ripping apart a chicken to make stock? Carrots, celery, onion, salt, bay leaf, and the bones of a dead bird. Headline: Former vegetarian retches as she listenes to sockets pop and wishbone snap.

I am running – to North Beach, from Santa Monica to Venice and back, down McCormick Ave past sculpture park, around and around the Claremont colleges, through the Cook County forest preserve where sparrow wings are smelts shimmering along the Bosphorus from Yenikoy to Tarabiya. I am moving on fast forward, or they are going in slow motion, the fisherman who raise up hooks of rows of floundering fish, their tackle boxes cluttering the walkway. They have the right of way, not power walkers, not families strolling, not the runner, me. Quick: a simit stand with fresh sesame rings to the left, a tea table to the right, a bucket with half-alive bait straight ahead, get out of my fucking way.

There are so many places I want to go: The teahouse up and around the bend, the place called Passion with cheesecakes.I stare at the plates but people think I am looking at their faces....but I won't go alone. Or I will, and then I will want to leave.

Now I am walking, in my baggy pants and bulky sweatshirt, as unattractive as possible. I plug in my ipod but I can't find a soundtrack. I can’t listen to Dixie Chicks...I can’t listen to Shakira...I can’t listen to anything I listened to in California...I start, I stop. I break into run, and there are cars parked on the sidewalk. I step off the curb, and a motorcycle comes zipping around the bend. I start running, and a family is coming. I run in front of cars because I will be waiting until next December if I expect the world to stop for me here. I run across streets, accross cobblestones, accross my students. A boy and a girl. They are sitting, sweetly, on a bench. They smile, I wave. They seem startled to see me as a person instead of a teacher. They are having a talk, but I can tell by their postures they are new at these kind of talks, the boy and girl on a bench by the water on a Sunday morning kind of talks. I want to sit behind them and tell them what to say. Will they break up when they leave for college? Are they even together? Will they think of each other fondly or grow bitter?

Now I am running again. Fast. Sweating, wearing an unsupportive sports bra, I take up as much space as I please as my arms pump back and forth an my legs keep time with the bicycle way down the road in front of me. Rollerbladers in oakley sunglasses are the only insects on the trail, and moms who just had babies inside now push them in strollers. I know every curve and when I get to the tree with the tangled roots I'm almost there. I'm almost there. Thousands of miles and amost there. There is no fear that I will get lost, or find myself in a neighborhood of headscarved women who watch. It would be presumptuous to say judge.

I know: I’ll see if they sell soy sauce and ginger at the Macro center. I know: I’ll buy a cake and invite people over to eat it. I’ll get coffee and read the paper. But not alone. I know: I will make something. Yes, that sounds like a brilliant idea.

I am tired. I may or may not do crunches. I will probably rush to water in the form of a drink or a shower. I will catch up on foreign affairs in this order: CNN, Time, Tabloid. I will admit to myself I perfer novels to news and I think fiction is more honest than the truth. I will get my book and read until I will scold myself for being unproductive.

I will eat simply because its time. I will not talk to anyone. I will grade papers. I will have an inspiration for a lesson, decide it won't work, and do it anyway. I will sit on an overcrowded bus. I will do yoga and remove all stress form my life. I will wait for a call from anyone that says they love me and miss me. I will wonder what I am doing.

Turk Everlasting

A woman fainted on the bus today. She was standing a few bodies away from me, holding onto the rail with a glazed expression in her eyes, as was I.

But that’s beside the point. I wanted to write about a quintessential Istanbul day: I ventured out on my own and bought some reeds for my friend’s Zurna (a Turkish musical instrument). On the way back I finally discovered where the famed freshly squeezd pomegranete juice is sold. I then finally made it to the Blue Mosque and Hağia Sophia, two of the most important sites that I am embarassed to say I have not yet visited in my three months time here. I bought some generic postcards, a pair of pants from a Nepalese imports store, and... and a woman fainted on the bus.

I can only write about the woman. Turkish buses are beyond crowded. When it is hot outside, it is hot in the bus. When it slightly less than a summer's day, Turks blast the heat, and therefore it is hot on the bus on cold days. I am lucky to find a pocket of fresh air to breathe, much less a seat.

I was lamenting my own tired feet when I saw a person laying in the narrow aisle. I didn’t hear her fall, but I felt a human wave flow toward me as bodies moved out of the way. One minute she was standing, the next she was not. Those surrounding her looked down at the body, the up at one another, giving each other the universal look for “oh shit.” Some people helped her up and place her in a seat. I wished I had saved my water bottle. I wished I knew more Turkish.

