Culture, anyone?

What do you think of when you think of Turkey, my friends? Perhaps you think of faded aged, rugs, kebabs, the sweet licorice-like scent of nargile smoke, the sharp minarets of mosques abruptly interrupting the skyline and their azans tiredly punctuating daily life. Perhaps you think of the paradox of bearded, turbaned men and headscarved women contrasted by the seductive oriental fables of sultans' gluttony and harem fantasies. Perhaps, like myself before I came here, you don't really know what to think about Turkey at all, on second thought.

It's one of the most profound, and deeply irritating, questions of the postmodern era, namely because no one can come to an agreement on it: what is culture, and what is identity? Thousands have passed their lives buggered by the question, and once you think you've got it, someone comes along and says, ''No, no! Wrong! It's more like.....'' It is further complicated by the multiplicity of cultures in the modern world and, even further by subcultures and identities......my what a mess liberal thought has made of soceities. The silliest thing about it all is that people actually have time to concern themselves with matters such as these. Imagine if people put the same amount of time and thought into things such as ''How can we get water to that village over there?'' or ''Well, how can we get those swindlers on Wall Street to stop buggering up everyone's lives?'' But now I'm rambling, excuse me.

Regardless, it is natural for a product of the Western education system to ponder matters such as these, no matter how ultimately unimportant they may be. Of course,as an American doint a stint in İstanbul, I have of course been asking the culture question - of Turks and myself:

What is Turkish culture? What is culture?

Good question, and naturally everyone has something to say about it. I try to be as open minded as I can, especially when I travel. Not an easy task, but I think I can score some points for trying. When I came here, I honestly admit I didn't know that much about Turkey. It's easy enough to imagine American culture - gunslinging cowboys, Coke, Hollywood and such - but what about Turkey? Well, I know they are muslim there. They eat a lot of grilled meat, and I hear they like to drink tea. It's probably hot, a lot of sun. And I'm pretty damn sure they don't speak Arabic there. So when I got here, I was pleasantly surprised by many things - the people are friendly, and the food is good. Everyone is clean, not too conservatively religious, and the language is pretty simple. Anti-American sentiment isn't too strong, and surprisingly, a lot of the time I feel like I'm living in the middle of Europe, sans stuffiness of course. But wait a second - isn't this a muslim country? Indeed it is, and the paradoxes are quotidian; stare at the big-breasted sunglasses advertisement while waiting for the ancient bus and hear the azan drill your eardrums out. Watch the headscarved girls wearing Converse high tops and Gucci bags walk by.
Arabesque music from one car blasting by, Rhianna from the next. So which is it, you ask yourself, what's the culture here?

I'm sure I'm not the first idiot to ask that question, and I sure as hell won't be the last. To be honest, I really don't think I'm in any kind of position to make an educated guess about it seeing as how I have only been here for a few months, anyway. So I ask my freinds and students: does Turkey have its own culture?

Surprisingly, most of them say no, no it doesn't. Why not? Well, think about the history here chummy: first, there were the shamanistic Turkic tribes. The the Greeks came with their polytheism, followed not too long after by the Romans. Soon they evolved into the Christian Byzantines, who were ousted by the Ottoman Turks, the warriors of Islam. They had a good run at it, but eventually even they were done away with by Atatürk, who founded the modern Turkish republic based on the western model because of a personal distaste for all things Ottoman - the old Arabic abjad was replaced by the Latin alphabet, suits replaced traditional garb, and in general everything European was forced into fashion. So you see, how can we have our own culture since the cultures of others have been battling for supremacy here for the past 2500 years? A valid point indeed, especially when you think about it; can't the images of dim brass lanterns and carpets and harems be traced back to the near east, and those of flashy sneakers and cell phones be traced to the West? The sole unique thing about it just may be the language - it's completely unrelated to any European or Semitic language which surrounds it (despite having acquired a great deal of loan words from Arabic). Perhaps it is not so much that they don't have their own culture as they haven't had the chance to create one.

Well, be that as it may, most Turkish people are proud of their culture and identity, and they should be. Even if it is a product of historical mish-mash, it is rich and colorful. Recently, I had a discussion about this with a more advanced student. Turkey may not have its own culture, but it has strong traditions, and isn't that a good part of culture? American culture is weak in comparison, he claimed. I certainly begged to differ on that point, but regardless in the end, I was left pondering: which is worse? To have a weak culture, or to have yours borrowed from another?

I'm sorry. I suppose by now I could have gotten water to that lone village.

The Busy Rhythym

Again dear followers of this blog, I am sorry for not keeping it up as I should. I know many of you check here often to no avail. But I have good reason! I hadn't had the time because I had been so busy, what with my time slpit between work and spending time with Christine since she was here. She stayed here for the better part of a month and we had a wonderful time, cooking, exploring, loafing, smoking nargile, enjoying the city.





I explored a lot of İstanbul with her that I hadn't seen for the time that I had been here. I played tour guide for a little while while I lived in Sultanahmet: the Blue Mosque, Eminönü, the Grand Bazaar, the Spice Bazaar, the nargileci tucked behind mosques that felt like stepping back into the Ottoman days of the 1600s when you went inside. She explored a lot of the museums and such herself though while I was working in order to keep busy, so I am apparantly still missing out on a lot of good stuff. We did make it to the Archaeological Museum together, but I wish it had been another museum we had gone to; let's just say this prospective visitors - don't come here just to see the archaeology museum. At times it was like the Greek section of the Met.


One day, when the weather was halfway decent, we went up in the Galata Tower, which is across the Golden Horn from where I live. It is a stone tower built in the 7th century by the Byzantines that functioned as a lighthouse, a fire tower, and a prison at various times, but nowadays it houses a restaurant/nightclub and a narrow balcony where tourists can go out and view the cityscape and the Bosphorous. Since it is on a hill it does indeed provide an excellent view of the city and you are actually higher up than you think you really are. Legend has it that around the 14th century, one man fashioned some wings made from fabric, jumped off the tower, and glided to the other side of the Bosphorous while the sultan and thousands of people looked on. At first, the sultan was pleased, but on second thought he had the man put to death because he feared he may have been some sort of magician or sorcerer.



