Welcome to the Neighborhood, Dumbass

This all started with a simple courtesy phone call from Istanbul Selda.  I'm sure she had no idea that calling to ask how things were going would make me look like a complete idiot and ruin my slippers.


Only a few days before, I had moved to the apartment on Hacı Emin Efendi Street, in the Teşvikeye section of Istanbul.  Istanbul Selda called to ask if I had any questions or problems with the flat.  In the course of the conversation, Istanbul Selda tells me I should go ahead and pay the monthly apartment aidat directly to Sami, the kapıcı.


Sure, I know Sami.  He must be the old man living next door to me. I decide it would be a good idea to go see Sami the Kapıcı and pay the aidat right now, while I'm thinking of it.  I don't want to forget; that would be stupid.  And I wouldn't want to do anything stupid.


For those keeping score at home, you can mark this decision down as Stupid Thing Number 1.


*     *     *     *


I had moved to the apartment in Teşvikeye after being told by my former landlord in the more central area around Taksim that he could make more money renting out my flat in the summer to tourists on a weekly basis than he could by renting to me on the long term.  So, as a favor, he told me, he'd really appreciate it if I could, you know, get the hell out.


What followed was a colorful three-week tour through the medium- to low-end rental apartment market of Beyoğlu, courtesy of a parade of real estate brokers known in Turkish as emlakcı.  Like the barber shops, emlakcı offices are everywhere in Istabul. It's not at all uncommon to see two or three on the same block just a few yards apart.


But unlike barbers, who must necessarily possess some kind of skill in order to stay in business,  being an emlakcı  requires no discernible skill at all, other than hanging a sign in a window.  As evidence of this, the emlakcı often combine their real estate office with  completely unrelated endeavors, resulting in bizarre business hybrids such as "Ahmet's Emlak and Auto Parts," or "Kadir's Emlak and Electrical Supply Store."


With a fee usually equal to one month's rent, running an emlak must be one of the easier ways in Turkey to pocket some extra cash.  Better yet, if you can find an unwitting foreigner, or yabancı, willing to pay thousands of lira for a crappy apartment no self-respecting Turk would ever consider flopping in. 


After being shown a depressing array of unlivable apartments by the emlakcı, I reverted to my American roots and turned to Craigslist, which luck would have it, runs listings from Istanbul.  On Craigslist I came across a listing for the Teşvikiye apartment owned by Selda, and being shown by her cousin, Selda.  


Yes, that's correct: one family, two Seldas. There is the owner, California Selda, who now lives in the East Bay of San Francisco, and her cousin, Istanbul Selda, who lives in Istanbul, but unfortunately no where near the apartment in Teşvikiye.  For this reason, to manage the apartment Istanbul Selda enlists the help of her friend, Hande, who works at a wedding planning business a few blocks away.


I admit that sorting out the cast of characters was confusing.  But as far as I could tell neither Hande nor the Seldas were selling auto parts or running an emlak.


*     *     *     


"This is for the aidat," I'm trying to tell the old man as he stands at his door. "Aidat için!"


"Ne?"
"The aidat! AI-DAT!"


The aidat, I had just recently figured out, is something like a building maintenance fee.  Apparently it is collected by the building kapıcı.  A "kapıcı" -- literally translated -- is a doorman, except that, here at least, the kapıcı neither sits in a lobby nor opens the door.  Let's say the kapıcı does things for tenants of the apartment building.


In theory.


I had figured that the kapıcı  must be the old man living next door to me, in what is essentially the basement.  On my first night here I could hear the sound of a television blaring from what I had previously thought was a vacant storage room just outside my front door.


It turns out the windowless storage room -- furnished with little more than a desk, a cot, and a television set -- in fact is occupied by a Turkish gentlemen, approximately 116 years old.  Judging by the dish-rattling volume of the television, hearing is no longer his strong suit. I assume, of course, that this must be Sami, the building kapıcı.