I did not know whether to look away. I was too close to ignore what was going on, too far to actually do something. I assumed that it was a routine faint, the kind to be expected from standing in traffic during rush hour on an overcrowded bus. I imagined seeing a look of shock, confusion, or perhaps even shame or embarassment appear on her vapid face when she came to and tried to explain to others what happend. Would she be the type to soak up all the attention, or would she feel ashamed and try to modestly brush it off?

I would never find out. A minute (or was it two? Or five?) and she was still unresponsive. She had her eyes closed, mouth hanging open, face catatonic and pale. There was a second round of confused looks when old buxom women who brushed her face with their wet-naps and gently slapped the apples of her cheeks could not elicit the slightest response.

There is always one: The hero. Nondescript, balding, public bus rider hero. He made is way calmly to the back of the bus. He held up a mirror to her mouth to see if she was breathing. I didn’t see it fog up. Other than that, he didn’t do much besides pat her on the cheeks a couple of times and orchestrate the passing of napkins and empty water bottles. He made a call on his cell and said something in Turkish that I didn’t understand.

It was a state of controlled chaos. My first reaction was to do something. My second was that I had no idea what to do, and if I did, how could I communicate that I was trying to help. I wondered if I should do CPR. I learned it, but could I remember it? Then again, maybe she was breathing. It looked like the man had the situation in control. People kept asking for water, and calling to the bus driver to make a wrong turn and go the direction of the hospital.

I had geared myself up for tune-out mode. Try not to bump anyone or look strange men directly in the eye. Don’t get pressed to death when the automatic doors swing open. Be ready to pounce on the first seat that opens up, unless there are frail looking old ladies around. I had successfully entered into the zone where I amthere but not really there. I was abruptly adusting to the fact there was a crisis playing out before my very eyes. I was surprised by the dramatic nature of it, but also the calm, as if we had rehearsed it and merely took our places: Woman passes out hankies, man calls hospital, girl in back stands and stares, thinking.

The bus took a wrong turn toward the hospital. The hero took of his leather jacket, scooped her up as if carrying a bride across the threshold, and barreled down the stairs of the bus as he presented her to the hospital, where medics were waiting with a stretcher. A number of people from the bus, including myself, followed him in to see what was going in. As soon as she touched the stretcher, they started wheeling her towards two swinging doors. The man shrugged his shoulders, and since I couldn’t understand what he said, I’ll pretend it was this: “What can anyone do now? My job here is done.”

Taking his cue, the rest of the passengers walked out, and we all went our separate ways.

I wanted to describe my glorious day off in Instabul, but a stranger's mortality got in the way.

Breaking Bread

This weekend I did something I thought I’d never do. Never in my wildest imagination did I contemplate something so delectable, so savory, so satisfying.
I baked bread. Ha.

Well, I had help of course. It started when my department head suggested that teachers (meaning the single females) come over for a day of bread baking. Although the idea seemed quite random, I was up for a challenge. The alterior motive of bonding and beating the blues of rain days in Istanbul just before the break made it well worth it.

I've baked bread a few times before: Once on a junior high whim with a friend who thought it would be fun to make the teddy bear bread recipe she found in a book, and a few times with my sister in an attempt to make challah for pseudo-traditonal Shabbat dinners. However, I certainly would not go so far as to say I actually know how to make bread. It always seemed like one of those esoteric skills known only by grandmothers who came from Eastern Europe or Martha Stewart types who always had matching napkins and placemats. Although my past attempts tasted good, they certain wouldn’t pass a taste test by a more refined consumer. Bread baking certainly did not enter the realm of modern woman who has only recently learned to use a chopping knife.

Alas, this was no Betty Crocker bakeoff. There were no aprons or hair nets in sight (okay, there was a rolling pin) it did not feel provincial or trite in any way. Along with my English teacher counterparts, we brought our ingredients to the spacious kitchen of our fearless leader. We had spent the week contemplating which type of bread to make, and by chance covered all the taste buds with our selections: sweet cinnamon raisin bread, savory garlic and herbs, aromatic olive, and my own simple challah.

We took our stations at the kitchen counter as our leader circulated and gave us pointers. “You’ll need a little more flour to compensate for the extra water” or, “put oil in the bowl so the dough doesn’t stick.” Cooking has both the creative satisfaction and the instant gratification of playing with an easy bake oven, making it pleasurable on multiple levels. I felt a carthasis of sorts as I kneaded the dough with the palm of my hand and, after it rose, deflated the sticky bloated dough paunch with my punches.

Baking bread is one of the activities I could just as easily do back home. I suppose there is noting intrinsically Turkish about spending a Saturday with friends baking and eating. Yet I cannot imagine standing in my friend’s kitchens in their small walk-ups or studios doing much else besides drinking wine and taking. I have come to discover my ability to discover here, to find new things not only in the cultural nooks and crannies but also amid the human connections I continue to form.