The view from the top really is breathtaking; on the day we went up you could see clear for fifteen or twenty miles, and apart from the sea and the mountains across it, all there was to see to the horizon was city. İstanbul. You don't really know how big the city truly is until you go up in the tower and see it stretching to the horizon. New York built up, but İstanbul built out. Indeed, you could say that İstanbul is no more than a collection of villages. Many parts of the city actually still retain their village names: Bakırköy (Copper Village), Karaköy (Black Village), Arnavutköy (Albanian Village), Yeşilköy (Green Village), and so on. You really get a sense that İstanbul really is too big for one continent when you are up on the balcony of the tower, looking over the terra cotta roofs with the salty wind blowing in your face and the sound of ships' horns belching in the distance.


Another day we took the ferry to Kadıköy, on the Asian side. The ferry boat is the same fare as riding the bus or the metro, so it is an inexpensive activity for the student or budget traveler. Like the Staten Island ferry, everyone waits in the terminal until the arriving passengers get off the boat, and then once the doors open everyone throngs toward the entrance and you get squeezed like a tube of toothpaste. On the boat we clambered across the rickety wooden gangplank and climbed over the massive piles of ropes and got a seat along the rear starboard gunwale toward the stern. On the way over a thick salty haze over the water made it difficult to see to far, but the deep, cold water was a brilliant blue green color, and sparkled in the weak sunshine.

The Asian side of İstanbul was pointedly less crowded, more laid back and relaxed. People didn't have the urgent hustle of the European side, and the energy was much more easygoing and welcoming. Since we went in the late afternoon, we didn't stay long, just long enough to get a feel for ''The Other Side'' and to catch a few cups of tea, a nargile, and a balık ekmek (fresh mackerel sandwich). On the way back, the setting sun bathed the city in an orange glow, and as the temperature dropped rapidly as we crossed the Bosphorous our puffs of breath mixed with the salty haze over the water. The other side was nice, but I was glad to be back in Europe - back in the busy rhythym. As the boat moved in place to dock, people began climbing over the rails and leaping onto the dock before the boat was even close to being tied up. I laughed and enjoyed the romance of it - it was quite the contrast to back home, where insurance and safety regulations take the fun out of everything. People do still live in some places.


Aside from exploring and running around, going to the gym and hanging out in parks and exploring mosques and cooking and olive-tasting at bazaars, Chrissy made some friends as well. Well, more like she stole my friends from me (wink). Her abundant free time allowed her to spend more time with my friends than I could, and she was well liked by all of them, probably more than I. They gave her countless cups of tea and great conversations and stories, and they were all sad when she left. My friends Kürşad and Üskan had a particularly fun time with her, jocularly joking her with and trying to get her to go home with a carpet, a small Afghan horse-hair carpet that I actually really liked and kind of wish she bought (wink again).

A man's woman

The 15 lira dinner

We did so much and had the best time together, and it was too soon for her to leave; there was still so much to be done. It felt like she had been here with me all along, and now after she has gone my new house, which she moved into with me, is emptier and lonlier, because she made it homey with me. In many ways, it isn't, and won't be, the same.

Nontheless, changes at work coincided with her leaving. One teacher, who went on vacation, decided not to come back, and with another teacher being fired, things have been hectic around the school trying to get the teacherless classes covered. So now I am very busy covering classes, and I don't have much time for anything else - forty hour weeks with Wednesdays off for the time being. It's good because it is keeping me busy, and the exhaustion will be worth it in the end.

But the busy rhythym has been lightened by one thing: I bought a new typewriter for my collection. I haggled with the old keymaker and got it down to 65 lira ($50), and what conditioın it is in. A Turkish Typewriter!!

Mom, make some more room in the attic!!

Quite the keyboard indeed

Fındıkzade

The weather was cold and rainy as I left Sultanahmet. My scrawny shoulders and arms labored under the weight of my packed belongings; I foolishly wore a winter coat which made me sweat profusely as I toiled up the hill, burdened. I should have taken a taxi to avoid the neighborhood gawkers that regularly accost me on my walks to and from my former home - they were out despite the rain. One, the one who I am convinced stands on the street all day solely waiting for me to pass by, was nice enough to help me with our bags, but he pestered me along the way with questions about where I was going, when I would come back, etc. (and how much, of course).

Getting on the crowded, stuffy humid tram straining under the weight of my bags, however, I breathed a sigh of relief: I don't have to come back here anymore. I don't have to take back streets to avoid the hasslers. I don't have to indulge Turkish hospitality for the sake of an impromptu English lesson. I don't have to have loud Spaniards in my way. I don't have to freeze at the sound of the front door closing and shuffles in the hallway at night for fear it might be my (now ex) drunken landlord. I don't have to walk over coarse and uneven cobblestones up and down the hill to get to and from home. I don't have to ride the tram for an hour to get to and from work anymore.

The neighborhood of Fındıkzade in the district of Fatih, which I now call home, is quite the contrast from the stuffy pestering district of Sultanahmet. It is pointedly less crowded and laid back, and most certainly a family neighborhood, the kind where old headscarved grandmothers lower a basket on a string down from the fourth floor window for the neighborhood children to put bread and water from the corner shop in. It is closer to my work, which is a major relief, because it now only takes me about half an hour to get to work. Everything is inexpensive, and it is much quieter. The people are friendly, and no one bothers me.

Walking into my new apartment was literally a breath of fresh air. Fresh, cold air. It is the ground floor apartment, which means that it is set slightly below street level, and, therefore, always cooler than the rest of the building. This will be good for when the full force of the Turkish summer sun is at its strongest, however. There is no gas, which is good because I won't have to pay a steep gas bill. I set my bags down, and heaved a sigh of relief. Home, sweet home.

Room to unpack

My new apartment is twice the size of my old one, furnished, and I pay less money. The walls are painted a lovely pinkish-peach color; the aroma of fresh paint was still lingering. The furniture is relatively new and comfortable and not some worn, hideous lot of earthen-hued 70's or 80's junk, and the carpets are new and tasteful. Incandesant light bulbs hang naked from the ceilings in an art deco-ish fashion.


The bedroom is equipped with a dresser and an armoir (both of which my old house lacked) as well as a queen-sized bed. The roomy bedroom window faces the street, which means the curtains must be closed all the time, but at least a lot of light comes in, unlike my old bedroom, which was a windowless dungeon at the back of the apartment.