My assumption about old men living in basements is Stupid Thing Number 2.


Standing at the old man's door and holding out my aidat payment, I am wearing only my slippers for footwear.  The distance from the old man's door to mine is less than five feet, and the process of knocking on the door and handing him a 50 lira bill should have taken all of 20 seconds.


Except that it doesn't, because the old man doesn't seem to understand why I am trying to give him money.  


Stupid Thing Number 3:  Apparently the result of wind or aerodynamics or another physics-related thing beyond my understanding, a draft had been created, with air being sucked through my front door.  This is because, in addition to other ill-considered actions I would later regret, I had left open the rear garden door when I stepped out the front door. 


To pay the aidat.  To the old man in the basement. In my slippers.


When I hear the sickening clap of the wind-sucked front door closing behind me, I pretty much instantly realize Stupid Thing Number 4.  Of course the door locks when you close it.  And of course, I am not carrying my keys.
  
Or my phone. Or my wallet.  


How many stupid things is that now?  I've lost count.


On the positive side, I am wearing pants.


But this isn't a problem, right?  I'm talking to the building kapıcı  and surely the building kapici  has keys to all the apartments.  


"Um, benim anatharim yok.   Bir anathar var mi?"
 I don't have my key, I tell him.  Do you have a key?


"Yok."
"Yok?"  You don't have a key?
"Yok." 


"Yok? Ama ... ne yapabilirim?" I ask him.  What can I do to get back in? He blinks twice and shrugs his shoulders.   


You don't know?  Aren't you the kapıcı?


*     *     *  
Teşvikiye and neighborhing Nişantaşı are basically Istanbul's version of New York's Upper East Side, complete with packs of kids in private-school uniforms, dog-clothing boutiques, and old ladies with blue hair.   While my former neighborhood near Taksim Square had bars, discos, barber shops and used-book stores, Nişantaşı has Ferragamo, Gucci, and the Armani Exchange.  




Many of the high-end store windows have signs written in English, Russian, and Arabic, which tells you a little about where the money is coming from.   One of the luxury clothing stores is actually called "Pissy," which may or may not tell you something about the attitude toward customer service.


Honestly, it's not really my kind of neighborhood.  But compared to the suicide-inducing rat holes I had been shown by the emlakcı in Taksim, the Seldas' place in Tasvikiye was a virtual palace.  Two bedrooms, an office, a patio and garden, a washer, dishwasher, a recliner, and a shaving mirror.   Located in a quiet, disco-less neighborhood with no trash on the street, all for the same emlakcı jacked-up price of a rat hole apartment in Cihangir.  Absent some immediate evidence of poltergeists, the minute I walked into the apartment I knew I was going to take it.


Even with poltergeists, I may have taken it anyway.


*     *     *    


Is there anything that can make you feel stupider than locking yourself out of your own apartment?  Yes, there is.  You can lock yourself out of your own apartment, three days after you moved into it, in a country where you don't really speak the language, when you have to beg for help with a vocabulary just slightly larger than that of the average four-year-old.


Then you can appreciate what stupid truly feels like.


In response to my helpless plea of "What the hell can I do to get back into my apartment?" my centenarian neighbor thinks for a moment, then offers up this advice:  Maybe Sami has a key.


Unless he's reached the point in his life that he now speaks of himself in the third person, whoever this is, this is not Sami.  At least we have straightened that out.


I try to tell him in broken Turkish that I had left the garden door open.  If I can get into the garden, I tell him, I can get back into the apartment.   Not-Sami suggests I ask the next-door neighbor, who surely has the same garden set up I do, just over a possibly scale-able white stucco wall.   We knock on the neighbor's door, and I let Not-Sami explain my predicament. 


The unsmiling woman opens the door just long enough to tell us (I think) that the wall is too high so forget it, before shutting the door again in our faces.


So much for tried and true solution of breaking into your own apartment.  What else have we got?  I turn back to Not-Sami.