Banal Details

I have absolutely nothing to say.

At least that’s what I thought before I started writing.
Today I read TimeOut Istanbul for the first time since I arrived. I was struck by how incongruous my lived experience here is from the glossy magazine version – or the hefty travel guides I brought with me. Not to say that I haven’t been to my fair share of trendy tourist spots that label themselves as cafés in lieu of kave or çai baçesi thus far. Still the most salient features are those that comprise my everyday existence.

Sitting on the couch reading a magazine and eating microwaved leftovers, I was struck by the lack of interesting facts I had to share. My weekend was spent at a teacher’s conference, which was followed by drinks at a bar called Beer City. (I know, how exotic and authentic.)
My Sunday was spent going out to brunch, grocery shopping, cleaning my apartment, and preparing large pot of lentils so I wouldn’t have to cook later in the week. Not too different than a Sunday in the states.

Needless to say, my experience here is different - albeit hard to pinpoint at times. I tried to extract all the things that distinguish my life here from my life back home. I came up with a semi-satisfactory list that may seem trite and unworthy of a blog entry, but these comprise some of my day to day activities that make up my “real” life, which now feels oh so distant from my past one.

• 
  I order my water: I call nestle and give them my address. They deliver a huge water cooler type jug for the equivalent of about five dollars. It is brought straight to my door and I exchange my empty one for the full. In theory, there is nothing wrong with the water here (it is the pipes that are old and rusty) but of course I am unwilling to take my chances. This may not seem like a big deal, but placing an order in Turkish always seems slightly monumental.
  · I go to the store nearly everyday. My day doesn’t seem complete without spending a bit of time wandering around my neighborhood. Perhaps it is out of loneliness that I get a thrill out of seeing familiar faces – and being recognized by people I can’t exactly call friends. Maybe it is practical, since although there are massive U.S. style supermarkets that sell anything and everything, the bazaars are still the best place for fruit, the bakaals are the place to shop for odds and ends, and I certainly wouldn’t go anywhere but the many bakeries for fresh desserts and breads. Maybe it is merely egoism for me to go places where I am known. Or maybe it just reminds me that this is my home and there are human landmarks that indicate time has passed and I have progressed since my first days here.
  · I watch a lot of television. The shows that I found mildly amusing back home- Heroes, Desperate Housewives, Ghost Whisperer – but could never seem to get into like the rest of the country suddenly hook me the way fishermen along the Bosphorus casting their lines pick up smelts. It is somehow satisfying to vegetate in front of familiar accents. I am aware that there are better things to do, but it just doesn’t seem like it. (Did I just admit to watching Ghost Whisperer?)
  · I spend a lot of time alone. My nights are generally quiet, and those whom I speak to regularly are generally people whom I have yet to forge deep connections with. I still don’t have internet access at home and therefore I can’t connect in my off hours. In my 4-5 hours between Turkish lessons or the gym and sleep, I have mostly my thoughts to keep me company. There is simply not as much to keep up with. The majority of my power and water bills are paid by my school, and there is no press one to speak to an operator that I have to deal with (not that it doesn’t exist – I just don’t speak Turkish).
  · Random occurrences are normal. Generally, I am in the know about what is happening in my surroundings, but here I don’t seem to figure things out until after the fact. I didn’t understand all the rituals surrounding Ramazan until a few weeks into into it. Tonight a group of students was marching through my neighborhood with Turkish flags chanting something that I assume is related to the conflict with the Kurds in the Southeast. It is these sort of things that strike me the most, things I try to investigate but always seem to bump up against a wall.

Fast Times

Never before have I been in a predominately Muslim country during Ramazan (aka Ramadan). The difference is palpable, yet the various rituals specific to the month of Ramazan have only affected me peripherally: At rush hour, traffic goes from mass chaos to total insanity, making it difficult to catch a bus and nearly impossible to find one that isn’t stuffed to capacity. I am able to buy fresh bread when I come home at 6:00 p.m. from my superintendent, who goes around to all the apartments on my block with a basket of the special round loaves that are used to break the fast each night. There is a drummer who walks through the neighborhood at 3:30 a.m to wake up those who must prepare food before the first call of prayer. (I don’t know why I never got around to buying earplugs the entire month.) Unfortunately, he also wakes up an unsuspecting foreigner who need to get up for work a mere three hours later. I thought perhaps the rat-ta-tat-tat was merely a figment of my imagination until I saw the elusive drummer boy on the corner, his drum strapped to his chest. Perhaps by next year these seasonal changes will feel as meaningful as Christmas carols blasting through the mall, but somehow they felt laden with meaning and significance that I was not privy to, nor did I completely understand.