Alley view and a huge fridge to boot

The kitchen is delightful: a normal-sized refrigerator and a tiled countertop with a wide sink below a window gets a lot of air and light into the kitchen and makes it an enjoyable place to hang out. I need to get some chairs or stools to put in there. However, it lacks a stove - instead it has a squat blue propane tank with a burner on which you can place pots or pans to cook. Dishes line the cabinets and even though the cooking medium leaves something to be desired, there are plenty of pots and pans, so I can cook more than two dishes (although not at the same time).

Clean, roomy, and sunny

Down the hallway from the kitchen and bedroom on the left is the bathroom. The previous occupant left a strange vareity of plastic shelves and other unsavory items in the trash can which I promptly disposed of. Like all bathrooms in Turkey, it is a wet room, with the electric water-heated shower in the middle. When you shower, the whole bathroom gets wet, and when you are finished you have to squeegee all the water puddles to the drain. Unfortunately, this bathroom is devoid of a western toilet, much to my agitation, so the asian toilet (see an earlier post) in the corner is both the place where you (squat) do your business and also the drain for the shower. *Sigh* I suppose you can't have your cake and eat it too. It is a sizeable bathroom, but I am irked by the asian toilet and the toilet tank that constantly runs and sometimes overflows if you don't babysit the old and faulty float in the tank. I lay awake the other night pondering this particular plumbing problem - namely, to see if I could have a western toilet installed. But then, the shower drain would have to be reworked, and then you get into tile work and the like, so I concluded that, like every plumbing problem, you open a real can of worms when you dare to venture into that territory - the required work grows exponentially. I have my uncle Andrew to thank for helping teach me that.

That's going to be a bit hard to get used to...

My living room is the piece de resistance of my new abode. Wide, roomy, with a loveseat and a couch (trundle bed included), it even has.....wait for it.....a washing machine!!! Never has such a sight brought me such happiness. The living room looks out over a tiny garden - well, more of like a concrete patio with shelved walls in which various weeds are growing, but at any rate, it's a nice place to sit when the weather is nice and has room enough for several clotheslines on which I can hang my clothes to dry. There is no TV, but I am wondering whether I will relly need one with the garden and all. The garden is in kind of a bad way - moldy, mossy, scattered with cigarette butts and various other unwanted household items - but I am glad about that, because it will give me something to do in my spare time and will satisfy my handyman itch to do something with my hands. Hey, I poked around Laurel St. for so long, so I've been dying for a project like this. Hopefully, when all is said and done it will be a nice space to sit in and have kebap barbecues with friends.

We'll get this cleaned up in no time

The new house is indeed delightful and has great energy. It feels like the previous occupants were good, honest people, and I swear I can feel the residual energy of children in the apartment. The landlord is kind and friendly, and the building is quiet. The building is located at the end of a short alley off a quiet street and is near a primary school, so the only noise is the occasional cries and laughter of playing children and the simit seller who comes down the alley at 9 am - ''Simit simit simit simitçi simit simit...!!!'' who will pass you a simit through the window if you don't want to go outside.

At the street end of my alley about 30 yards away I have everything I need: Bim, a discount grocery store; an appliance sales/repair shop; a bakery; a butcher; a shop that sells laundry soaps and other household cleaning suppies; a drinking water supply store; a tea house; a döner shop; and, of course, a row of payphones. Everything within an arm's reach, and friendly and honest people to boot; no, no swindlers here. And, of course, I am a 5 minutes' walk from the tram station that takes me to and from work (and the rest of the city).


Of course, what would a move be without some problem? No change of location passes unhindered. Tuesday night, the second night in my apartment, Chrissy had been making good use of the washing machine late into the night. I got up to use the bathroom and heard copious amounts of water splashing onto the floor. What's this? Peering into the bathroom, I saw water flooding the floor from under the sink. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that the washing machine drainage hose emptied right into the bathroom floor. Hm, OK. I went into the living room and got my feet soaked; for some reason, water from the washing machine had overflowed and water was all over the floor in the living room - saturating the carpet, under the couch, everywhere. ''Good thing I have the ground floor apartment,'' I thought, shaking my head. I don't know why the water went everywhere, but I stayed up late into the night trying to sop up all the spilled water with my one towel. Hopefully that won't happen again, because I am very excited about this washing machine - I haven't done wash for weeks and I don't need it shitting the bed on me.

My problematic (?) washer

As everyone now most likely knows, my girlfriend Christine has come to visit me. I think she got a little culture shocked at first, but we have been having a wonderful time. Even though I work a lot, she has been exploring a lot on her own, and when I have time I have been trying to show her around and a good time as much as possible. I am glad she is here because it is very nice to see a familiar face and have a good friend to share things with. She really likes İstanbul, especially the tea and the fresh food. I always love playing tour guide for people, and I know she loves being shown around too. And finally, I have been doing some of the tourist things I have put off for so long. Perhaps now that I am out of Sultanahmet I will be more inclined to do such things.


A great roommate, a great neighborhood, and a great living space. Everything is just. Right.

Spring Changes and the Character of Cobblestones

Beloved family, friends, and inconspicuous followers of this blog, I apologize; please forgive me for not keeping up this blog as I should. It is a bit difficult when the only access I have to a computer is at my work, which is about an hour away from my place of residence, and lately, whenever I have resolved to take the time to update, some unexpected task presents itself or I haven't the time because of prep work and various other things. Very sorry.

Well now. Spring is very much here in İstanbul. This past week the temperatures reached the upper 60s, and the middle of the days were actually quite hot. Little tufts of yellow and white have begun to manifest themselves on the bare tree branches, and vibrant patches of color have sprung up amongst the roadside grasses and park fringes (although the good workers of the İstanbul greater municipality might have some responsibility for the latter). The colors of the sea and sky and earth are shining brighter and bolder, and people seem to be happier.

