Living in Abstract: September 2005

I hardly recall any women in Istanbul, only men. Men, boys, gentlemen, stalkers and cat callers. I felt like the prettiest girl in Istanbul, I felt like the only girl in Istanbul. And I’m not going to lie, the buzz was incredible. In Istanbul, I took on the countenance of someone who knows that they are pretty and knows that they can get what they want from it. And it’s true, I could get what I wanted from it. Deeply discounted souvenirs in the markets, a free taxi ride to the airport, and tea, lots and lots of tea. It was empowering, it felt slightly dangerous and I loved it.

Everyone warned me, everyone besides the one person whom I actually knew that lived there, that Istanbulu men were very forward. I was told stories of blondes being forced to dye their hair brown and of women groped in the street. For my three weeks in the southern half of Europe during August, I packed long sleeves just for the city of men, whom I was told, didn’t take no for an answer…or whatever no is in Turkish.

I should have listened to my Turkish friend when she said “Istanbul is a very European city, don’t worry.” Not that I was worried, I just wanted to be prepared. I’m like a boy scout but sexier. Luckily, my Armenian and Italian genes allowed me to blend in relatively easily with the crowd. Often on the streets, I would be spoken to in Turkish before my bewildered eyes gave me away. Genetics along with my ipod allowed me to avoid the incessant calls of the street vendors but believe me, the men of Istanbul have ways of getting your attention.

Decorum dictates age before beauty so I’ll begin with Mehfit. I kindly, older, Turkish man, Mehfit was the manager of the hostel where I was staying. He called himself a fisherman. Everyday he would go to the train and bus stations waiting for backpackers to arrive. When he spotted one he would cast his net, trying to catch them and bring them back to the hostel. In 1976 he cast his net and caught Jan, a German with a weakness for cigarettes, travel and a propensity towards the morose. Jan is still at the hostel. He leaves occasionally, sometimes for months, but he always comes back. I met Mehfit and Jan on the roof terrace my first evening in the city. I went up there to sit and watch the sunset as I wrote in my journal. Jan and Mehfit were up there to chain smoke and eat melon and olives. Mehfit came stooped and shuffling over to my table where he placed a slice of melon in front of me. It was the sweetest, coldest, most perfect piece of melon you have ever tasted so, of course, I struck up a conversation. Mehfit told me the tale of how he caught Jan and Jan told me about how the five star hotel around the corner used to be a prison he had the pleasure of staying for 6 weeks in 1964. Everyday thereafter I smiled at the older Turk and chatted politely as I headed off into the city for sightseeing. Everyday that is until the last day, when I saw his little brown head start to rise over the wall of my shower. A cry of “MEHFIT!” sent him running and my final day in Istanbul was spent watching him scurry around a corner every time he saw me.

The men of Istanbul learn young that it is the way of the Turkish man to woo a woman in any way they can. On Monday the 5th of September I went with my hostel buddy Tom to the Prince’s Islands; a group of tiny islands in the middle of the Balkan about an hour‘s ferry ride from Istanbul. I was anxious to get out of the city for the day and Tom was up for anything as long as he didn’t have to plan it. Tom left me on the island of Büyükada, the largest of the four adalar, to catch his bus to Cappadocia (which he didn’t make but that is besides the point) at three and I meandered around the small (read: miniscule) town nestled in the harbour of Büyükada alone. I stopped in a Turkish pizza shop on the main thoroughfare for dinner and had, you guessed it, Turkish pizza. My waiter was attentive and not a little bit cute so I smiled and chatted and he brought me apple tea in a tiny glass from shop down the street; I dropped two sugars in and it tasted like dessert. I sat for an hour writing in my journal then said goodbye to the cute waiter and left, making sure to sneak a glance back over my shoulder. He was watching me go. I resisted the urge to run back to ask him where he lived and if he would show me. Maybe I should have.

I walked to the quay and sat watching Istanbulus on day trips from the city feed sunflower seeds to the pigeons. There was still an hour to go until the ferry came to bring me back to the city, so I decided to treat myself with some cherry vanilla ice cream from the crowded boardwalk stand. The pimply teenager behind the counter stumbled over his English as he smiled at me, trying to remember the names for the flavours. He asked me where I was from and repeated my words, “American, New York” as he turned his head to look out across the water. I said goodbye and turned to go but he called me back and asked me my name. “Jennifer” I said. He again repeated what I had said with the same look of wonderment on his face. I could almost see the faces of Hollywood Jennifers parade across his mind as he said my very American name. He turned back and breathlessly declared, “You are very beautiful.” I smiled, told him thank you and walked back toward the ferry dock.

I sat on the side of the ferry that would catch the sun as it set over the domes of the mosques in Sultanahmet. Sitting next to me were two American girls who looked like they were staying in Jan’s five star prison and not in somewhere like my 25lira a night hostel. On the other side of me were two Turkish boys who started to whisper fervently to each other after I sat down. I kicked myself for choosing the seat between the Hilton cast-offs and the boys who I knew were going to try and speak to me. After some animated mediations the boys turned to me and said “Hi.” “Hello.” I said and looked away trying not to invite further chatter; it was a long ferry ride after all. I didn’t succeed.

Their English was very poor so they asked me if I spoke Turkish and looked deeply depressed when I said no. The more daring boy next to me pointed to himself and said “Emra.”, then pointed at me.
“Jennifer.” I said and just like the boy in the ice cream shop, his eyes glazed over. He whispered, “Jennifer… Jennifer Lopez.” I burst out laughing. The most famous Jennifer in the world is apparently New York’s own Jenny from the block. Every 15 minutes Emra and his friend’s intense debates would lead to them asking me another question. “How old?”
“24, you?” They were 19 and 20.
“Where you live?”
“New York. You?”
“Taksim.”
“You have boyfriend?”
“Yes.” (lie) “He is in New York.” (double lie). After this, all conversation halted but before we parted, they gave me a small purple flower that they had picked on the island. They had seen me writing in my journal and wanted me to press it between the pages. I still have the flower and its silky bright petals remind me of how the sun sparkled that day on the bright blue waters of the Balkan and how two young boys fought so hard to talk to me.