As I listened to the drums and the call to prayer throughout the month, I thought about the way the president has to swear on the bible, In God we Trust on the dollar bill, and of course, the Commander in Chief’s references to the almighty that are invoked on a consistent basis.

I know a few people who fasted out of religious reasons at work without any apparent distraction. I also know a handful of people who fasted, at least part of the time, to ‘try it out.’ It seems to me quite disingenuous to use fasting as a psychological exercises or even to do it “just because” and compare it to those who are doing it for the sake of a higher authority. Still, I do not know if there is more power in actions, or the meaning behind them.

On my way home from work, I passed by “my” little cafe. In my mind, it has sort of replaced the comfort of deli food or eating pancakes at a greasy spoon at three a.m. The brother and sister who own the joint were standing outside waiting for the day to end so their meal could begin. They invited me to join them for iftar (the breaking of the fast), and as I looked inside the restaurant and saw the table set with fresh dolmes, borek, and the yogurt that is served with everything here, I found it hard to say no (plus it is considered rude to refuse an invitation). We sat at the table with the food beckoning us to start until Imam’s voice could be heard blaring from mosques in four directions. It was much nicer than the alternative (eating my dinner with the cast of Heroes or CNN keeping me company).

Perhaps this is the real reason the fast must be broken according to the voice of the Imam. People will need to eat at the exact time everyday, and if we are all hungry, and all at home, it will inevitably be done together.

Where in the World is Alizah Carmen San Diego?

In my Alizah Travels the World and Lives a Glamorous Life fantasies, I am able to speak the language of the land that I’ve simply picked up while dining at the bistro or chatting it up at the taverna. It’s like I’m on that show Heroes, but instead of healing or extracting traumatic memories, I can simply understand everyone. Plus I am as cool and mysterious as Carmen San Diego.

Perhaps I have an inflated sense of my linguistic abilities because of past successes. While in Central America, Spanish came very naturally to me and I was often complimented on my aptitude for language. I must keep in mind that reaching a point where my subconscious had picked up on the slight subtleties and I was dreaming and thinking in Spanish was preceded by four years of study and intensive immersion. Plus, I must add that this “natural” ability faded as soon as I was I back on American soil and able to order burritos in English once again.

I am well aware from prior experience that communication – not merely learning to speak – is far more complex than sentence structures and verb conjugations. Still, fantasy and reality often collide when one is living a life far removed from the “real” reality of home. (Or if you are a person who often envisions yourself as t.v. characters)

The last thing I feel like doing after a day of extracting every bit of English from students who dissolve into the comfort of their native Turkish unless constantly reprimanded is to impose the same painstaking process of language aquisition upon myself. However, simply thinking of all my cringeworthy language mishaps thus far and I am motivated to squeeze out the mental energy to attend Turkish lessons after school two days a week. Furthemore, I understand that language is one gateway I must pass before I am ushered into a threshold of culture, and therefore I am willing to give it a go.

Its been a long time since I have learned anything new and therefore my brain felt a little rusty. Research shows (I find this phrase highly questionable and overused, but this is a blog and therefore I am allowed be subjective and contribute to the erosion of the foundation of journalism) that transitioning from Turkish to English is one of the hardest linguistic changes. Still, I don’t have to worry about the tones that denote different meaning as in some languages, and the Turks have basically the same alphabet, so it can’t be that difficult, right?

Turkish is a language that uses suffixes, rather than separate words, to create meaning. Therefore it is difficult to distinguish where one word ends and the next begins when you have a long chorus of sounds strung together with minute pauses and inflections. It sounds like sltıüüüheoöööçıhsüdsheoıişşğ (I have emphasized the ö and ü becaue those are sounds my mouth is physically unable to create).

Anyway, my friend said she finally understood why things take so long here – because the language is inefficient and drawn out without many shortcuts and abbreviations. I don’t know if I am willing to make this quite large leap off the safety of the politically correct platform on which I currently stand...but I will say that language explains the way people think, and therefore, to an extent the way they act. Which I suppose is why I want to to learn it, and perhaps why one day I hope my desire to understand everyone is not just a fantasy after all.

Bobos

It could be Rush Street in Chicago or slices of the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles. For my Australian friend, it’s the section of Melbourne where people go to see and be seen. I’ve heard it called the Monaco of Istanbul and the land of the bourgeois bohemians. It is Bebek, a small waterfront secetion of İstanbul that has become an "it" spot for anyone who is somebody.

