I hope one day that I can tell my kids, “scary things happen to everyone” and hopefully emphasize how to recognize it when it happens and not feel powerless. I’ll enroll my kids in karate and debate and I’ll tell them everyday how smart and in control of their lives they are.
But they wouldn’t know this story, because it just happened, and I need to just write this down before I forget this actually actually happened. And I wouldn’t have ever told this story to them before, but then I would have already told my son or daughter that one time I had a 22 hour layover in Cyprus, on the Turkish side, and how I met that really weird taxi driver with weird pinky fingernails who maybe was good in the end, but moreover almost had the higher end in a potentially dangerous situation.
They would know that one. Just like I’ve already written about that nearly the second day I arrived. But it’s taken me about a month to write this blog post.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
I have been inIstanbul for almost month.
I had been in Istanbul for almost a month
I haven’t really met many people besides some [very studious] high schoolers and older working people who are self-proclaimed rich businessmen and the only thing they can really reply when I ask them how they are doing is, “I am busy.” I meet them at the airport or at theiroffices in the residential areas and it’s not a bad walk. At least I feel as if I am actually observing real Turkish culture, including watching the litter of homeless puppies grow as I walk through the park to Topkapi station. There is the same lady who sellspackets of tissues and everyday she wears a mustard yellow headscarf. In-between potential buyers passing heron the landing, I catch her looking over the edge to the pilaf vendor.
I was feeling lonely and hadn’t really madefriends, besides the family I hardly stayed with
I am here for three moths and days are filled with painful boredom most of the time. This flat feels stuffy and watching hours and hours of tv or cleaning day-old dishes is not my idea of experiencing Istanbul. I’ve given myself a lotof time to see the sights I want but I knew that too much downtime was also inevitable. Since my best friend,Julie, is coming next week, I want to save all the exciting things to do whenshe comes; I’d also obviously save money.
I felt cooped up in the flat all day, mostdays; I felt really restless a lot of the time
I want to be like Julia from Austria whom I met the night before. She tells me on the double decker bus from Belikduzu aboutthe time she lived in NYC for six months being a for a German lady, or when she sold hald-rolled cigarettes on the streets in Mexico City. She had dreads, she dated exotic men. She currently works in a grocery store as well as tutors immigrant children in German. Listening to her story and made me wonder what the hell Ihad been doing. (This, I realize later, is a huge lie, because actually when I reflect on my life, though it’s been massively focused on academia, has been quite adventurous.) The point it that, I didn’t want to flyaway from Istanbul feeling like I hadn’t seen anything really or made marvelously interesting people I’d be pen pals with for the rest of my lifeyet. Another past volunteer, Elena from Romania, tells me to not put things off because soon enough it will be mylast week and I’ll frantically be running around Istanbul for photos and videos.
I’m solo-traveling so I better get used to living under other peoples’ roofs and doing things alone. I’ve probably read about three books at this point, many games of solitaire, and despite not having internet, I have gotten a lot of writing done. But this, and all that I am truly thankful for, my spirit feels squelched. There are no fruits or vegetables to cook and I guess I would have been the only one eating them so there’s no needto buy them. Moreover I am feeling defiant because after comments on “the waysthings are.” Women do dishes. Women clean. Women cook.
I ignore this as a cultural and language difference because I do understand that Turkey is a bit less progressive. But I do offer up the warning that complacently relying on that will get one slapped in the western world. While looking over these comments, I can’t help but sigh when dishes are left out and a “why you don’t cook?” welcomes me when I come home.
I’ve got to get the hell out of here.
One day I said, “fuck it,” I’m going outside, even if its just a walk down a busy street
I decide that a walk around Sultanahmet sounds reasonable. Actually it sounded exactly what I needed after being cooped up in that flat all the time and Sultanahmet makes sense. It’s free, it’s close, there are lots of people . . . and there’s free wi-fi, according to myLet’sGo! Europe 2012.
But I also said that I’d take baby steps and go somewhere public and easy
I walk down Vatan to Askaray station and the big open square there. I may be getting a few looks but it feels more wonderful to be out on my own, deciding what I’m going to do, and not relying on anyone todo it. I I buy my first simit by myself around the Grand Bazaar, a sesame covered ring of bread.
“Ah, food” I think to myself, as I savor this ring of carbs.
