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).