Can we call a locksmith, or anatharcı?  I ask.
"Telefon yok."  He doesn't have a phone.


Maybe Sami can call him, he suggests.  Ah yes, Sami again.  So where is Sami, exactly?


Not-Sami keeps pointing to the right and saying something about "yanında." Really, the doorman for the building is next door?   I don't understand.  Not-Sami closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. Obviously tired of trying to explain things to me, he goes back into his windowless room, turns off the TV, puts on his slippers, and leads me upstairs and out the front door.


We look like two Alzheimer's patients, making our escape from the nursing home.  The only thing missing is the bathrobes.


Sure enough, on the building next door there is a bell with Sami's name on it.  No, I would not have looked there.  This may work out fine, after all.  Maybe Sami has a key.  If not, I'm sure Sami can call a locksmith. We ring Sami's bell.


But of course, that would be too easy.  Sami is not home. Sami yok.  Not-Sami turns to me and shrugs again.


The Turks have a very useful phrase, "Allah, Allah," which more or less means, "I can not frigging believe it."


Allah, Allah.  I guess this takes us to Plan C.


I ask Not-Sami if he knows where a locksmith is.   "Anatharcı nerede, biliyor musunuz?"  He points up the street and starts giving me what sound like directions, but I can't  understand what he's telling me.  This street, there? I ask him.   "Bu sokak, şurada?"


That seems to be what he is indicating, but I'm not really sure.  In addition to that, if I go get the locksmith, how will I get back inside?  I don't have a key to the front of the building.  The old man's room in the basement not only doesn't have windows; it doesn't have a front door buzzer, either. 


I ask Not-Sami if he will wait for me while I go look for a locksmith.  I'm taking his blank stare and silence to mean yes, he will.


I go up the block and start running up and down the main street in my slippers, looking for the locksmith.  I see nothing.  Of course, I don't have my glasses, so surely this doesn't help.   I ask a man painting an iron shop railing if he knows where an anatharcı  is.  He doesn't.  He asks another man passing by if he knows where an anatharcı  is.  He doesn't.  


The wandering-the-streets-squinting-at-shop signs-in-the-hope-that-one-will-have-a-giant-lock-and-key-on-it plan doesn't seem to be working out. I run back down the street to my apartment building.  Not-Sami is there waiting for me.


I'm sorry, I don't understand, I say to him.  Tell me again?  Where is the anatharcı?  He gives more incomprehensible directions.  Can you show me? I ask him. Can we go there together?   "Beraber gidebilir, miyiz?"  Not-Sami frowns. I take this as a no. 


Now it's my turn to close my eyes and sigh.  Okay, I tell him.  Let me try again. 


I run down to the corner mantı shop, and ask the nice woman who sold me homemade mantı the day before if she knows where a locksmith is.   She does.  Turn left, go up the street, and across from the school, there is an anahtarcı, she tells me in Turkish.   


For delivering simple directions even I can understand, I almost kiss her.  I leave the mantı shop and again run up the street (and hill) in my slippers.  The school is several blocks away, but across from the school there is indeed an anahatarcı shop.  The shop door is open.  But the locksmith is not in the shop.  No one is in the shop.  Hic kimse yok.   


It is as if a neutron bomb has gone off, vaporizing every locksmith and doorman named Sami within a 10-block radius.


I should have known better.  Of course the anatharcı is not in his shop;  he's out opening up locks for fellow dumbasses in the greater Nişantaşı area who have also locked themselves out of their apartments. 


I've lost count, but I think I'm now up to something like Plan E.  Think, think, think.   


It occurs to me that maybe Istanbul Selda's friend, Hande, has a spare key to the apartment.   I look at the clock in the locksmith shop (I have no watch, either).  It's now about 5:15 p.m.  Hande might have a key, but if she does, she's probably leaving her her office soon. If she's still there. 