But Spring isn't all sunshine and flowers and baby animals, as we all know. Of course, this Saturday we have to lose an hour from our clocks, which goes down poorly with everyone. And because of the warm weather, there are more tourists roaming about in my home patch of Sultanahmet. Which also means more, larger crowds and, inevitably, more hasslers. Of course I have become used to living and a tourist area and the hanucu have come to know me and know not to bother me anymore, but the spring seems to have brought a fresh crop of hasslers to the weathered cobblestones of the historical district. It's like the full-time guys called all their cousins: ''Hey brother no work, huh? Come to Sultanahmet with me and pester the yabancılar with me, it's easy and you get to work outside!''

Naturally the increase in pedestrian traffic makes it difficult to go anywhere - especially lately because of the strange sudden increase in the amount of Spanish and Italian travelers who are, to me, notorious for always being in the way, and also irritatingly very loud. Walking becomes not only an exercise for your legs and feet, but also a workout for your lower back because you have to keep twisting and turning to dodge oncoming pedestrian traffic and make room for other people. I think the crowded sidewalks are exascerbated by the fact that, unlike American sidewalks, the sidewalks in İstanbul (and Europe for that matter) are quite narrow, and if there isn't a car parked on the sidewalk that directs your stroll into the street, there is some guy selling an eclectic vareity of junk laid out on a blanket (make room for the pocket tissues, please).

Well, at any rate, all this business with the tourists and the hassling and lovely weather has made me realize that soon I need to pack my things and find a quieter neighborhood to live in, and one preferably closer to work - the hour commute each way has become wearisome. Plus, I think living out of the way would really improve my language skills, because it would force me not to use English as much - nothing like jumping off into the deep end for a real taste of the local culture.

Perhaps my new neighborhood streets and sidewalks will be paved, unlike Cankurtaran. This would most certainly be a welcome change for me. Belgian Block, as we say back home, or, cobblestones, are quite nice; despite small bits of garbage getting caught between them, they have a romantic aura about them and stir the imagination as to the history they've seen. An American tourist I was walking behind recently put it succinctly: ''But cobblestones have so much more character....''

True enough, but they sure are hard on the feet.

Get a Grip

You know what the worst thing about being an expat is? Being a sick expat. Being terribly ill in a place where you barely know the language is the stuff of nightmares.

I fell ill last Wednesday night. I met a friend at a cafe and going home afterwards, I felt more like I was being dragged by the tram than riding it. My whole body ached, especially my kidneys, and my stomach was killing me. I was exhausted. I went home and went right to bed.

I couldn't get up the next day. I called work and told them I wasn't coming, that they would have to get someone to cover for me. Ok, no problem. Thursday I stayed in bed, as well as Friday; school was less happy about me missing two days:

''You're sick? Why don't you see a doctor?'' Because I hate going to the doctor and it's going to cost me a fortune I don't have right now, and he's going to tell me to do what I am doing right now. ''Don't worry, I'll be there for my Saturday class,'' I said, because I knew they'd be really mad if I called at 6.30 Saturday morning and made them find someone to cover for me.

Saturday I forced myself to get up and go. My body didn't ache anymore, but my stomach was killing me. I went to work anyway. By the time my class was over at 1, I was feeling a little bit better. My colleages suggested that I may have a parasite, but thankfully this fear was later alleviated. I asked a retired doctor friend of mine what he thought and he said, ''Perhaps it is stress,'' Hm. But I don't think I'm stressed, and my stress stomach aches have never been like this before. However, I ate some mint drops he gave me and I felt a lot better. I felt normal again. Happy. Yes! I went home and watched some TV before going to bed.

I woke up early on Sunday for work. On the way to work, I got the cold sweat again and my stomach began to writhe in pain once more. I made it about 3/4 of the way through my 4 hour class before I gave in: ''I'm sorry, class is over for today, I'm very sick, I have to go home,'' and I walked out and went home. After a long tram ride home which I don't remember, I curled up in bed freezing, sweating, and doubled over in pain.

I slept uneasily and had those dreams you have when you are unbelieveably ill - colors flash before your eyes, the ground rotates in every direction, and mysterious people appear out of nowhere and begin talking to you. You think about unsolveable nonexistant problems and wonder how you will ever escape this terrible fantasy world, and when you awake you are more exhausted than when you fell asleep because your mind has joined your body in tormenting you and sapping you of your energy.

I awoke late the next morning drenched in sweat and grabbed my dictionary - F, G, I İ,İ,İ......aha! Influenza (n.) = grip. Grip. I finally got one. Damn. I called my friend Selo and told him to bring flu medicine, and then called my work to call out for yet another day. By the end of Monday, my fever had gone and I didn't ache but my stomach was in terrible pain. At the behest of my employer, and my intuition at this point, I resolved to go to the doctor the next morning.

I woke up early on Tueday, showered, and visited my friend Kürşad. Luckily there was a small public hospital right behind his carpet shop. Since I finally got my residence permit, I don't carry around my passport anymore, but this was not a good idea when one has to visit the hospital I found, because as a foreigner to be seen by the doctor they need to enter your passport number into the computer. It is impossible without it, a mohawked teen with grubby sneakers in reception told me. Luckily (I should have guessed by now, this is Turkey), Kürşad knew the doctor and we were able to sneak downstairs and slip into the examination room. The room was pink and the paint was peeling off the walls. The examination table was covered in a white cotton cloth and not paper. A bespectacled female doctor and a nurse sat at a desk with a huge ledger on it. They told me to sit and asked what was wrong with me. I told them, ''Grip.'' Hm. Lie down, pull your shirt up. Cold stethoscope. Sit up, lean forward, pull your shirt up. Cold stethoscope. Deep breath. Shirt down. Open wide. Lift your arm, keep this thermometer there. She and Kürşad rattled on in Turkish about something. Take the thermometer out.

''Aha! Tamam,'' she said, and pulled out a pad and began scribbling furiously. ''You must eat only boiled potatoes, bananas, and light yoğurt for a few days, rest, sleep, and then you can,'' Huh? She handed me a prescription and Kürşad shuttled me out of the office - ''Çok teşekkür ederim doktor effendim!''

''Well, what is it??'' I asked him. ''The grip?''

