Wednesday marked my first foray into Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, which is something like Turkey’s version of the Mall of America. Well, Mall of America minus the Baby Gap, Orange Julius, Auntie Annie’s Pretzels, Hockey Minnesota, Old Navy, Wicks ‘n’ Sticks and Rainforest Café. Ok, I take it back; it’s actually nothing like the Mall of America, other than the fact there are approximately 4 billion shops and at least as many ways to suck money out of your pocket. Everywhere you look there is jewelry, leather, hookah pipes, cups, plates, bowls, glasses, boxes, books, manuscripts, T shirts, scarfs, lamps ... you name it.
And yes, carpets. Aisles and aisles and aisles of carpets.
To my knowledge, the Mall of America also doesn’t have shop owners running out of their stores like Celal, who snags me outside of his carpet shop before I can avoid eye contact or pretend that I don’t speak English.
"My friend, do you see this rug! Look!" He gestures up to one of probably 60 carpets hanging in the window of his shop, one of the dozens of carpet shops on this particular side labyrinth of the bazaar. The rug he points to, as far as I can tell, is pretty much identical to every other rug hanging there.
"Um, it’s beautiful?" I answer, not being able to make myself shut up.
"Do you know how much is it!" he shouts at me.
"No, I ..."
"Come! Come into my shop! I will show you!"
"No, really ..."
"Yes, come! Come for one minute!
God, I’m such naturally born Midwestern sucker. I follow him into the shop, still trying to cut him off at the same time.
"Look, I can’t buy a carpet. I have no place to put it."
"How big is your room!" Inexplicably he is still shouting at me.
"How big is my ... what, which room?"
"How big is your girlfriend’s room!"
"My girlfriend’s room?"
"You can buy it for her!"
I look behind me, wondering if there is a woman tailing me that could be mistaken for a girlfriend. Sadly there is not.
"Um ... I’ll ask her and come back." This seems to satisfy him. Celal smiles and gives me his card as I back out of shop.
I wasn’t lying when I said I truly didn't need a rug. The one thing I did need, which I had not expected to find, was a notebook. You know, a simple, spiral notebook, with lined pages. And while much of the Grand Bazaar is aimed at the trinket-buying, camera-swinging tourist with money to burn, not everything is. And sure enough, there is a notebook vendor, at the far end of a passageway, near the exit. Kind of the equivalent to the Mall of America’s Scotch tape store, stuck in a corner down by Spencer’s Gifts.
The notebook shop is maybe eight feet long by three feet wide, stuffed floor to ceiling with nothing but notebooks. Every conceivable shape, size, and color. The notebook man is happy to see me, as it apparently is the slow season for notebook purchases. He starts pulling out a variety of notebooks to show me, none of which has lined pages. Unlike Celal’s carpet shop, English is not spoken here. I try pantomiming the International Symbol for "lined paper." He holds up a finger and climbs up a step stool to reach one of the higher shelves. He comes down with the notebook open, showing that, as requested, its paper is lined.
Great, I say. I’ll take it. He smiles and hands me the notebook, showing me the cover for the first time. It is white and pink, covered with strawberries and a cartooned little girl wearing a red dress, bloomers, and a hat puffed out like Jiffy Pop popcorn. It is a Strawberry Shortcake notebook, the kind a 10-year-old girl might use to do her math homework.
I furrow my brow, the International Symbol for "um, yeah, that’s exactly wrong." "Hayır," I tell him. "That’s for, you know, little girls."
He holds up his finger again and goes back up the stool. He shows me another notebook, this one covered with basketballs. You know: for a 10-year-old boy. Better yes, but ... I re-furrow the brow and shake my head again. He goes back up the stool a third time, bringing down yet another lined-paper notebook selection: Ponies?
I wonder, at this point, if I had a really good English/Turkish phrase book, it would include the entry: "Do you have something a little less pre-pubescent?" Otherwise this could go on a long time.
Taking matters into my own hands, I go up the stool myself to search the lined-paper section. Ten seconds later I come down holding a notebook with a simple, brown, non-adorned cover. The man raises his eyebrows and looks away, as if to say, "that’s the one you're picking? What a freak."
I’m sure he was thinking that he should have been a carpet salesman.
