Heard it on the streets

The first time I heard the propane gas truck approach my apartment, I almost ran out into the street to buy a chocolate dream cone.  I was sure that the Mister Softee ice cream truck had driven across the Atlantic from Brooklyn all the way to Istanbul.

From my open window I could hear the tinny little 20-note tune coming out the loud speaker, followed by two sung words.  Then again.  And again.  What the hell are they singing?  "Ay-Gaz!"  Aye, gas?  The possibilities that ran through my mind were that the Turks had some serious issue concerning lactose intolerance, or that this was possibly the worst song for an ice cream truck ever recorded.

But no, as advertised, it was the Aygaz truck, its flat bed filled with propane gas tanks.  If your propane tank is empty, apparently you simply have to wait until you hear the Aygaz music, take the empty tank out to the street, and swap it for a filled one.  Not as exciting as ice cream, clearly, but much more efficient than hauling your empty tanks to the propane store.

Thanks to the magic of globalization, you could live pretty much like an American in Istanbul if you chose to.  You could go to Starbucks for your morning coffee; shop at The Gap in the afternoon; grab a Whopper at Burger King for lunch; and order Domino's Pizza to be delivered for dinner.  


No, make no mistake: Istanbul is a big, modern city in many ways resembling any in Western Europe or North America.  But they still do some things here the old fashioned way.  One of those ways is to just haul their goods around the neighborhood, and announce -- usually by bellowing but sometimes by broadcasting repetitive jingles about propane - that a particular product is available for purchase.

The melon man is one of my favorites, if for no other reason than he hauls his melons around in a horse or donkey-pulled wooden cart that could have been constructed sometime during the Ottoman Empire.  (My guess is that Domino's probably abandoned the donkey cart for its pizza delivery early on, as it likely shot the "30 minutes or less" promise completely to hell).

Also seen and heard recently on my block was the Knife-Sharpener, who walked around hunched over with his unicycle- sized sharpening wheel strapped to his back.  Then there are the hurdacı, or junkmen, who push large, flat-bed carts up the cobblestone street calling out "Hurdı!"  which roughly translates as "bring down whatever really heavy crap you want to throw out that the garbage men won't take." 

And of course, there is the Sock Man. "Çoraplar! Çoraplar!"  The morning I saw him, he was offering three colors:  black, blue, and for some unexplained reason, red.  Really? Do you mean to tell me, that I can simply open my window in the morning, and buy socks? Red socks?  This seems like a dream come true to me.  If the underwear man puts Başkürt street on his route, I may never do laundry again.


Take me home, Country Yollar

I've come to the conclusion that we Americans are way too concerned about looking stupid in public.  Not unintentionally acting stupid; we don't seem to have any problem with that.  No, I'm talking about the fear that, by simply having fun and showing it out in the open, people will roll their eyes at us and whisper to others that we are just so, you know: undignified.  As if by making an ass out of ourselves, we will just never, ever be elected student counsel class president as we always dreamed.

This first occurred to me several years ago, as I watched a table of a dozen or so large Austrian people outside of a Tyrolean ski lodge raise their beer mugs and belt out a perfectly horrendous rendition of "Take me Home, Country Roads."  It was the middle of the day. They were not drunk, but smiling and laughing and having fun and looking and sounding ... just so ridiculous.   This was a John Denver song, for God's sake, being sung in bad German/English (Genglish? Gerlish?) smack dab in the middle of lederhosen country.  Did they even know where West Virginia was, or why they would belong there? I was fascinated watching this, thinking I would even be embarrassed to have this song playing on my car radio with the window down, for the fear that someone might pull up along side and ridicule me.  But the Austrians laughed and clinked their glasses and sang at the top of their lungs, and and could have cared less what I thought about it.  You know: they were having fun.

I thought about this again last year, as I spent a week hanging out in some of the finer pubs of Ireland, from Dublin to Galway to Killarney to Cork and back again.  In almost every pub in the evening, there was a musician.  Usually one guy, with a guitar, and a pint of Guinness in front of him.  And he'd sing, and people would sing along, and clap, and stomp their feet, and dance.   After three or four pubs, you know all the songs.  And after three or four Kilkenneys and a shot of Jameson or two, I was singing and clapping and stomping my feet, too.  I'm sure I appeared about as dignified as an Austrian singing a John Denver song, but man! it was fun.

I rediscovered this yet again this week during my first visit to a Turkish music bar.  The crowd at La Fee (located on Fransiz Sokaği, or "French Street") was young and good looking, almost all under 30.  If any people would be concerned about appearances, it would be them.  As in Ireland, on stage was just a guy with a guitar, playing songs that everyone knew (well, every Turkish person knew, anyway).

In America, we treat live music in a bar as background noise, raising our voices to talk over it like it is a screaming baby on an airplane.   In Turkey - at this particular bar on this particular night, at least - the live music is a participatory sport.   People clap.  They pound the table.  They dance.  They sing along like no one is listening.  And if anyone thinks they look or sound stupid, they certainly don't seem to care. 

I have seen this, and I'm telling you, we really need to give it a try.  I know people who will not sing Happy Birthday in public because they are worried that others will not think they are not a good enough singer.  Try to keep in mind: it's Happy Birthday. Not the tryouts for American Idol.   Loosen up, make an ass out of yourself.  Turn up the car radio and dance in your seat at the stoplight.  Tell the next guy you see in a bar with a guitar (if you should ever happen upon one) to play John Cougar Mellencamp, and have everyone join in on the refrain of Jack and Diane.  And sing frickin'  Happy Birthday, for crying out loud.  Life is too short to not occasionally look stupid.

O, Brother Fish

Years ago when I was married, my now ex-wife dragged me to an amateur play, starring, written and directed by the husband of a friend of friend of a coworker (I think).   The play was put on in a barn somewhere outside of Pittsburgh.  The audience sat on haystacks, and the play lasted for what seemed like three and a half days.  I'm pretty sure we were in complete agreement that the play was auspiciously terrible.

If I remember correctly, the play was supposed to tell the story of early native Americans, and how they loved and respected nature.  As the play opens, the actors - portraying a hunting party - pantomime killing a deer.   One of the actors kneels over the ersatz deer, raises his head and arms to the sky, and belts out:  "O, BROTHER DEER!  WE ARE SORRY THAT WE MUST EAT YOU!!"  The deer, still dead and no longer accepting apologies, says nothing. 

This classic line became oft-repeated in the coming years, any time food arrived at the table in a restaurant looking less like food and more like something that until recently had been happily walking, swimming, or flying around.  I repeated it again this week, as I visited one of the countless seafood restaurants of the Balık Pasajı (Fish Passage), off of Istanbul's Istiklal Ceddesi (Independence Avenue).   When you order "Grilled Sea Bass,"  this is exactly what you get:  one sea bass, grilled.   Head, tail, fins, eyes, gaping mouth.   No one is going to fillet this for you, or make it look pretty.  You want grilled sea bass?  Here it is: Fwap!  One grilled sea bass. You want to eat?  Get to work.

"O, BROTHER FISH ...!"

I can report that Brother Sea Bass, God bless him, with a little salt and pepper and lemon juice, was quite tasty.  Like his kindred brother deer, however, he refused to accept my apology for eating him.  

He looked a little pissed, to be honest with you.