''Not. The food,'' he replied. The food? We went to the pharmacy and picked up the medicine - 10 lira, $8 - and we returned to the shop. Usta was waiting for us there. ''Tell him what's wrong with me so he can explain,'' I told Kürşad (because Usta's English is much better than his). Bubble bubble.....''Aha!'' Usta exclaimed. ''You don't have the flu. The reason you are so tired all the time is that your stomach is not used to the food here. Your stomach is trying to take vitamins and nutrients from the food you eat but it is not getting them, so all of your energy is being used up on this process. The doctor has told you to eat bananas and potatoes and such to stop your diarrhea. You have to rest for a few days, then you can go back to work.''

Food. It was the food that was killing me. All that delicious food. *Sigh*

Well, the medicine seems to be helping a little bit. My stomach doesn't hurt that much anymore, but it still does a little every now and then, and I am still quite tired a lot. Hopefully in a few days I will be tip-top again. I have ventured off of the bananas-and-potatoes path a little prematurely, with some success, but I still hope this will clean itself up soon because my work just dumped another class on me in the morning on Thursday/Friday, so if I don't get better soon, well, I'll just have to go back to the hospital.

At any rate I can't complain about the bill; usually the rate I learned for foreigners to be seen and diagnosed is about 75 TL ($60). Because of my friend's friend's friend, can you guess what the bill was? 15 lira - about $12.

Being sick here is bittersweet.

Safe and Sound

Contrary to what the international media say, Turkey is a very safe country. Sure, people get robbed and beat up sometimes, but where doesn't that happen? For the most part İstanbul is a very safe place to live and work, as a foreigner and a native. This, I think, has much to do with the high security and amount of police they have everywhere here.
For the average American, the amount of armed police officers you see walking around everyday would seem a bit strange. Yes, there are a lot of people here - about 20 million in İstanbul to be approximate - so it does seem fitting that there are so many police. Conspicuous police, I mean. There are just as many plain clothes as there are uniformed. If you want to get a good idea about this, go to the mosque on Fridays and watch the men who go to pray and you will see how many of them are packing heat under their leather jackets. Of course, this is for a residential district. In places where there are more people, like shopping districts and tourist areas, the guns get bigger and the army usually hangs around just to make sure there is no nonsense about the national treasures.
Private security for buildings, museums, car parks, mosques, shops, and the public transportation system is a veritable small army in itself that indeed rivals the police in numbers. There are two guards on every tram/train station and at least one on every tram/bus/train/boat in the city. It isn't uncommon to have your bag searched randomly when you go through the turnstile at the train station, although it doesn't happen often. And a few weeks ago when I went to a shopping center with my friends, we had to allow security to search the car before we could park in the garage, and then we had to go through a metal detector to go inside.
The police keep tight on the public order. For every public rally or demonstraiton in a square or street with 50 people or more, a large armored bus will come and a regiment of riot police in full gear will pour out and leer at the crowd from close by, ready for anything. Some of my liberal friends are probably *tsk*-ing in disgust right now, but actually, I don't mind; I kind of enjoy it. Sometimes the security can become an inconvenience, but I think it helps more than it hurts. I feel quite safe and I don't have to worry so much about some nutjob doing something stupid and killing people, or any thieves making off with my stuff. I don't mind submitting to a search if it helps keep things safe - I've got nothing to hide so I needn't worry. I don't like to talk about politics too much, but I think our fine country should take a lesson - we might all be a little safer back home if we made small sacrifices like this and ratcheted up the security a little.

However, you can't call this a police state. Despite Code 301 (by which one can be jailed for insulting the nation, the flag, or Atatürk) and the police raids you see on the evening news every night, there is a lot of freedom. Sometimes the police will bully people, but this doesn't happen so much anymore. A few years ago this was common, but not so much nowadays. Why? Because the government has to make nice and look civil for their bid to join the European Union. Hopefully they will never be accepted, because it would be a financial and demograpic disaster for this country and Europe, but despite the outcome the efforts have had a good effect I think. Even though corruption is still rampant and blatant, the police behave (allegedly) more civil and still maintain the public order, and free press has flowered immensely. Yes, it is a true democracy here, and perhaps a bit safer than ours.

And that's all I will ever say about politics in this blog.

Azan

Five times a day, every day, the muezzin calls all the faithful to come to the mosque and pray. The call is called the azan in Turkish, but the azan itself must be called in the original Arabic: Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, a'shaddu Allah and so on. Usually the muezzin tries his best to make this call as flowery as possible, singing it like a song and hitting a wide range of notes.

In the days of old, the muezzin would climb up to the top of the minaret, the mosque's accompanying tower, and cup his hands and call out the azan to call the faithful to prayer; this was the original purpose of the minaret. Over time, the number of minarets a mosque had came to symbolize the wealth and power of the sultan that built it - the more minarets, the richer and powerful the regime. Nowadays, however, because there are so many buildings and such to block the acoustics, large speakers are affixed to the top of the minaret and the muezzin simply has to turn the volume up and call the azan into a microphone. This occurs roughly at 6 am, 10.30, 12.30 pm, 3.30, and 7. Tourists and newcomers are enchanted by the beauty and haunting melody of the azan when they first hear it - indeed, it is quite lovely.

In many places in İstanbul, there is a mosque roughly on every block. So, in places like this when the azan is called, it transforms from a thing of charm and beauty into a hideous jarring cacophony: imagine 4 or 5 muezzins calling the azan at the exact same time with their speakers at top volume. Naturally, it is difficult for those who are trying to sleep in or have a telephone conversation at that particular moment. You'd think they would coordinate with each other: ''Hey brother, you want to call your azan at 12.15 and I'll do mine at 12.20, and we'll see if we can get Ali to do his at 12.25...what do you think?'' But this usually isn't the case. Sometimes, the azan from the Blue Mosque coordinates with the small ancient one across the park and it sounds as if they are calling back and forth to one another, which is lovely, but this doesn't happen often.

Now Fridays to Islam are what Sundays are to Christians, because the prophet's birthday happened to fall on a Friday. Therefore, at 12.30 on Fridays, everything slows down and those who usually don't go pray during the week pour into the mosque to humble themselves before Allah and beg forgivness for their human qualities. As for myself, I can't be sure if this is because they don't have time during the week, they just go the one time a week make themselves feel good, they really are pious, or because they get a sweet treat as they leave the mosque after the Friday 12.30 prayer.