And the vendorgreets me with a, “salem”
I properly marvel Sultanahment with its stony grayish blue exterior, and observe the monuments on the hippodrome: the serpent’s column, the obalisk, and the German fountain. The area is a bit thinned out by now soit’s nice to not be surrounded by Bosporus cruise flyers. I buy chestnuts and a roasted corn froma vendor outside the gate to the Blue Mosque. The vendor is really friendly and tells me he has family in Germany, but he doesn’t press. It’s nice to make conversation with someone. I tell him I’m from Canada. Actually I tell everyone I’m from Canada. Instead of confronting American stereotypes, I usually get a confused look; what’s in Canada?
Juxtaposed to Hagia Sophia, the two landmarks impress the sky with their minarets and seagulls circling above.
The Blue Mosque is there, and it was open late at night, since it’s an active mosque (and once again it was free and I was traveling low-budget)
I find that it isopen and there are not many people around because it’s 8:30 at night so maybe this is a good and unique time to see this monument. Maybe there is something I missed earlier when I came. I walk inside and there’s a mosaic of history I decide to read since what else was I doing for the rest of thenight? I’m a fabulously wildly sexy and intelligent twenty-something traveling all over the world. Hoorah!
Within the courtyard of the Blue Mosque, I read the historical panels and being reminded of my introduction to Islam before my trip to Egypt, read something about the Quoran and Allah being the one true God. I reflect back on conversations with friends about how Islam and Christianity overlap. Look at me, tying together my travel experiences. Another hoorah for me.
And then it’s like the universe hit me and there was a man gesturing for me to take his picture with the Blue Mosque behind. I washalf-expecting another person to jump in the frame but he is alone and I think that is cool because if you can travel alone, it must really mean something. Maybe he’s another fabulous world-traveling carefree wanderlust.
There was a man also there who asked me totake a picture of him and doing what I would want anyone to do for me, I willingly obliged because I wanted to be nice
He is nice and we chat. He murmurs something at first about the beauty of the building as he upwardly gazes and I think that he probably doesn’t know what else to say right now. I don’t feel immediately comfortable but I ignore that. Talking with Julia, I realized how many experiences I was missing by not being as carefree. If there is one guy who is chatting with me, I think I should at least try with this one. Remember… baby steps
We started chatting
He tells me his nameis Barish and he is on holiday but only for four days. He dresses sharp, like he’s here for business. He wears a light black jacket with a casual blue button down tucked into a pair of ironed jeans. He also sports those pointy shoes all European men seem to be obsessed with. My mind wanders to images of bloated and tanned Venetian men popping out of their matching salmon colored pants and sweater,holding a cigarette in one hand, and a leash attached to miniature toy dogs inthe other.
I think I tell him my name but it didn’t matter because he already started talking over me. So I repeated my name (I still think hewasn’t listening). I’m trying tobe all “Yes Man” and ask him where he’s from and all that shit. He is from Cyprus and he loves Istanbul. At first I am alarmed, but reason that I can’t project my Cyprus experience on to all its inhabitants.I mention the Cyprus story.
(I still don’t thinkhe’s listening).
I give Cyprusanother chance. He’s probably as chatty and anyone should be if they don’t want to be annoying but still been gaged in the other’s company but I’m not as talkative because all I think about are the roasted chestnuts still warm in my purse and when I’ll get to eatthem. So I casually ask if he hadseen the inside of the Blue Mosque yet and he said no. I guess I suggested with my kindness and gestures that, okay let me show you this part of Istanbul I have seen already but would be delighted to take you there.
He was dressed pretty business casual and hadan equivocal demeanor and he told me he was from Cyprus and on vacation
We go to theentrance. I’m wearing my leggings underneath my jorts but I still have to wear a skirt thing, as well as the headscarf. The guys who give it tome are very easy-going though and they help me and I don’t care because I had just met a new friend. After days of boredom and regret, the universe delivered and what it was a new friend who doesn’t seem sketch and likes to travel as well.
I take more pictures of him inside the Blue Mosque. We talk about why it’s even called that. He, again, exclaims about how the beauty of the building. He asks if I want to grab a drink and Ithink yeah okay because I am here in Istanbul and I really need to take initiative and meet people and do things while I’m here. I don’t want to leave feeling like I wasted my time. Besides, Barish seems cool.
He said his name was Barish and after a bit, he asked if I wanted to grab a drink. It was normal: You met people, you went for drinks. Itwas all okay back then as well and I had figured I was already in a really touristy part of town
I text my host andlet him know that I am meeting a friend for drinks and he replies, “ok.”
That’s damn rightit’s okay.
