“What are somethings you’d want the rest of the people to know about Turkey and about its people?”
“That we are not Arabia. We are normal.”
Gul tells me this as she takes me back to the Acibadem station on the Asian side of the city. Her name means “Rose” and her disposition tells me there's no more appropriate name for this lady. Her daughter and I I just belted Celine Dion for some online karoke game with, is my student.
Her words are not mine and I won’t argue if it’s culturally inept. The significance of that statement, however, is pretty straightforward.
Before I arrived toTurkey countless advice was given to me, most of which included something along the lines of, “be careful.” BBC news articles ominously forecasted a cultural shift in upcoming elections. International news satellited the outrage of banning social media, which unavoidably wields public influence. Prime Minister Erdogan proclaimed the power of the Turkish Republic and strikes responding to the death of a teenager during a riot were other forefront topics in international media.
Blogs I read of the girl who was in Turkey before me really cautioned me as well. No doubt I would have to tip toe my way around my hosts’ apartment. They’d be speaking Turkish and I might come off as that lazy rude American with too much hair. Men will bother me on the street while scraggly stray cats fight over fish bones amidst dusty streets. Scents of roasted apples and cinnamon will drift the aisles of the Grand Bazaar and loud battering over spices will echo against Ottoman domes with over a hundred different-colored tiles. Men would preposition my host on the street to trade my hand in marriage for a camel (I know that sounds extreme but someone actually said that happened more than once to their sister). Though tourist season is starting soon, I’d be eyed over as an English-speaker. Thinking about it, I could already feel their dizzy Mediterranean eyes all over me.
Brown like Turkish coffee.
No, I do not want to buy a Turkish carpet. No, I do not want to visit your restaurant. No,I don’t think you own a hotel and are offering me a special deal. No, I don’t want to buy that obviously fake Louis Vuitton. No, I’m not lost. No, I don’t think you’re giving me a special price. No, I will not come back again soon.
On public transport,sweaty men would surround me with thick Mario Bros.-like mustaches. I’d lose my luggage, typical, and chaotic Istanbul life would swallow me up for three months.
It all sounds pretty novel.
I’ve been in Turkey for about three weeks now and though I’ve confronted some casual uncomfortabilities, like when I thought eating croutons for breakfast on my first day was just me experiencing “culture”, I can say that the biggest sentiment I can share for this city is . . . pleasantly surprised.
I take the metrobus and tram nearly every day. A one-legged man who sells drinks on the bridge by the graveyard at Edirnikapialways seems to have people around him and he makes them smile. He doesn’t seem hopeless and he has a trustworthy laugh and one of these days I will buy something from him.
It is always crowded so you can imagine what it’s like during rush hour * ahem * rush hours, which is from about 5pm to 9pm. The only time I get stares is when I chat with my hosts on the phone in English, and the looks don’t even linger.
Turkish men are even quite handsome with their style and thick and geled hair with mysterious eyes above jaw lines with clean stubble. They almost always smell good and just like me, avoid eye-contact with everyone else by engaging apps on their phones. A lady with a headscarf laughs with me and we sit down a sigh in unison. People are kind with their gestures. I unfortunately make it obvious that I’m not from here, like when I backed away from the metrobus gate after I scanned my card; I thought the beep meant my card was invalid. So I appreciate when the gentleman assures me with the soft wave of his hand and a kind nod that I may scoot over after the lady next to me gets off at the station; he knows it the metrobus to Belikduzu won’t get anymore crowded than when it was when I got on, and he cantell from my calculated movements that I don’t know that.
Another man takes the 1.5 lira from my hand to pay the driver for me as I scramble onto the minibus from the Belikduzu station while frantically asking my host on the phone where to go from there. One man without words, offers me a seat on the bus before he goes for it. But you see, that was my third day inIstanbul and I hadn’t thought I deserved it yet.
Now, I feel okay smirking and inciting a cloud of giggles amongst a crowd at Avcilar station as we watch others cram themselves onto a bus, with faces miserably pressed up against the windows. They look like they are on the highway to hell and we’re all waiting for the next one.
Misplaced Syrians sell packets of tissues on corners and a girl who plays the accordion tries her luck on a crowded bus, awkwardly weaving between uncomfortable people and throwing up a bronze bent cup in their faces, though she doesn’t mean to, but she can’t really help it. I don’t give her money. Though I like the flower in her hair and I admire her confidence, I only have my debit card and making even the slightest movement might just topple everyone over behind me. Somehow she fearlessly squeezes her way to the front of the bus and has managed to collect a few liras.
I meet with eager students, from teenagers to adults, and they are excited to have someone to practice English with because it seems [to me] they view English as opportunity for their future. They speak of dreams of going to Paris and London. They tell me they would love to visit New York City and I feel snobby telling them that I have a sister who lives there. I assure them it’s not that special and actually a very dirty city. They dream of being historians and going into international law. They like Game of Thrones. They like The Walking Dead. They sing a lot of songs I don’t know . . but they also sing (and would love tosee in concert) Justin Timberlake. I tell them I know him. I should still tell them I was joking.
I catch them drinking. They beg me not to tell.
Some of them are secretly dating and they let me know that. I am privy to their secrets.
Clubbing in Taksim is just like anywhere. There are those blonde girls dancing by themselves because everyone is too intimidated to talk to them or they just look a little too silly. Couples hang all over each other and say a few words to the other in-between songs. It is incredibly loud but with the drinks you order, they give you a plate of fruit. On Saturday nights, the street is crowded with locals and tourists coming for the nightlife on Taksim. A trolley with a band playing live music goes up and down main street.
And then I ask my students about Twitter and politics and Obama, and I am happy to be in the company of those who are informed and have an opinion they’d like to share. Back home, having an opinion was a shameful thing, especially for women, and discussing forefront issues meant you are a difficult person. But here, these students tell me their dreams for the future, the future of their country. I am moved by their desperation to portray a sense of normalcy as well as having the perspective of hope, having been in the shadows of every other developed country who actually can’t see very far from the top,like how high they are.
So far, I’ve sailed to Bukuyada, I’ve scaled the Yedikule walls, and I’ve traversed Sultanhament. I’ve viewed theBosporus and eaten fish out of a bucket. I’ve taken an overnight bus with a local company to Pammukkale. I did these all on my own and I’d do it again. I still have over two months here and I can’t wait to see what else I’ll discover. Thankfully, I have the privilege to be in the company of locals who know the ins and outs. More importantly, I never feel unsafe. Istanbul is blossoming and how privileged am I to be here see it in season?
I once asked someone if they would visit me and their prompt reply was that Turkey was too dangerous. I’m pretty confident this person wouldn’t even visit it me if it were the land of milk and honey but either way, the point is that Istanbul is a welcoming city with welcoming people. I have never felt like Idid in Cyprus. The danger here is equal to what someone would find in any other city, lurking in dark corners at uneven times of the day.
I still might be the only person wearing sandals on the metrobus but I will be okay with that. I will traverse this city, and I will do it with a smile, looking everyone in the eye. I will buy a fish from the fisherman with the kind eyes and I will be assured that the simit vendor isn’t trying to rip me off. If you can find your way you’ll see that Istanbul, rich with history, wants some recognition and I think its about time it got some.