My very last night in Istanbul I spent trying to find a hotel to stay at in Madrid, where I was embarking for very early the next morning. Attached to the hostel I was staying at was a travel agency that booked tours for the hostel guests. In the travel agency worked Chevvy. He owned a bunch of travel websites that organized tours for business people and four months out of every year, he left his small town in Oregon for his homeland of Turkey to work in the travel agency. That night he came into the hostel looking for his friends to share a glass of raki with, instead he found me.

I had noticed him immediately upon arrival at Stone Hostel. Chevvy had an easy smile, dark eyes that shined when he laughed and was undeniably handsome. On the roof the evening I met Jan and Mehfit, I was introduced to Chevvy just as I had gotten up to go to bed. He asked me if I was Turkish and I confessed that it was the Armenian and Italian in me. He didn’t look uncomfortable the same way other Turks had when I mentioned my Armenian heritage. Instead, he smiled, nodded his head and said “Yes, that’ll be it.”

I sat at the computer in the front room of the hostel with my chin in my hand scrolling through hotel listings trying to find someplace close to the Prado that was relatively clean and cheap. “Hey there, what are you doing?” Chevvy asked me shaking me from my stupor.
“Trying to find a place to stay in Madrid, but it’s not working out so well.”
He asked me what I had found then set down his bag and told me to wait there; he would look through the listings in the agency to see if he could find me something.
He came back after 20 minutes unsuccessful and apologized. He said if I had told him earlier he would have found a place for me. I thanked him for the effort and told him I had faith that something would turn up. And that’s where we stayed for the next four hours; me turned around at the computer not looking up hotels and him sitting at the table next to me not drinking with his friends but talking about America, spicy cheetos, Jack Daniels, Italy, travelling and taking advantage of being young. At midnight he asked me how old I was as we looked into each other’s eyes across the table. “24.” “Still so young,” He said. “I would still be travelling if I were that young, but now I’m married and have to work.”
Married. “Well, its midnight, I should get to sleep; I have to wake up in 4 hours. Goodnight Chevvy.”
He gave me his card and said to keep in touch. For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to stay there with him, until he too got up to leave and find his friends for that nearly forgotten drink of raki.

There are the ones who stop dead in the street to stare and there are the ones that follow you, sometimes for miles, until you covertly loose them outside a police station. There are the tea sellers who kiss your hand as they slip their card into your pocket and there are the bag sellers with whom you flirt for discounts and ask you to go dancing- which you regretfully decline. And then there are those few with whom it might have been, if this was another time in Istanbul.

September 3rd

Today I walked in the rain in Istanbul and the heavens opened up. Thunder clapped and lightening struck over the dome of Hagia Sophia. It wasn't a warm rain, but a cool one that I knew signalled the beginning of the end for the summer. I was on my way with Tom, a Spainiard stopping in Istanbul on his way home from Thailand, to the Spice Market on a hunt for fake Levi jeans.

Next to the Spice Market is the New Mosque.

Only in Istanbul would a 15th century building be called new.

After buying Tom's knock-off jeans, we sat in a tea shop in the middle of the Grand Bazzar whiling away the afternoon talking and drinking chay.

The orange light of the sunset against the crumbling mosque across the street from my hostel.

September 4th

Today was my alone day. I didn't tell anyone where I was going, I simply left in the morning and began my grand meander.

I stumbled across Süleyman the Magnificent's mosque behind Istanbul University and marvelled at its beautiful simplicity.

I tied my hair back and sat quietly on the prayer mats.

The courtyard.

Süleyman and his wife.

Hmmmm, or is that him? Maybe these are relatives.

Inside Rustem Pasa Camii (Camii = Mosque). A small mosque where the search for the entrance led me down a dark alley filled with men on the ground selling dirty clothes.

I quickly snapped this picture as I was being followed by a strange man for about a mile. My plan was to go and hide in the church but the gates were locked. This is St. Stephen's church. Built by the Bulgarians in 1871 and made entirely out of cast iron.

Another quick snap of a very Byzantine looking house, but I couldn't take a closer look as I was still being tailed. Apparently my mission had been compromised.

The remains of a grand Byzantine palace, Tekfur Sarayi. It was amazing and right next door was a market selling doves and pigeons. I wanted to venture in but there were only men perusing the birds, typical.

Inside Kariye Camii or Chora Church, the one real must of the day's agenda.

I couldn't help but laugh at the old people being led around by tour guides who had absolutely no clue what they were talking about.

I cringed in the market outside as I heard a loud mouthed New Yorker complain about the price of coffee, telling the shop keeper how cheap it is in America. Maybe there is a reason for that, ya think?

In the market outside I bought a beautiful hand painted pot for Sea for her birthday.

I took the long way home, through the neighborhoods. The buildings are amazing. Most are crumbling but they have this majestic beauty about them. You can tell that once the houses were grand palaces. I marveled at the brightness of their colour.

Children playing with very real looking fake guns in the street. The neighborhood streets are alive with shouting and laughter. At no time did I feel unsafe and smiled at my luck of being lost.

All day I looked for this, the Aqueduct of Valens. Once I stopped looking, I found it.

Home again.

I went searching for the traditional Baltic music festival but instead found this, a Turkish rock concert between the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia. It was pretty good, I found myself swaying my hips as I listened.