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.