We decide to go downto the Galata area and I’m feeling quite fine about that, and now I’m in a bubbly mood. The universe is on my side. I knew that if I let the universe take my bag and camera away from me inthe beginning, the universe would smile down and deliver in the end.
We talk about what he does and he teaches me some Turkish. I pretend to let him teach me even though I already know I’m not going to remember much of it and I already know a bit already. After about 15 minutes of walking down the tram tracks on cobblestone streets to the Golden Horn, we head in the direction of the Galata Bridge and fluttering restaurants underneath. Like clockwork, vendors pour out and begus with a “pardon” for us to enter their restaurant. Barish fits in to the Turkish crowd but with my red hair and green eyes, I have little chance of that. We walk through and there are many people dining and I’m excited to catch a great view of the bridges at night. We cross to the other side and finally settle on one, crowded with fifty-something asians (most likely from the same tour group) andgrab a table upstairs. Though it’sa restauruant, the dark lighting and club-like lighting makes it feel more likea lounge. Thank God, the 100 asians are here to kill that atmosphere.
We went to a restaurant near Galata Bridge and it was pretty crowded at the time with other tourists. We had a window seat and could see the bridge glow at night
After some more polite conversation, I’m so relieved that I’ve made a friend.
We order and we mull over food but actually I’m not in the mood for that and I’m glad he’s indecisive. I think again about the roasted chestnuts I shoved in my purse. With my purse laying next to me on the booth, their warmth reminds me of my empty stomach.
Then the asians leave and then it’s just us.
He is still nice and polite and we’ve had our drinks delivered by now. He tells me he likes this music and wants to dance and I think, “ugh, here we go.” I don’t want to be rude to the friend I just made. I mean, dancing is a pretty normal human thing. Tribes in Africa do it all the time! I don’t want to squelch what spark of friendship I was able to make, after a whole month. So I do the dance I always do when I’m with friends and just have fun. I’m so thankful for the fearlessness my friends and I gave each other to just be ourselves in public, and not tirelessly calculate how many looks we can get or how many numbers we can giveout (more of this later). I think of my friend Julie and how she dances at bars which is just her by herself but everyone can’t help but be drawn to her because she’s just having her own fun. And no one messes with it.
But Barish did.
I don't like it when a man, I don't feel comfortable and attracted to pulls me close. Touch is still a really intimate thing for me. And to be honest, I wasn’t in the mood to dance in an empty room in my sneakers and rain jacket. So to change the conversation and distract us from the awkwardness of me pulling away, I ask him if there are any typical Cyprus dances he could show me. He proceeds to extend his arms and do a move that resembles something like a epileptic seagull, especially awkward looking with his tucked in buttondown. I pretend to laugh but suddenly, Barish goes from sporty businessman-like to squaking seagull man. I sit down because this is just stupid and at least I can put that table between us again; my excuse is that I just want to finish my drink. I say I should get home because the metro stops going at midnight and so I want to make sure I’m on it before then.
Lie.
I’ve got a lesson at eight o’clock in the morning.
Lie.
But he assures me we can just walk down Galata bridge and take in more of the sights, then the tram station is right there and I can get on that station. And I figure that’s a good compromise. I let him change my mind.
And this, I’ve realized is the first mistake. Never let anyone change your mind in an uneasy situation. I wish my parents and society had taught me that. Instead, I’ve been taught to be kind and welcoming and interesting and sexy and beautiful andforgiving and smart. Because, they also told me, uneasy situations happen to other people.
After everyone had left, he wanted to start dancing and I didn’t want to be rude but I also started to feel uneasy. I decided that I didn’t want to be rude because he had been nice. We did for a bit but he wanted to dance in a way that I didn’t want to. So after a bit, I sat back at the table and tried to tell him that I had to go. But once again I didn’t want to be rude
We get the check andlike always, I reach for my wallet and offer to pay my half, though I know asis the usual Turkish (and male) custom, that Barish will pay. And he does.
It comes to about 40 lira for everything, which is pretty good for Galata bridge so 20 lira for my share wouldn’t have killed me anyway but still I give him a very polite, “Thank you” as I am taught to do. I’ve also been told to never refuse a gift, especially in Turkey. The times I have before with students,they almost seem a bit offended, so I’ve been more accustomed to dutifully accepting.
When he pays, it comes to about 40 lira
Outside the restaurant, we walk to the upper part of the bridge. At this point, it’s probably about 11:15 or 11:30 and I know it’s getting late. But I’m fine because I remember that we are close to the tram station and it’s on the way down the bridge. There are still people around, though by now they are mostly fisherman, about a percent of the number usually occupying the bridge during the day.