It’s in the Yildizlar
In the interest of science and cross-cultural understanding, I decided to find and translate my Turkish horoscope from the newspaper Sabah. It was one of those monthly roundup kind of horoscopes, giving it 1 in 31 shot to kind of be true at some point in time. Google Translate couldn’t quite handle all the Turkish words (you can almost hear the programmers cursing and throwing up their hands in partial surrender), but here’s an idea of what was supposed to be store for a Tarasi (Libra) like me in the month of Ekim (October):
"Aşk (Love)
Emotional relationships with people you meet while traveling between you begin. On October 8, [you?] will attend the meetings, you’ll attract attention to specific behaviors. Sexual energy is high and because of frequent invitations can join, [you?] must be cautious about relations with sudden onset. Attended invitations önleyemediğiniz elektriksek shots and short-lived adventures occur is always the risk to life will ring your door. This month, you’ll want to intolerable risks. Beraberliklerinizde, while a hard time because of a sudden jealousies, you may feel restricted. A period of good entertainment, but between you, you, working yaşantınızdaki intense pace, while having fun in the show extreme escape."
A couple of things. First I’m pretty sure I spent October 8 sitting with my father in his den in Murphy, Texas, watching college football on television. The only specific behavior I can recall attracting attention was when I got up to make a sandwich in the middle of the 3rd Quarter. If this had translated as "You will spend October 8 watching your college alma mater being humiliated on national television," I would have been a lot more impressed.
On the other hand, I have to agree that is always the risk to life will ring your door, and mine lately has been full of its share of elektriksek shots and short-lived adventures. True enough, I am having fun in the show extreme escape.
So maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this as complete saçmalık.
The pulled cats of Istanbul
My landlord Cenk was very emphatic about not leaving the windows open the first time he showed me around my new flat.
"This neighborhood is famous for the cats," the building owner told me. "They are very pold."
"They are very ... pulled?"
"No, not pulled. Pold! You know, bold! They will come right in the window, and piss all over everything. Is best to open the windows from the top, only a little."
OK, then: Rules of the House: 1) Rent is due the 20th of each month, and 2) Beware of pissing cats climbing in your window. All the rest is self explanatory.
It is true that, not unlike Rome, there seem to be cats everywhere in Istanbul. From the looks of most of them I don't think they belong to anyone in particular. I can hear them outside my window now, asking to come in to look for a place to, uh, sleep. They are streetwise cats. And as Cenk says, they are pulled.
I'm not complaining, really. I'll take cats over rats any day, and I can't imagine those stand any chance in this city. And besides, it's kind of like wildlife. Like squirrels, only with more attitude.
It looks like milk, and don't drink: it's just for show
I made my first stupid cultural mistake (of many to come, I'm sure) while shopping for food for the first time at the little grocery store around the corner. I was tired on first day here, ready to crash and just looking for something recognizable to have for breakfast the next morning. Nothing complicated, please. So I head for the cereal aisle. Or the cereal shelf, more accurately, as the grocery had about four boxes of cereal from which to chose. Let's see: museli, something Turkish, something Turkish ... ok, here we go: "Nestle's Gold Flakes." You can't go wrong with Gold Flakes, right? They look like Corn Flakes, albeit yes, more gold than corn because they are coated with sugar or some other gold-enhancing substance. And, according to the undecipherable Turkish on the box, they are packed with ballı mısır gevreği. Perfect.
Now needing something to go on the Golden Flakes, I head for the dairy case to look for milk. I see nothing that says milk (that's süt, in Turkish. This I know). I see something that looks like milk, in a milk jug, labeled "Ayran." The brand name, I'm sure, like "Country Fresh" or "Berkeley Farms." So ring me up a jug of that there Ayran.
But see, the thing is, ayran is not really milk. Well, it is milk in the sense that it comes from a cow, and that people drink it for breakfast. But as I find out later, ayran, if you google it (go ahead, I'll wait) is best described as "a salty yogurt drink." Which is fine, if that's what you are expecting. (As in "Here, try this salty yogurt drink." "Yeah, sure. Why not?") Quite a surprise otherwise. And so I'm sure you are wondering, does ayran go well poured over a bowl of sugary Gold Flakes? The answer is no, it does not. It really does not.
At least there was no one present to record the look on my face after first spoonful.