It projects the same aesthetic as other cities, just interchange the faces: gamine women teetering around on stilettos while their slicked and starched men wait impatiently for the valet to pull up their Lamborghinis. The fruit doesn’t have any bruises, the fish doesn’t stink, and you can read a lot of English on the sweatshirts of random passersby. It is clean, bordering on sterile.

The posturing and posing of this well preened and thoroughly groomed clique reminds me of a cattle call audition for an imaginary part. An air of indifference to anything but oneself creates the distance of a movie screen – they have put themselves on display, and therefore you can watch the scene but never be part of it. Worst of all, it simultaneously ignites repulsion and desire.

The sidewalk cafés spill into one another to form a massive cool kid’s lunch table. The scene clogs traffic and jacks up prices; creating the illusion that you’re in a different city than the one you’re in and every cosmopolitan city on the planet all at once. Perhaps it is the minimalist menus, the sleek fonts that stamp out monosyllabic restaurant names, the demure lighting, the angular people, the square plates and uncomfortable chairs; the same hypnotic electronic beats spliced between repetitive lyrics, the same color schemes, the sparsely decorated interiors, or all of the above. The place puts you on guard, like being at a crowded Crate & Barrel where you feel you are going to break something because you take up too much space. It is swimming upstream against a human current of discomfort. Everyone is in perfect rhythm they don't have much soul. We all are in on some secret that none of us really know, but shh, don’t tell or you’ll spoil the illusion. I wonder if it is simply because I can, and you can’t, that it seems so special. Everyone is so contained and well orchestrated, as if a painting has come to life between the hours of 11 p.m and 3 a.m but can only move within the bounds of an invisible frame. Once I step inside, I find I know the choreography as well, the same stylized movements and over awareness of my surroundings.

This fairytale turning into a pumpkin mentality makes me feel like I really want to go to such places, and then, once I’m there, I immediately feel suffocated and desire to get out before it’s too late. But I am no Cinderella and I always imagined Prince Charming would be on a bicycle rather than in a Lamborghini.

I took my first Turkish holiday this weekend in Cappadocia, an ancient land situated in the center of the country. I booked the trip through my school, and therefore I just assumed everything was going to work out. By this point, my hardcore group of precocious new teachers had dwindled from five to two. We had few options, a tight budget, and we really wanted to get sushi at the mall where the travel agency was (it’s had to find around here). I was in no mood to renegotiate what was supposed to be an exotic vacation.

With every new destination traveled comes a new set of procedures to decipher. At 9:30 p.m. I embarked down my gravel street wheeling my little suitcase. I managed to get the first bus to the second bus, hop a cab and arrive in a deserted parking lot where we were to meet our bus. It looked sketchy, but I relinquished my fate to the gods of.

Luckily, the bus was no greyhound. Plush reclining seats and an attendant who came around to periodically pass around beverages made the ride semi-bearable. It was already midnight, and by sunrise we’d be in Cappadocia .

We stopped nearly every two hours for a break so passengers could use the bathroom, get something to eat, and of course, smoke. (Our bus was one of the few places in Turkey I’ve found that has a no smoking sign that is actually enforced.
Nine sleepless hours later, I saw the other-worldly “fairy chimneys” emerge in the distance. The sensible thing to do would be to go to the hotel, take a shower and pass a few hours at the pool, and then head out for an afternoon of touring once the sun had time to simmer. Instead, we went straight to the first site and started what at times felt like a trek through the Sahara towards a mirage of satisfaction and fulfillment.

First stop: Ancient underground cities that formed a labyrinth beneath the entire region. It was really quite amazing to imagine what it must’ve been like to live burrowed under the Earth like creatures from Lord of the Rings. Unfortunately, I started thinking. First, it was innocent enough. I though of super Mario going down the tube into a creepy underworld. I then had flashbacks to the part in Indiana Jones where the walls are closing in on him. This is what those coal miners in Utah must have felt like. If underground cities were build to hide from enemy forces, maybe there’s bad karama down here. We then went even further into the bowels of the Earth, which required walking down a slanted tunnel with my back at nearly a right angle. I had had enough, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. If the prune lady in front of me wearing orthopedic shoes can do it, then so can I, I reassured myself.

We went from room to room, each with arched doorways. They all looked identical to one another, save for the signs identifying the bedroom from the church. I’m sure there were distinguishing factors, but with the tour all in Turkish, I couldn’t tell you want they are. I thought it could be a clandestine labyrinth.
Luckily, we made friends with a man who spoke English, an engineering professor at Bosphorus University. He semi-translated for us, which, perhaps, he thought meant he could then put his hands on our backs as we walked single file and crouched over through the tunnels. (he took turns between my friends and I) .
We went to lunch in what looked like something out of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, or maybe a bad Aladdin sequel. The waiters were clad in blue vests with gold fringed tassels and pointy shows. Our self-appointed translator “friend” sat with us. “You teach me English, I will teach you Turkish.” As if I haven’t heard that one before. It was then that my friend and I became engrossed in a conversation about her boyfriend and my imaginary one.