He puts his arm around me.
No no no.
Alarm bells ring. But it’s just his arm around me.
We leave the restaurant and keep walking. At that point, he started to get a little more touchy with me
I decide that fearless Robyn is going to nip this thing in the bud and tell him straight-upwhat I think. After all, no woman got what she wanted without saying anything. Well that’s not entirely true but right now I’ll take my chances.
“Hey, so, let’stalk.”
“okay” he says sounding a bit confused. My upfront-ness catches him off guard.
We are still standing on the bridge, a very neutral spot for an honest conversation, unless he decides to throw me over. In which chase, I am very happy that I am wearing my rain jacket, tennis shoes,and leggings.
“I’m definitely just looking for friends and don’t want anything else. Do you think that we could just do that? And you are here for a couple more days so it’d be cool if we could hang out later.”
Lie.
Being nice. Stop being a martyr, Robyn.
“So I will be honest with you. I think you are cute andI think we could have some fun. We could go to my hotel and talk more and have some sex and then we can take a taxi to your home. Tomorrow maybe we can do some more.”
Wow, he actually said that.
Because it’s my first time in Istanbul, a part of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt (STILL I can't believe in retrospect I am still being too nice). Maybe he has a kind heart and has absolutely no game with women because his mother dropped him on his head when he was little and he has suffered from years of tormented feral-childlike social capabilities.
“Oh… no.” I said. “That’s not what I want and not what I want to do. Let’s just be friends, yeah?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the fishermen casting glances our way, like either they could be concerned or curious. If the former, I can thank my lucky stars there are extra eyes around just incase.
Barish looks disappointed. Oh no! Don’t go friend! I was so happy to meet you.
“Okay no sex. We can do other things.”
Other things? Umm…. “I mean I don’t want to do anything except be friends”
“Well let’s walk some more and we can talk and think about it.”
“Yeah okay we can walk some more. But I don’t think your hotel is a good idea. And I’m not going to have sex with you. I don’t want that. I just wantfriends.” I say this reverting to my shorter sentence form for English lessons. Undoubtedly, shorter sentences are easier for understanding, apart from yelling that I wasn’t going to have sex with him maybe.
“Okay let’s walk”
“Okay…”
I let him change my mind again.
His puts his arm around me again. The glittering lights floating on the Bosporus turn into siren lights and I pull away saying I have to text my host. We keep walking and toward the end of Galata bridge are stairs down to the dock area, where on the other side were nice posh restaurants, but on our side were dirt roads and abandoned buildings. But, still it’s on the way to the tram station… kind of. We are walking and I can’t remember ifI tried to keep up small conversation because I didn’t want it to keep being awkward and in the meantime, my eyes are wide open because I’m hoping this way opens up into a larger area, in fact, I’m sure it does.
I feel tipsy from the drinks, and I remember my time in Cyprus, clutching my bags close to me and regretting getting in the front seat of that taxi. I remember texting my friends and my sisters. I remember that feeling and I remember the immediate disappointment in myself that I hadn’t been wiser. I remember that I didn’t want to ever feel that way again.
“You know,” I said all of a sudden, looking over my shoulder to see if I could still see the fishermen. “I think I’m just going to gohome. I’m starting to feel sick.”
He looks at me astonished, like I had just smashed a glass oil lamp at his feet, a look I willalways remember.
I repeat myself, standing alone with him with late-hour shop owners looking on.
“What happened?” He says with an angry tone.
I simply turn around and head for the station, I still know where it is and it is not worth being polite to go down this dangerous road when I don’t know what’s on the other side.
He follows after me like this meet-up is still happening and he can change my mind. Because he had changed my mind before. Because I had let him.
“Where the hell was this hotel he was talking about anyway?” I think to myself.
“What happened?” He repeats.
“I just want to go home now.”
He tells me that everything was going well and still the nice girl who was always taught to salvage other peoples’ feelings assures him that I am just feeling sick and want to go home. Besides I have that lesson early in the morning.
He repeats the plans he had with me for the rest of the night. The plans he made to himself without consultation or encouragement and the plans I am walking away from now. I tell him again that I don’t want to do that. Then he says:
“But you’re not alady. So it is okay.”
What.
The.
Fuck.