The second stupid, look-like-a-foreigner cultural mistake was made ordering my first Turkish coffee. (Yes, I know this seems like a pretty simple maneuver, about as complicated as, what, buying milk and cereal?) I order the coffee in a little restaurant on the Istiklal Ceddesi, Istanbul's main shopping street. I'm expecting a little cup with a small amount of strong coffee. Instead the waiter brings out a tray with four items: a glass of water, two covered brass containers, and a tiny glass of bubbling green liquid with white smoke pouring out of it, like something held by a mad scientist in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Under one container was the coffee. Under the other was a little cube covered with white power. I looked at the cube, and the coffee. Then at the water, and then at the green bubbling liquid. Does the cube go in the coffee? Does the green bubbling liquid mix in here somewhere? Should I wait until it stops smoking? Is the water supposed to delute something? Am I being punked?
Finally the waiter notices how clueless I am and takes pity on me. He points to the glass of smoking green liquid. "Don't drink," he tells me. "Is just for show." The white powdery cube is a powder- sugar covered gumdrop, a little something to eat with the coffee, apparently. The glass of water, as it turns out, is just a glass of water.
I wonder how many idiot tourists have been poisoned trying to drink the bubbling "Just For Show" dry ice concoction? I'm sure the guys back in the kitchen look out to watch, and just laugh and laugh and laugh ...
Note: The following was written after not much sleep at DFW Airport during a 90-minute flight delay, fueled by about seven cups of coffee and a greasy grilled turkey sandwich. So, you know. Judge accordingly.
OK, here’s the setup: A guy in California quits his job, sells most of his things, packs two suitcases, puts the rest in a 5 x 10 storage unit (which promptly floods, but that’s a rant for another blog. Thanks, U-Haul!), and heads off to live in Turkey. And yes that is Turkey the country, not turkey the luncheon meat. Zany antics ensue.
I know you have questions. So many questions. With all the hands up in the air, I think the best way to handle this is to answer up front those most commonly asked when I tell people about this wacky scheme, a.k.a. my life.
Q: Are you really moving to Turkey?
A: Yes, I really am. I hold in my hand a one-way ticket to Istanbul and a six-month lease on a furnished apartment in the section of town called Beyoglu. Alright, I’m not literally holding them, but they’re in my bag somewhere, I’m pretty sure.
Q: So why Turkey?
A: It seems like an interesting place, and I’ve never been there before.
Q: But surely there are many interesting places in the world that you’ve never been to before.
A: Surely you’re right. But that’s not a question.
Q: Do you know anyone in Turkey?
A: I do not. I do know people who know people, sometimes who know other people. It’s good to know people who know people, especially in lieu of knowing no one else within a 2,000-mile radius.
Q: This some kind of mid-life crisis thing, isn’t it?
A: Yes, I considered buying a Porsche and running off with the dental hygienist, but you know, it’s been done.
Q: Aren’t you afraid to go to Turkey? Didn’t you see "Midnight Express?"
A: Yes, I did see "Midnight Express." I also saw Prince’s "Under the Cherry Moon," but that didn’t stop me from living in Minnesota. Still, I have promised all concerned to avoid the issue entirely by not having heroin strapped to my body as I arrive at customs.
Q: Have you learned any Turkish?
A: I’ve learned how to say "Where is the men's room?", "How much is the kabob?" and "Another raki, please." I think that pretty much covers the essentials.
Q: You’re kind of a smart ass, aren’t you?
A: You picked up on that?
Q: See? Right there! You just did it!
A: Oh, calm down. It could get a lot worse, believe me.
Q: What you’re saying is you going to Turkey just for the hell of it?
A: Yes, that’s basically what I’m saying. Well, that’s basically all I’m saying. For the time being at least.
Q: You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?
A: No. I really don’t. I am completely making this up as I go along.
Q: So why are you doing this blog?
A: You can only make so many smart-ass comments on Facebook before people get tired of you and start blocking your posts. I see this as a way to gather all of my asinine comments in one convenient place, allowing them to be avoided en masse if that’s what it comes to.
Q: Doesn’t this all strike you as self-indulgent and fairly ridiculous?
A: Listen, I’m just looking for a few good stories to impress people at cocktail parties. If that strikes you as shallow then I guess I’m guilty as charged.
Q: Will you be taking any further questions?
A: No, that’s it. I think this bit is starting to grow tiresome.
Q: So we’re done for now?
A: We’re done for now. See you in Turkey.