At this point, I found myself contemplating an important conundrum: Why is this supposed to be fun? Yes, the natural landscapes were some of the most visually stunning I’ve ever seen, but a scenic point is only scenic for so long before your vision begin to blur.

I learned a few important lessons that day. First, don’t be kind to strangers. Second, no matter where you go, even the bowels of the Earth, you will find large groups of Asian tourists wearing wide brimmed hats and knee socks. Third, a day visiting historical sites should be sandwiched between two days at the pool sipping Margaritas.

We were supposed to wake up for round two the next day, but thankfully my friend is not as bound by guilt as I am and made an executive decision to stay at the hotel for the day. I felt slightly naughty about missing out on the day’s adventures. However, from a cost-benefit analysis, it really made the most sense. Stay poolside , get in some important classroom prep time, and reserve my bolster my mental resources for the school year ahead. After all, we are professionals. With nothing better to do than read, flirt with under aged waiters and take glamour shots at the pool, I felt fully satisfied. It could’ve been the French Rivera rather than The Boonies, Turkey. Even if we ended up with faux French fries and bottles of Effes (the national beer), it was still what I call a vacation.

Taking a Stand

The way you know you belong to a culture is if you understand its tacit codes. You know what I mean. Social cues, innuendo, unspoken rules, implicit understanding, subtle differences in the intonation of your voice or the rhythm of your gait. Whether communication depends on getting close enough to the person you’re speaking with to smell their breath, or whether that thought disgusts you. Tacit codes are sewn into the fabric of burkas and bikinis, and partially give reason to why this one wraps her soul ( or whatever lies beneath the flesh) in the garb of overt friendliness, that one in extreme formality.

The dolmush has become my favorite mode of transportation. Basically, it’s a mini-bus that serves as your own personal taxi. When you want to get on, simply stand on any corner and one is sure to pass by within five minutes. You pay according to distance traveled, but even the farthest reaches of the city are generally no more than a pocketful of spare change away. When you want to get off, yell out the magic words(enejeck var) and the driver will stop at the next convenient point. To be fair, they are cheap and easy for a reason. My life flashes before my eyes on a regular basis as the rickety hippo of a bus barrels down the freeway.

On my way back from the mall I got on the crowded dolmush and stood armpit to armpit with the other passengers. I had yet to stand on one of the teetering mini-busses. My stop was before the crowds got on, and even if the bus was slightly crowded I could almost guarantee that a man would give up his seat for me. I figured it was custom, an older teacher says it’s because I’m young and my head isn’t covered. I’ve come to expect such preferential treatment, even if it comes with laser strong stares from the man hovering above me.

This time, I was the one doing the staring. I was standing aside a man. A sitting man. A young, healthy looking, sitting man who should have noticed me as my bags jostled against him on account of staccato rhythm the bus. The feminist in me felt guilty for feeling annoyed at his obliviousness. However, if I was to suffer the costs of living in a patriarchal culture, then surely I ought to reap the benefits. Besides, I was tired from shopping, my arm felt like it was going to come out of the socket from reaching up to the bar overhead, and I was completely smushed. I tried to access my dormant powers of mental telepathy and make the man levitate.

I didn’t know why the dolt wasn’t getting up until I noticed the book he was reading. It was in English: Letters from Turkey. He was only on the first page. Probably just coming back from one of the English language bookstores filled with The Best of Rumi and Lonely Planet Guides to Turkey and books about magic carpets and fezzes and more clichés about the country that is building the largest mall in Europe. Or titles like The Camel Girl, which happened to be the story he was reading. Tacit codes. He obviously didn’t understand them.

I can’t say that I do, either. But I want to learn them. We can continue to clash with culture and assume behaviors and practices are wrong because we don’t understand them. I would rather know that its not everyone is rude and butting in front of me, but that a line simply does not exist. You change your labels and it sort of has the placebo affect: if you think it’s good for you, then it is - until pretty soon you forget that you’re taking sugar pills instead of painkillers. Its just semantics, I suppose. I’m creating my own brand of packaging, labeling and advertising for my personal tastes in cultural consumption. It is in this way, I think, that we trick ourselves into believing that what we do is “right,” that we are living the way we “should.” Then we can find solace in the sense of it all.