Because I hang a lot on the streets during the daytime chatting and drinking tea, I often watch the faithful assemble before this prayer time. Usually on Fridays there are more people that come to pray than usual, so the mosque has to roll out carpets and prayer rugs on the sidewalk to accomodate the extra believers. It's quite a sight - tourists strolling by snapping photos while policemen and shopkeepers prostrate themselves. However, the amount of people varies from week to week. My friend Kürşad says that the amount of people praying is relevant to the amount of business during the previous week; the more people praying means that business has been bad, and the less means that business has been good. It sounds silly, but if you go around and talk to people, you will discover that this theory indeed holds water. Of course, because I am a cynic, I have cynical friends, but at any rate I can't bag on the pious too much; the people here are the most hospitible I've ever met and most of them are honest and kind. And since the first thing the Qur'an says is ''Be clean,'' and the pious wash themselves before every prayer, they are some of the cleanest people I have ever seen. They share everything with you should they become friendly with you, and ask nothing in return. But sometimes, I wish they wouldn't share some things. Like the azan at 6 am. So it goes, though.

Sunday Afternoons

I love the level 1 beginner class that I teach. They are loads of fun. My students ages range from 17 to 33, but they all get along nicely and behave as if they've known each other for ages. The class is usually riotously fun - the students roar with laughter at my snide jokes and shameless use of my poor Turkish to help get an idea across or liven class up a bit. I think their excitement and enthusiasm has a little to do with the fact that they are new and enthusiastic abut learning and haven't yet encountered the horrors and countless exceptions and irregularities of advanced English grammar.
Anyway, I only have this class on weekend mornings, which is quite a shame because I enjoy it very much and it always puts me in a positive and sunny mood, something much needed after the past week. Yes, if only the rest of my classes were that much fun.....well, anyway.

Last weekend, my oldest student declared that the next Sunday after class he would cook kebaps for everyone and we would all drink rakı (something like ouzo which when mixed with water becomes milky-looking) at his house, İnşallah (God willing). This particular student's name is Müslüm, and since he is the oldest in the class, I call him ''Müslüm Baba'', Father Muslim, after a famous singer here that is popular among hoplessly romantic and emotionally disillusioned young people. He was indeed a man of his word. The weather held - ''Hava güzel eh!!?'' (Nice weather, eh!?!) he declared as he walked into class - and after class I giddily grabbed my things and hurried out of the building. Most of the students didn't go, so it was only a few of us that piled into his car and tore away down the highway to go shopping for our barbecue: Müslüm Baba, myself, Yunus, a spirited university student, and Enes, who has inadvertently become the class clown by talking before he thinks about it.

''I crazy driver!!'' Müslüm Baba said weaving in and out of lanes on the highway. True, but all Turks are crazy drivers. Lunatics. I still can't figure out why you don't see more accidents with the way people drive and everybody walking in the streets and highways.

We peeled into the shopping center parking lot, parked the car and went into Carrefour, after security thoroughly searched our vehicle and person of course. Once Müslüm Baba got a cart he was like a kid in a candy store, riding the cart like a go-kart and grabbing everything that took his fancy - lamb, chicken, vegetables, cheeses, sodas, water, salads, pickles, peppers, everything. We bought charcoal and of course, rakı as well.

Müslüm Baba

Izgara Usta

Back at his house, he carefully fired up the grill while we chatted in Turkish and English. He poured a heavy amount of rakı into two glasses, and then added water, and the mixture instantly turned a milky white color. ''Şerefe!'' he toasted, and I took a sip; I wouldn't say it is my favorite drink, as it is very sweet and tastes like strong black licorice, and the heavy aroma deeply permeates your sinuses when you take a sip of it. It is a bit of an acquired taste I would say. Nonetheless, I got used to it after a few sips, and I began to see why it was so popular with the Turks: in an odd way, the robust, cool sweetness of the liquour nicely complimented the salty and spicy taste of the savory grilled meats and blackened vegetables. I ate and ate, and Müslüm Baba kept filling out plates with grilled meat and vegetables whenever we managed to clear our dishes. ''More, more!'' he kept saying. Of course, rakı is strong stuff, and once you've had a couple glasses, you become ravenously hungry and begin filling your gullet quickly, like a hungry animal, and soon you are so stuffed so much you can't eat anymore. After we had our fill, there was plenty of food left over. Müslüm Baba brought a plate of food into his house for his wife and children, and returned with his daughter, who, despite being terrified of the strange foreigner, still managed to have a fun time playing with sticks and chasing the stray cats that had gathered 'round the smell of cooked meat. After we sat stuffed and graoning for a while, we cleaned everything up and piled back into the car to go to the tram station (''You think it's too much rakı to drive?'' asked Müslüm Baba. ''Does it matter?'' I said. ''They all drive like they're drunk anyway.'').

Of course, the barbecue solidified our friendship. They took my phone number and declared that we were arkadaş, friends, and we kissed cheeks farewell as is the custom between family and friends here. By the time I got home it was dark and late, and, sated and heavy-eyed, I fell asleep on my couch, contented. I could get used to Sundays like this.

Keep the fire going

Yunus & I

My ''kanka'' Enes & I

Everyone is happy!

Spare Time

Param yok, zaman çok

Turks ask a lot of questions. Really, they are quite curious about foreigners; they want to know everything. The most common is, of course Where are you from?, but they usually run the gamut: Do you like Turkey? Why did you come here? What do you think of Turkish people? What about your family? Where do you work? Do you live in a hostel? How much money do you make? What did you do before you came here? How much money did you make then? Is it true American people are rich? These are all common questions. Indeed, it is not impolite, unlike in America, to ask all of these questions and more. The bottom line is that they are just curious. When you realize that, it is endearing at first, but as you meet more and more people it becomes redundant. Nonetheless, I am usually pretty honest with people when it comes to such questions, and I try to be truthful and appeal to their curious appetite. It doesn't really bother me how many or what questions they ask me in the end. Lately, however, because someone asked me and a schedule shift at work forced me to consider it, there is one question that I hadn't had an answer to as of late: what do I do in my spare time? Hm.
Well, not what you'd suspect. I don't explore much and haven't gone and seen many sights or done much of the ''tourist thing'', which is hardly ironic because I live in the most historical and touristy area of İstanbul. Maybe that's why I haven't done things like that, because I have too much fun snickering at the sightseers and wouldn't want to become the object of such whimsical scorn. I went inside the Blue Mosque, and that's about it. I know my way around İstanbul fairly well and know where all of the fun and historical places are, I just never take the time to take it all in. In a slightly unfortunate way, I think this has something to do with a first paycheck I am anxiously awaiting.
Of course, those who know me know that I like my alone time for study and contemplation. I have a lot of this because I live alone, and I enjoy it. Usually I read, but since I have a TV, and a strong desire to learn the language to make my life easier, I haven't been reading much. Recently I bought a book that teaches you the basics of Turkish grammar, and this paired with television and a dictionary takes up a fair amount of time the evenings I am home. I am learning quickly, and I have a lot of fun doing it. It's like a hobby for me, like doing a puzzle in a way. Naturally, this is difficult to explain on sheets with sections titled Interests:

You have to start somewhere.....

