Happy New Year from the Panpan Kafe

  I have always believed there are two kinds of people in this world: those who look forward to New Years’ Eve, and those who are content to stay home and find out whether Dick Clark is still allowed to stay up past midnight.

  I myself have always loved the New Year holiday, somehow nearly always stumbling into some memorable New Years’ Eve story, then happily nursing a hangover the following day by watching an endless stream of meaningless college bowl games on TV.  (There's a Tangerine Bowl?  Sure, why not.) As this combines two of my favorite activities – a) drinking, and b) lying on the couch in a semi-catatonic stupor – for me New Years was always something to look forward to.

  I had kept the faith that things would be no different here in Istanbul.  Despite a residence of just two months, I figured I’d get a party invitation from somewhere. But as New Year’s Eve approached, that didn’t seem to be happening. My Turkish language classmates all seemed to be elsewhere ("Snowboarding in Austria!" read Carla’s New Year’s Eve Facebook update) or conspicuously silent ("Hey Christian! What are you doing for New Year’s? Christian? Hello? Is this thing working? Hello?")

  So as a proper reflection of my current life, it would seem I would be on my own to get into some kind of New Year's Eve trouble.   Not too much trouble, of course. I was looking for the This-Will-Make-A-Good-Story variety of trouble. Not the Where-Are-My-Pants?-Help-I-Need-to-Contact-the-Embassy kind of trouble.

 A few days before New Years' Eve, I finally receive a party invitation.  Kind of.

  Just up the hill from my cat-invested neighborhood sits a little cafe/restaurant/bar called the Panpan Turuncu Kafe.  I started eating regularly at Panpan because the food was pretty good (chilled red wine notwithstanding), and there was never any problem getting a table.  In fact, there rarely ever seemed to be anyone else eating there at all.  Three young guys appeared to be the owners, and anyone else in the place always seemed to know the owners, like they were just hanging out in their living room.  There was one employee: a middle-aged waiter, routinely dressed in a maroon sweater stretched out by an over sized belly.  The waiter always seemed happy to see me, as if now that I was here, he finally he had something to do.  I wasn't just a regular; I was the regular.

  In the Italian neighborhood of Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn where I lived for ten years, there was a "business" on Court Street referred to as Da Plant Stoua.  This "plant store" had about six plants in the front window that had been there so long there was dust on the leaves.  No one actually ever bought a plant from The Plant Store, but plenty of guys from da neighba-hood would hang out there, to get together, talk and, you know, look at plants.

  I had to begun to wonder if Panpan might be a Turkish version of Da Plant Stoua, and I was the only one in the neighborhood too stupid to realize it.  But like one of the neighborhood strays, I'd keep coming back as long as they'd keep putting out food for me.  When the waiter invited me to come to Panpan for New Years Eve,  I figured if nothing else it would make a good story.  At the very least it would save me from sitting alone in my basement apartment with the TV remote, searching channels for the Turkish-version of New Year's Rockin' Eve.

  The invitation, however, was not without its complications. Everyone in Turkey had given me the same piece of advice regarding New Year’s Eve: whatever you do, don’t go to Taksim. On New Year’s Eve, bad things happen in Taksim. "Çok tehlikeli!" (It’s very dangerous). Too many people. Too many drunk people. Too many drunk people throwing flammable objects for no particular reason. The image I was getting was somewhere between Times Square (where no self-respecting New Yorker would ever go for New Year’s Eve, by the way) and a Brazilian soccer riot. So whatever you do on New Year’s Eve, I was told again and again, just don’t go to Taksim. Anywhere but Taksim.  Taksim yok! Got that?

