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).