I can’t say that I do, again. Even if I can switch my behavior, I don’t know if I can flip a switch in my brain that immediately says I’m not being rude, that’s just the way things are done around here. You can’t think that two opposing ways of life are both right for you at the same time in the same context. Or can you? Consult your philosophers if you want more on moral relativism. I really just wanted a pair of shoes, not another existential crisis. Why don’t you fill in your favorite cliché (maybe different strokes for different folks or to each his own?) and let that be the moral of the story.

I don’t like the word code, it has connotations of something you punch into the ATM or and episode of CSI. It sounds formulaic and rational: if I put in a smile I will get out a handshake. It is not even my term, I stole it from some academic who might be more helpful if he could tell me how to ride a bus.

I opened my mouth to say something to the sitting man but decided against it. It would be awkward to simply start a conversation because we both spoke English. What book are you reading? Do you come here often? FYI, there’s usually a sign that says you have to get up for ladies, but I’m just telling you about it today because I really want to sit down. I would never have spoken to him otherwise. He might find my kindness suspicious. I might be uncomfortable if he read my friendly gesture the wrong way.

He didn’t know the magic words to let the driver know it was his stop. He just got off with someone else and scurried out so quickly that he dropped a small plastic bag on the way out of the bus. About half the passengers shouted at him to come and get it, so he cowered back in and awkwardly picked it up. I recognized my own discomfort in his behavior. There is really nothing to feel uncomfortable about, I told myself. You just have to stare hard and deep enough to dissolve the wall between you and the rest of the world.

I didn't feel any better, but at least I could sit down.

Bazaar Bazaar

Today was a testament to my good karma. Just when I thought I’d go stir crazy, I got a call from another teacher inviting me to explore the city. I was initially suspicious of such a generous offer, but I soon discovered that she simply belonged to a rare breed of people called “elementary school teachers.”

With tattoos up and down her forearms a heavy dose of blue eyeshadow and a long blond pony tail, she doesn’t fit the mold.

She took me to the local travelling bazaar that comes to Yenikoy every Saturday. There, you can find cheap clothing with the tags cut off, display cases set up in the middle of the street with mountains of cheese and as many types of olives as we have protein bars.

There were ancient headscarved women selling bushels of different types of cotton (bring your favorite comforter and get it stuffed!), men selling impressive pyramids of pears, figs, and countless types of melons, and a little boy who persuaded me to buy a floral patterned shirt by counting to seven on his fingers in English. Women covered from head to toe unabashedly held up panties by the waistline to test the size and fabric quality. Teenagers with headscarved mothers wore puta madre t-shirts without having any idea of the connotations on their chest.

We then headed to the supermarket, where a diagram of a dissected cow that resembled a map of the U.S. outlined each part of a bovine and stated what type of meat came from where. İ know how to pick a good looking pack of intestines now. My friend showed me the quality brands of everything from canned corn to pomegranate oil.

On the bus ride home, we passed a horrific motorcycle accident complete with car parts strewn across the road. There was no shame in butting in front of other people to check out the mess or shield gore and graphic details from an unsuspecting audience. There are no sidewalks and therefore you have to walk dangerously close to traffic in some areas, but there is also no one suing the government for tripping on a crack in the concrete. It is tempting to want to put things into categories in order to have a sense of unity, but I’ll resist.

Soundbytes

“We’re loosing our culture, really. All of us.”

I didn’t say that. It was the French woman sitting across from me. I didn’t say anything because I was listening to Madonna in my head. “…I’ve heard it all before, heard it all before, heard it all before…”

The English department head invited the new teachers to her flat for dinner. I met another newbie at the bus stop and managed to find my way to Arnevutoky, a fishing village along the sea. As we hiked up the steep hill to her apartment, I had flashbacks to San Francisco. Until I saw the men sitting on small stools and playing backgammon, I thought for moment the bridge over the Bosphorus was the Golden Gate.

From the six year expats, I expected something simple, maybe burgers or chicken on the grill. What I ate was fresh fish with the head still on (a big step for a former vegetarian) green beans, homemade hummus and sauce. I noticed how carefully the British and the French use their knife to press food onto their fork. I noticed how everyone seemed to know how to eat the fish off the bone, except for the other American who wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole.

“It’s as though people can’t be people, you know. They’ve got no sense of each other. They are like machines. People are making themselves crazy over a cigarette. You can smoke here, but not there,” she said, making arbitrary lines in the air.
“…..I’ve heard it all before, heard it all before.”

But not in a French accent. Not on a terrace in Istanbul. Not that it makes a difference.

“Well, I have very strong feelings about that. I think that my grandparents came here and had to learn English, why shouldn’t they?”

It doesn’t matter what, it doesn’t matter who. We’re not there anymore. She already told you, we’re loosing our culture, really.