The Panpan, of course, sits in the heart of Taksim, steps away from Taksim Square, where one easily could be crushed to death by throngs of humanity on a normal business day,  just waiting for a bus.  So of course, despite the repeated warnings, this meant there was only one place I could go on New Year’s Eve.   Tehlikeli, schmehlikeli. So there would be a lot of drunks in the street.  Chances were good that I could avoid being trampled, right?  This would be like Pamplona, but instead of the Running of the Bulls, this would be the Running of the Drunks.   If I didn’t go out wearing a red bandana, I figured I could probably make it to Panpan without being gored.

The scene at Taksim Square about 10:30 p.m. on New Year's Eve,  however, is surprisingly sedate.  Frankly, I've seen more drunks at a Sunday afternoon Yankees' game.   A steady rain has been falling all night, perhaps keeping the drunks off the streets and in the bars, or at least sobering them up when they venture outside.  Street vendors are working hard to sell off their New Year's Eve paraphernalia, which oddly enough for muslim Turkey, includes Santa Claus Hats. 

I buy one, of course, and pose for a photo before a light display that looks suspiciously like a Christmas tree.

   A few fireworks go off prematurely.  People clap politely.  Disappointed by the lack of promised anarchy, I head off to Panpan to count down to midnight.

 Arriving at Panpan I see they have managed to fill up the room with 30 or 40 people of what appear to be family friends and, uh, business associates.   One table of ten includes two teenagers and three kids under 6.  A young man is playing the guitar, singing Turkish songs that have been requested by being written on paper napkins.

   Like the crowd outside, the gathering at Panpan is polite and well behaved.  No one but me is wearing a Santa Hat.

 The waiter greets me warmly ("the regular is here!")  and seats me at the bar next to two large men in ill-fitting leather jackets.  One of the owners recognizes me, shakes my hand, and asks what I'd like to drink.  "What kind of beer do you have?"  I ask him in Turkish.   Hmm, beer. Beer ... He kneels down and searches under the bar, like he is at home looking in the fridge for a forgotten jar of maraschino cherries or kosher dills.  Yes, three variety of beers, he announces.  He seems happily surprised, as if relieved that someone remembered to order the beer props.

  At every family gathering there is always one crazy relative who makes a scene.  Think Fredo's blonde-haired floozy wife in "The Godfather, Part II."   While no one is yet dancing, a middle-aged, oval-shaped woman who appears to be about four and a half feet tall now gets up and begins a dance that looks something like a Turkish version of the Macarena.   Whatever she is doing is completely out of sync with the guitar player's music, making me wonder if this is not actually a dance but instead some kind of involuntary seizure.   It's as if someone walked off the set of the "Wizard of Oz" and dropped acid. Those at the tables nearby ignore Crazy Aunt Freda and continue eating. 

 People are drinking a glass of wine or rakı here or there, but not very much.  Back at the bar, I'm doing my best to take up the slack.  As it gets closer to midnight, things begin to pick up a bit.  Everyone recognizes the Turkish songs that are being sung, and begin to clap and sign along.  Dancing starts.  As my burly bar stool mates are now clapping, I start clapping too, just to keep everybody happy.  I'm not looking for the piss off the big guys in leather jackets at the bar kind of trouble, either.

  As midnight comes, I am struck by two thoughts: a) there is no champagne anywhere in sight, and b) any kiss I get is going to be really uncomfortable. And yes, as is customary in Turkey, it turns out I do get kisses. From the men. One on each cheek. Happy New Year!

Almost immediately after midnight, the party starts to break up, as if everyone needs to get home to let the dog out and put the kids to bed. If there is debauchery going on in Istanbul on New Year's Eve, it is happening in another bar. I thank my hosts, shake hands, put my Santa Hat back on, and walk back out into the rain-soaked hoards of Taksim. I am wet, but happily neither trampled nor gored.

 I walk home by a back street, and - miraculously - find a baklava shop open on New Year's Eve at one in the morning.   Admittedly not trouble in the conventional sense, but I will accept this as a substitute.  And surely this will come in handy lying on the couch the on New Year's Day.  With a few pieces of baklava and a Santa Hat, I guess I can learn to live without the college football.