Pinning my hopes on Hande, I abandon the anatharcı  shop, and take off running again, this time to Hande's wedding planning salon several blocks away.  I arrive at Hande's shop a few minutes later, sweaty and out of breath. 


The good news is, Hande is still there.  The bad news is, she doesn't have a spare set of keys.  No one does, apparently, except perhaps California Selda.  California Selda unfortunately is 10,000 miles away, in California.  


But Hande does have a suggestion:  Maybe I could get a locksmith to open the door.


I don't know why I didn't think of it, Hande. 


*    *    *


I take off running in my slippers yet again back to the anatharcı.  He is still not there.  I wait, five minutes, then ten.  Still anatharcı yok.  I comfort myself by thinking that, if worse comes to worst, I can spread out a newspaper and spend the night on the floor his office.  All I need is a water dish.


Wait; this is also stupid.  I see the anatharcı does have a business card in the office, which includes the anatharcı's cell phone number.  So I'll just call him.


For that I would need a PHONE.


I grab a business card and run back to the bridal shop.  I have begun to wear holes in the bottom of my slippers.  By the time I arrive Hande has gone home.  Between grasps for breath I throw myself on the mercy of one of the young women still working in the shop, who speaks much better English than I speak Turkish.  Honestly, I'm pretty much beyond the point of being able to figure out how to say "I'm an idiot and locked myself out of my apartment" in any foreign language.  


"Please ... could you ... call this anatharci, explain the ... situation, and ... ask him to meet me at No. 13 ... No. 13 Haci Enem Efendi Sokağı?"


She takes pity on me. I hear her call the anatharcı.  Yes, he's on his way now, she tells me.  He'll meet me there.


I run back to my apartment for the final sprint of the day. Not-Sami of course has long ago given up on me and gone back to the basement. After a few minutes I see a man walking down the street, carrying a tool box.


It is the anatharcı.  I actually bow to him, as if I am receiving a visit from the Dalai Lama.  Of course we still have to get inside the building.  With Sami the Kapıcı still Missing In Action, and Not-Sami back in his buzzer-less basement toolshed apartment, my options are limited.   


I start randomly ringing door buzzers.  After about the third try, someone answers.  "Merhaba.  Um ... daire iki oturiyorum, ama anatharim yok. Um, kapı ... kapı ... açebilir misiniz?"


Whomever has answered gets so tired of listening to me stammer in bad Turkish that they go ahead and buzz us in.  After that, it takes the anatharci exactly 10 seconds to get my apartment door open with a skeleton key.


Thank you so much, I tell the anatharcı. How much do I owe you?  He holds out  5 fingers.  Oh, 5 Turkish Lira?  About three bucks? That's great!


I go into the flat to get my wallet, come back out and hand him a five lira bill.   "No," he says in English.  "Fifty.  Normally 50.  But I charge you only 40."   


I'm in luck! Apparently he's offering a 20 percent, after five o'clock, dumbass discount special.  


Turkey has humbled me, yet again.  I retreat back into the apartment, figuring it might a good idea to stay inside for the rest of the evening.


*    *    *  


The next day I see the old man's door is open as I'm leaving my apartment.   I knock and wave to him through the door opening, and say "thank you" for all of his help.  He smiles and waves back.


I tell him my name and I ask his.  After a couple of attempts, he understands the question.  His name is Emit.


"Menum oldum, Emit."  It's nice to meet you.  Thank you again for everything.  He smiles and waves at me again.


When I return home later that day, Emit's door once again is open.  He sees me in the hall and calls to get my attention. He has something for me.


It is an old-fashioned key-case wallet, the kind my mother probably carried.   I didn't know they still made them.  In fact I'm sure they probably don't.


Emit smiles but offers no explanation, in Turkish or otherwise.  Welcome to the neighborhood, Dumbass.  When you step out the front door, don't forget to carry your keys with you.


And oh, yeah:  You probably also should invest in a new pair of slippers.