I don’t have time to respond to that comment but it’s haunted me for the rest of my time here and implicated every other interaction I’ve had with men in this godforsaken city. Little did I know that the expectation of promiscuity would follow just like Barish was at this moment.
I’m not a lady. Did that mean that I wasn’t a virgin and if that were true, when did that EVER come up in our conversation for him to make that conclusion that it’s completely fine to violate me.
“This is not right” he says as he finishes his cigarette and I start up the stairs. “People will not think this looks right, you walking out of here withme.”
Another torment.
Another way to shame me into who I was, a western woman, even though I didn’t want to do anything and I wasn’t doing anything. He reminds me, people already look down on me. I’m not Turkish so therefore I’m not a “lady.”
Again, I wrestle with that later because my aim now is to climb these stairs back to the road and get on Karakoy tram station. But the tram has stopped running. It is midnight.
Maybe he feels bad because he catches up to me and asks how I’ll get home and I tell him I’ll getin a taxi, relieved that the fishermen are back in view. I don’t care what they think as I surfaced onto the bridge, if I scream, hopefully they’d do something about it.
“You have money for taxi?”
“I’ll just go to anATM.” I am short with him now and could care less about salvaging any kind of friendship I was so intent on making.
“Okay” he tells me and beckons me to follow him again. “I’ll take you to the taxi.”
As we’re on the main road, I figure maybe there is a bit of grace I could recover from this night and so I oblige (I need to stop doing this). But as I watch to many taxis going by I ask him where we are going.
“ATM”
I give him a look and say that I’ll just get an ATM at my destination. Earlier, I had stashed fifty lira in the zip compartment in my purse, when I was distractedly thinking of my warm chestnuts and Barish mentioned dancing. I’m not sure how the universe struck me with that idea, but it did and now I know why.
But he tells me Iowe him money anyway, as his nods his head in the direction of where the restaurant was.
“I owe you money?” Bewildered.
“Yes.” And he tells me it’s for the drinks and for wasting his time.
“Fine, how much?” Fuck off.
My tone is astonishment and intentional disgust.
“120 lira.”
I stop dead in mytracks.
“120 lira. Are you fucking kidding me?”
Not that any amount would have been okay to make someone pay after-the-fact in an instance of angry and uncomfortable situation, but if he had something around 20 lira, I would have at least resolved that was a fair compromise to absolving any obligation I apparently should have to him forthe night.
But I wasted his time. And I should pay for that.
I stare at him,taxis and cars still whizzing past. Other people, shadows, few and far between crossing the streets on their way home and all I can do is look at him in disgust, gaze blackened by the night. But throw a punch? No, because girls don’t do that. In fact, girls just walk away. They don’t say anything. They don’t do anything when men grab their asses at metros and they only sigh walk away when men rub their genitals on them on crowded busses. Certainly women don’t have anything to offer except looking straight ahead and ignoring it when men scan them up and down and walk purposely into them while snickering in their ear as they walk past. And trying to not respond with a cough when they blow smoke in your face just to get a reaction, like mustering a sense of control over our composure.
Paralyzed by that inability, I muster up a, “that’s fucking ridiculous” and shooting up my left hand as I cautiously cradled my purse in my right.
The universe stops a taxi for me right away and the street is empty for a good second for me to run across, not leaving anything I cared about anymore behind. Barish grabs my arm and I can feel a bit of the strength he is using to pull me back onto the corner. Again, I am thankful for my rain jacket which yields little grip for Barish and I wriggle free which a whip of my arm. Heart racing, with my sneakers and jorts withleggings and my rain jacket, and still with that fifty lira I hid away. Though there were many moments before I should have considered it, this was the moment that alerted me to run away and forcasted a dark ending had I stayed arguing over the 120 lira.
Out of the corner of my eye as I duck into the back seat of the taxi on the passenger side, I see Barish turning and walking away while throwing a dismissive gesture. That was the last image I have of Barish and I count my lucky stars that I would never see his face again and no longer be tormented by his comments on my sexuality.
Still tipsy but completely coherent about what had just happened in the span of about five or ten minutes, I slump my head on the window, watching the sirens on the water fade back into Bosporus forms dancing on the water, but no longer do they offer me exhilaration of being in an exotic city. The taxi driver takes me away and I arrive in about five minutes back to the stuffy flat.
Pulling out the fifty lira that I wholeheartedly treasure as part of my secure escape, I give the taxi driver a, “cok tesekkur ederim” with a woeful yet grateful tone. The cost is about 11 lira but he givesme 40 change, maybe sensing my distress after running away from a man and sympathetic to my cause.