We talked red wine, cockney accents, bureaucratic red tape, the validity of Noah’s Arc on Mount Ararat, and hitchhikers in Anatolia. Is this culture? Are they cultured?

I still had Madonna in my head and I wanted to memorize the hummus recipe. Am I not?

After dinner, we were led to upstairs to rooms dripping with Turkish carpets and soaked in memorabilia. We were then ushered into a room with a 180 degree panorama of Istanbul. It felt more like a government sanctioned scenic point than a bedroom. It was the type of breathtaking view that wouldn’t let me sleep if I tried and that makes me realize why people say if you stay in Istanbul three years, you’ll never leave.

“I’ve lived here five years and I still can’t get over it,” said the host.

I understand why people smoke here. It helps to keep things down.

If you’re French, you can smoke before, after, and sometimes even during dinner. If you’re from the States, you can get away with kindly asking the person holding the cancer stick to turn away because you need your personal space and smoking is bad, tsk, tsk, tsk.

I learned that soon most major European cities will ban indoor smoking.

“We’re loosing our culture, really.”

“Or what little we had to begin with.” Brit added.
Then there is Turkey, and then there is the European Union. Then there is something about an objection to small fishing boats that grill fresh catches while afloat on the Bosporus. It appears that when going through “culture” with a fine tooth comb, inevitably nits such as illegal fishing boats and indoor smoking will be picked in order to make a clean, spruced up image.
I couldn’t help but think that that vapid and sterile lack of culture they felt was coming to Europe sounded like, well, like the U.S. It is the default, because it is mine. It is seductive, shiny and impossible to hold onto. It is the culture that is interesting to read about in National Geographic or reduce to a Chinese character tattoo meaning nothing. There is living culture, then there is the culture that is shipped to the masses.

What culture, I want to know. Postcards of the alpacas on the mountainside in Peru, the women carrying baskets on their heads in Africa, the Mariachi band at your table in your posh Acapulco resort? Is this culture? This is culture after it has been swallowed up and spit back out and shrink wrapped, then labeled with a “danger, consume only in small quantities so as not to alter your world view or rupture the structure of your prefabricated life."

The peaches and fresh vanilla ice cream for dessert were delicious. I ate extra so as not to offend the host and then felt guilty about.

Perhaps it is our birthright to offend each other.

Beginnings

I wish I could say I felt something other than ready. Anxious, emotional, or simply excited would be infinitely more poetic ways to begin a trip to İstanbul. But I was none of these, and to say I was anything other than primed to go (and slightly paranoid about loosing my passport) would be romanticizing something very real. There is nothing very romantic about eating my last American supper in the international terminal at O’Hare (a rubbery imitation deep dish pizza split three ways between my sister, mother and I. However, I soon discovered that Turkish Airlines is no peanuts and Bloody Mary operation. I was fed dinner, saran wrapped cheese sandwiches as a midnight snack, and finally breakfast before my arrival. I even got a small travel bag complete with a mini toothbrush and slipper socks as a party favor.
I felt relieved as soon as the flight took off. I had been craving these 10 hours of solace for weeks. I read the entire Sunday edition of the Chicago Tribune (minus the business and sports sections) a trashy tabloid, and one-third of the Curious Incident of the Dog in Nighttime before trying (unsuccessfully) to sleep.

I thought of my attempts to squeeze every last sock into five suitcases so as not to seem like a pampered American princess who can’t go without her entire boot collection or rosemary mint shampoo for a few months. I would soon learn that many new teachers brought ten plus bags complete with their coffee makers and good china. All I had was a plastic knife and fork in the way of cutlery.

Upon my arrival at my new apartment, I was pleasantly surprised to find my fridge stocked with the staples of Turkish diet: a container of natural yogurt, a box of cheese that resembled gauze tape floating in cloudy white liquid, a jumbo box of tea, a jar of honey, and a carton of eggs. Oh, and a silver and blue amulet hanging on the wall to protect me from the evil eye. I pulled out an egg to scramble for dinner, but decided against it when I realized it was plastered with a feather.

I didn’t expect to find my apartment more spacious and well-equipped than my place in Chicago, but indeed it is: I am the sole occupant of a two bedroom, one bathroom apartment, complete with an office and front and back balconies. The teacher who lived her prior left a full set of dishes, non-stick pans for all the cooking I won’t be doing, and a microwave.

I am extremely fortunate that my school is giving me the royal treatment, although at times I feel like I’m on a field trip to the rest of my life. Along with the other new teachers were escorted on a shopping trip to Ikea (I have not yet learned where is the Tupperware in Turkish), Bauhaus (a Home Depot) and the Carrefour, ( basically a Turkish Walmart but better because the salespeople zoom around on roller-skates).