Here's an interesting word

Arkadaşlar

But of course too much of something is never a good thing, and television and autodidactic linguistic study get boring quickly. Because of this, I found I have been doing something in my spare time that I never did back home: spend time with friends.
I know many people here.  Because my name is hard for Turks to remember, I tell everyone to call me Kadir, so it is now my unofficial Turkish name. I chat with a lot of people often; I have both meaningful conversations and piecemeal English lessons with a number of people on a regular basis. Indeed, days are long for this reason - whenever I go anywhere, I am usually waylaid by someone I know who offers me tea and wants to chat for a while. If you share tea and a good conversation with someone and you don't go see them for a few days, they ask where you have been and are curious as to why you don't stop by more often. Really, it's a wonder how anyone gets anything done here considering all the tea drinking and respect-paying that goes on.
Am I friends with these people, or are they acquaintances? I am friendly with them and perhaps in the lame and shallow facebook sense I am friends with them, but not really in the true Turkish way. Really, should you be lucky enough to acquire a real Turkish friend, he will give his life for you should you ask him. When I am not at home, I spend most of my time with my three good friends.

Aladdin

Yes, he has a lamp, but he keeps it at home. And yes, he has a carpet, but he'd rather sell it to you than demonstrate the aeronautics of it. I really owe everything to this man because of all the help he has given me since I got here. I wouldn't be in the position I am right now without his boundless generosity and warm spirit. I don't know how I got so lucky as to stumble upon such a genuine and kind human, but his benevolent heart and enthusiastic joie de vivre has renewed my outlook on humanity; yes, there are still good people out there who help strangers and ask nothing in return.

When I first came to İstanbul I didn't have a job or a place. Coming out of an internet cafe, this man, Aladdin, approached me. I think he wanted to sell me a carpet, but once we began talking he decided that I was someone who needed help (and didn't have any money) and helped me get situated with a safe and inexpensive place to stay and introduced me to everyone so that they might help me. When I was looking for a job, he gave me his phone to use and when I finally got a job, he helped me find a lovely apartment to stay in. And he never asks anything in return. Ever. Sometimes I take him out to lunch or I buy some beer which we drink together, but he never asks. And he always wants to help. ''You ask me to die, I gonna die,'' he often says.
He gambles a lot on horse races, a little too much sometimes, but never asks for money to bet with. Sometimes we split a ticket, and we usually win because he is quite knowledgeable about the jockeys and statistics, although we never win a lot, just 10 lira, 40 lira at a time (Turkish horse racing is a galaxy itself). Sometimes I go work with him hassling tourists (Carpet Sales 101). He likes having me with him because he thinks it makes him more trustworthy in the eyes of the tourists, but I like to do it because it's fun to talk to people and guess where everyone is from.
Originally, he is from Hatay, next to Syria, and is fluent in Arabic. Hopefully I will go there in July because he wants to bring me to his soon-to-be nephew's circumcision ceremony, which is allegedly an ostentatiously grand affair here. He has a family with three daughters, and although I haven't met them, I hope to go to his house soon with flowers and rakı to cook all of them a good meal. He knows everyone in Sultanahmet and has many friends. He keeps pigeons as well, perhaps 30, which he feeds and flies every day. I can always count on him to help me get something done or find something, or be there like a friend should be; If I ever had a true friend, it is he.

A man and his pigeons

Kürşad

A true dude, in the Turkish sense. He  is 29 and owns a nice carpet shop called Elegance, and although his English is a bit slow, he hopes that by talking with me often he will get better. He invites me for lunch and dinner everyday, and I usually go if I am around. He was married once, but it didn't work out and after he got a divorce three years ago, he moved into the office above the carpet shop and has been living there ever since (This may sound strange but is not uncommon here: the Turks work all day 6 or 7 days a week, and for this reason they simply end up living at their place of business. Sometimes, if you walk home at 2 am, you can see managers passed out at their desks through their shop windows). He is a very honest guy but has a great sense of humor and likes to joke a lot. Sometimes you can't tell if he is joking or being honest because he has a way of remaining serious while he is pulling your leg. When he wears a turtleneck and sneakers and his hair is tussled, he looks a lot like a Turkish version of Kramer from Seinfeld. He is a very professional and knowledgeable salesman as well, and has taught me much about Turkish carpets and kılıms. He is from Kayseri, a carpet-making region in the east of the country, and has a large farm there with many animals and hectares of land that he acquired through his carpet-selling fortune. The funniest thing about him is that he wants to buy a Lincoln Navigator because he thinks it will help him pick up more women.

A chic gentleman

Selo

It's short for Selahattin, or Salah al-Din, the famous Arabic conqueror. But he's not Arabic; he's Kurdish, from Diyarbakır in the east. Selo and I are the same age, which is probably why we get along so well. He works at a restaurant trying to shuttle people inside, which is where I originally met him; he kept trying to get me to come into the restaurant, but after a while he gave up and we just began talking and became friends. He lives not far from the Hippodrome and sometimes when he finishes work late at night, we go back to his apartment and cook a meal and chat and watch TV together. On the rare occasion he has a day off, or the even rarer occasion we both do, we usually go to a nargileci where his brother works and smoke the nargile (hookah or water pipe) and drink tea and Turkish coffee. The other day we went out for dinner and had lahmacun, something like a pizza on a thin pita bread that you roll up with salad inside, and then strolled around a fish market in Kumkapı afterwards looking at all of the interesting creatures the fishermen have hauled out of the Marmaris. He is really a clever guy and is very fluent in English, and he is learning Spanish as well. He is also a devout Muslim, and prays whenever he can and isn't working. When I think of him, however, I always hear ''Here is better!'', as he always says trying to get people to come into the restaurant. 