Shaken and letting what happened settle into my mind, I make the walk down the road near the old wall stronghold to the flat I had begun to despise, but maybe I am safe there. Maybe this is why Turkish women cook and clean and stay indoors.
I hate that flat.
I hate Barish.
And I will NEVER FUCKING GO TO CYPRUS (again).
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
The other night a new friend (whom I completely trust and am enamored by his soulful intellect) asked me what disturbs me the most. After a good minute and unabashed honesty, my reply to him was, “men.” I further explain that this is the theme of uncomfortable situations in my life and most likely promulgated by not being around men very much in my life from only sisters and divorced parents, to having mostly girl friends. Of course, this is contrasted by being heterosexual but the point is that, there haven’t been many men I have learned are completely trustworthy and good-hearted and the fear is that if they are, well they expect me to be a docile creature, domestically inclined, and never having any sort of opinion to be welcomed in intelligible conversation.
I choose to share this story because in the adventure of traveling, surely cultural differences and scary situations would be inevitable. But it brings me back to many-a-conversation among peers and colleagues about women around the world, women at parties, women who wear short skirts, women at home, etc. And this wasone of the first instances when, being alone, I trespassed onto be part of women-around-the-world as I was a western woman, whom in discussions with others who have had experiences like mine in this city, conclude that we areperceived as existing for men to gain experience.
I told my hosts about what happened and they exclaim this would never happen to a Turkish woman. Their solution was to say Ihave a Turkish boyfriend.
“Why?” I ask.
“If you say this, then they will know that your boyfriend is part of their culture and if you violate another man’s [women], it is very serious in our culture.”
I I tell Julie and she suggests I should wear a headscarf.
Would I relent and do this in order to walk around feeling some semblance of safety?
Should I not go anywhere with anyone I don’t know?
How would anyone ever meet anyone?
Should I make clear what my intentions are?
Did that.
Should I stop meeting men at strange places at night?
But It was a public place at 8:30pm.
Should I tell my hosts where I’m going?
I did that.
Should I stop wearing miniskirts?
Wait, I never didthat.
Ever since I met Barish, that answer of what disturbs me most, has been all-the-more true. In fact, as soon as Hamza asked me that question, my mind flashed to walking down that dirt road next to Galata Bridge with fishermen onlookers. The feeling of that fear as he put his arm around me. That fear that regurgitates every time scan me up and down and blow smoke in my face. That fear that repossesses me at times when men sit next to me on the tram and lightly rest their leg on mine, and the need to pull away. The anxiety that welcomes every corner when, alone, men strike up a conversation and want to know what I’m doing inIstanbul and who I’m staying with. This feeling that can overwhelm me when speaking in English, men approach and from behind at the Sirinevler station, feels me up, and all I can do is silently walk away, because now he’s taken a phone call and walking the other direction. A crouching annoyance that reminds me every morning when I decide what to wear, that maybe jeans, though it's scorchingly hot, is a better idea. This fear,that unfortunately dissolves when I walk up and down Isteklal and hear manymore English speakers scattered throughout other languages that thank god, aren’t tainted by surrounding Turkish expectations. Unfortunately, I relax a little when I am immersed in my own culture.
When I traveled, I desperately wanted to connect with people on the little things and everything else, we’d learn from each other. We could equally laugh at dogs who desperately lay in fountains on hotdays or giggle at how insanely and unnecessarily crowded the highways are. Instead, I’m left realizing even more just how vulnerable one woman can be in this city and how lonely it really can be when, people just as that.
I want to confide inthe man that told me “Turkey is too dangerous” but then I remember how he probably wouldn’t offer me any consolation. Instead he, like Barish, ask me to do things I’m not sure Ishould do, but at least I wanted his affection for a long time. But perhaps he and Barish are looking for the same kind of girl.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
After about a month, that feeling hasn’t fully left. I haven’t been able to fully isolate it from the rest of my time in Istanbul, a sit is the capstone of a catalog of uneasy experiences with men. As I’ve shared this story with others, they tell me how lucky I am to have gotten away, to have jumped in a taxi when I did and to have trusted my instinct instead of sacrificing it for the sake of salvaging someone else’s feelings.
Some of them weren’tas lucky.
And maybe it will change and I can take back some of that power that was easily snuffed out oncein Cyprus and again on the Galata Bridge, but often I still find myself silently walking away, like we are taught to do, like we are expected to. Hopefully the universe can change thatfor me too.