Hello, Selo

It doesn't get any fresher

From the late Cetaceous, I'd say

Friends are good everywhere, and not only for camaraderie and the company - here, more than anywhere I've been before, it's all about who you know.

Footnotes

It's not really much different than anyplace else here, save a few cultural niceties, consumer brands, local cuisine, and so on. People are people wherever you go; only the minor things change. I'm not saying this place isn't unique - I assure you, it is - but I'm talking about the quotidian; once you get used to things, the similarities of daily life around the world outnumber the differences. Nonetheless, Turkey, like everywhere else, has its own unexpected peculiarities and other oddities that make you scratch your head in bewilderment.

Television is a good gauge of local culture and language any place you go, and you would be surprised how much of the language you can learn if you watch a few hours of TV a day with a dictionary in hand. I think I'm lucky to have a television in my place (rabbit-eared, of course) that receives a fair amount of channels. All are in Turkish, but luckily they have CNBC here, and at night they play American television shows subtitled in Turkish, which is good (a regular dose of American culture is nothing to complain about), and every Sunday night at 10 they have been playing all the Star Wars movies with subtitles (someone really is looking out for me).
The Turkish television shows are certainly very interesting. It goes without saying the quality is poor, although the acting can be quite good, which is a saving grace. Soap operas are popular.
But it is clear from the television shows that Turks have a lust for violence. Almost all of the TV shows (even the soap operas) involve a cheaply shot gun battle of some kind; if someone doesn't die, then at least several people get shot. Domestic violence is sparse, but nonetheless graphically represented at times in certain shows. But don't assume it is a misogynistic soceity; in one show, a woman, fighting with a rebel group of men in the east of the country, relishes ambushing army soldiers and torturing captives.
Shows about police and the military are especially popular, naturally because of this thirst for exciting violence. Because of the political situation in the east of the country, where Kurdish nationalists are attempting to establish their own state, shows about the military battling Kurdish terrorists and rebels are wildly popular. Tek Türkiye (One Turkey) is one show of this genre, and I can't tell if it is so popular because Turks enjoy the gun battles and betrayals, or if they like seeing Kurds crushed (they really don't like them).
Another peculiar thing about television shows here, in a country where 70% of the male population smokes, is the government's lame attempt to censor cigarette smoking on TV. Smoking is now banned in public buildings here, and you won't see it in the domestic television shows, but when they play an old movie or foreign show or film, any cigar, cigarette, or other tobacco product is blurred or covered up by a cartoon flower. Kind of reminds me of when you see old 60's and 70's B movies on TV back home and they blur or cover nude genitalia with a similar brigtly colored object. You can only shake your head in bewilderment.

There's something to be said about the bathrooms here. The traditional Turkish or Asian toilet is a shallow porcelain bowl in the floor with a hole and is corrugated on each side for traction when you squat to do your business, and there is usually a spigot wıth a bucket you use to wash it down with. This is the standard in public toilets, and in some public buildings (there are two in the men's bathroom where I work). I can't vouch for the practicality or comfort (or lack of) of this type of toilet because I have been afraid to use one, as I imagine it to be a quite messy affair. Luckily, in modern times Turkey has discovered a western style toilet, and although it is more comfortable and most likely more sanitary, it is horrifyingly similar to a German toilet. Those who know what that is like are probably shaking their heads along with me right now.

Another thing is gypsys. We are all familiar with horrible stereotype which never fails to reinforce itself. However, unlike their theiving mongrel kin of Central and Eastern Europe, the gypsys here are honest, hardworking people and are quite pleasant. Cankurtaran, where I live, is primarily a gypsy neighborhood, and the people are courteous and honest - they won't fleece me for the dish soap. And they are less interested in me than the Turks; on the tram, Turks stare, but when I go home, nobody is interested. Indeed, to a Turk it's not the gypsys you need to worry about picking your pocket on the tram, but the Kurds, the scourge of modern Turkey. A few days ago, my friend Aladdin lost his keys, and he swore menacingly that it was the Kurdish people who stole his keys from his pocket simply for the 6 lira deposit on the Akbil (a metal bead on a key ring that functions like a MetroCard) as he rode the tram home.

Money is funny here. With an average inflation rate of 38% per year in the latter part of last century, $1 was roughly equal to 1.35 million lira in 2004. This means that Turks, over time, became used to large numbers in business transactions, and even today an older shopkeeper will tell you your total in millions of lira. I bought a kilo of bulgar wheat and some hot pepper from my neıghborhood sundry shop the other day:

''Ne kadar?'' (How Much?)
''İki milyon lira.'' (Two million lira.)
''Ne?! İki lira.'' (What!? Two!)
''Ah, evet, evet, iki....'' (Uh, yes, yes, two...)

In 2005 the government decided all those zeros were quite simply a headache and decided to drop 6 zeroes from the currency in an attempt to stabilize and simplify (and save on printing costs, I'm sure) the currency. Hence the Yeni Türk Lirası (New Turkish Lira), was born. However, in 2009 the government decided to once again print new money, dropping the yeni and simply calling it a ''Turkish lira''. Therefore, the ''new'' lira is now the old lira, and is no longer valid currency. Shopper beware: sometimes a shopkeeper will pass these on as change to an unsuspecting schmuck, and when you go to use it later, you will receive a snort of ridicule and your money will be refused.

What else? When your Turkish friend wants to get your attention he shushes you sssssshhhhhh!!!!! It's like ''Hey friend, let me tell you something!'' I think this developed as the result of the Turks' tendency to talk all at once. When you poke your head into a büfe or döner shop, the big beefy man briskly sharpening his knife inside sees you and shouts ''Buyrun!!'' in loud booming voice. But he's not angry, just coarsely hospitible: it means ''Please!'', ''Come in!'', ''After you!''
Of course, it is the peculiarities such as these that make every place unique. And, naturally, lots of fun.
And yes, if you want to come inside, you have to take your shoes off.