Istanbul Again, Part 2: New Gig, New Coworkers

I didn’t know what to expect dance-wise when I came back to Istanbul after being away for six months, but as it happened, I received a call last Wednesday from the owner of a venue in oh-so-chic Etiler. I started performing on Saturday and will be there for the next five weeks, which is when I go to the US for five glorious weeks, a trip of which the management is not yet aware.

I’ve performed at this venue before, including filming a video advertisement for them in the fall of 2012. They’ve since moved to a new location, with a bigger stage and a nicer dressing room. They’ve had a complete overhaul of entertainers, and one of the new ones is a zenne, or male belly dancer. (Name withheld.)

I’ll admit, he didn’t make the best first impression on me. When he started to light a cigarette backstage, I suggested sweetly that we not smoke in our small, shared dressing room, and although he protested, he put out the the cigarette. When I thanked him, he replied with a snooty, “Evet” (“Yes”) instead of saying “You’re welcome” or similarly appropriate remark.

I’ve found that with stuck up dancers, the best method is to be kind and complimentary, but not disingenuous. This worked well and fairly quickly with him. As he was the veteran dancer (I’d actually performed there before him, but he’d performed most recently and regularly), I made no protest as he planned the dancer order (dancers have artistic freedom there), and he seemed to relax and warm up to me after that. He quickly went from obnoxious to adorable. He even gave me a nickname “kara kız”–dark girl, which used to to describe a girl with dark skin, dark hair, or dark eyes, all of which I have, and no, I didn’t find it offensive, at least not coming from him.

He was having a lover’s spat with his boyfriend, a married man with two kids, who had apparently lied to him about going out drinking the previous night. He told me all about it. It seemed this incident was the last straw in their relationship. I put on my makeup and prepared to perform as he regaled me with stories about his lover.

My performance went well, but due to a DJ who was uninitiated in the art of spinning for a dancer, and an awkward ascent to the stage (there was no clear path through the audience, so my entrance was less than grand), it wasn’t perfect. Still, everyone seemed to rather like it, including my new gbff, the zenne. He performed after me.

I rarely say this about a Turkish dancer or a male belly dancer, but he was phenomenal. From his perfectly toned little body and to his precise technique and beautifully executed choreography, he gave my favorite zenne, a dancer called Diva, a run for his money. He danced as though he had been trained by Didem Kınalı, Turkish belly dancer extraordinaire. Usually, I wouldn’t approve of such a blatant resemblance to another dancer’s style, but his technique and stage presence were so superb, I couldn’t help but to enjoy his performance immensely. Not only was he an incredible dancer, he was also an accomplished seamstress–he’d made his own costume. Creative and thrifty, too–the costume was made from an evening gown of his sister’s.

So, he dances beautifully, he choreographs, he sews, he’s funny, he’s gorgeous, he’s fit, and he’s charming. When he came back to the dressing room and asked me what I’d thought of his performance, I could honestly tell him that I loved it.

At one point, he picked up his phone, and spoke into it using a speak-to-text feature to compose the final message he would to send to the lover who’d betrayed him. He then turned the phone to me and another dancer and had us check the text before he sent it off. As it turns out, he’s illiterate. He’s 24, and as smart and talented as he is, he’s never learned to read and doesn’t care to at this point. I was shocked! Reading and writing give me so much pleasure and convenience, I couldn’t imagine my life without literacy.

Right before we parted for the night, his phone rang. He told the person calling that because of the noise and the rush to get to his next gig, he was unable to talk and would return the call soon. Then he looked at me and winked. “Benim yeni kocam,” he said. My new husband.

I absolutely love the guy! I hope he’ll be happy with his new man.

Istanbul Again-Part 1: The Police Incident

Life in Istanbul has more highs and lows than life in Alanya.  I returned to the city early on a Saturday morning, just over two weeks ago.  Makbul, the lifesaver who managed my apartment was there to greet me and help me unpack when I arrived home at 8:30 am.

I was enjoying the comfort and charm of my apartment the following Sunday afternoon, when I heard voices in the hall followed shortly by a knock on my door.  I wasn’t expecting anyone, and I opened the door to what seemed like a bunch of men who appeared not to know where they meant to go or who they wanted to see.  I was annoyed at having been disturbed and acted accordingly when I greeted them.

“Who lives above you?” they asked.  I told them that the unit above me was unoccupied.  They also wanted to know who lived on the ground floor and in the basement.  I explained to them that there was a vacant apartment in the basement, and on the ground floor lived a man and his mother.  Then they wanted to know who lived in my apartment.  Nosy bunch.

“Why?” I asked, now feeling cautious in addition to irritated.

“We’re the police!”  (They were loud.)  One of them shoved a badge into my face.  “Where’s your passport?  What’s your name?  Who lives here?  Where do you work?”  They fired questions at me.

Ever the insubordinate, I asked them why they wanted to know.

“There’s been a complaint,” one of them said.  “Where’s your passport?”

“Who complained?  I don’t know where my passport is.”

“What about your rental contract?  Stop talking,” one of them shouted.  “Show us something.  You don’t have a passport.  Kaçaksın!”  (“You’re illegal!)  One of the officers, the one with the creepy Turkish/porno star mustache, was a total jackass.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you.  I’ll have to find it.”  I closed the door in their faces, just in time to hear one of them say, “Don’t close the door.”  Whatever.

I was acting defiantly, but it was definitely unnerving to have them there, particularly because I may or may not have been guilty of another infraction or two, the evidence of which I quickly handled as they waited in the dim hallway.  In my frenzy, I could only find my residency permit and a photocopy of my passport.  My passport and rental agreement were of course both in the house, but I couldn’t remember where I’d stored them, and I wanted these men off of my threshold as soon as possible, so I suggested we take a jaunt up the hill to the real estate agent who’d set me up in the place.  It turns out he was good for more than just pressuring me to sign papers and lying about the property–he vouched for me.  Apparently, one of my lovely neighbors had alleged to the police that someone in my building had been using the place as a pension for guests.  (Ok, so maybe I had had a select few guests during the time I was in Alanya in exchange for a bit of monetary compensation.  So what?)  The real estate agent explained to the police that I had been living there for several months and was indeed a legitimate resident of the building.

Satisfied that I was telling the truth, they finally had me sign some papers and went on their way.

Imagine, though, if they’d come just two days earlier?  They’d have met the Dutch couple that had headed out just 36 hours before!

After I’d settled back into my apartment and caught my breath, some tax officers came to finish up their part of the investigation.  As I spoke to them in front of my building, a man leaning against a car nearby stared at us, openly intrusive.

“Is he with you?” I asked the tax officers.

“No, don’t worry about him.”

As the meddlesome man continued to stare, I asked, “Can I help you, you curious bastard?” (I didn’t actually call him that.)

“If you want to know why it concerns me,” he said, approaching me with a look of loathing, “I’m the one who made the complaint!”

I smirked inwardly.  Not this time, dear neighbor.

Yoga love in Alanya

I wanted to share this photo; I like it a lot:

 It was taken by a weirdo at the park.  He seemed like a bit of a pervert, but when he saw me propping up my camera phone with timer against my water jar and offered to take the picture, I said, sure, why not?

We’re nearly a third into October, which means I’m on the home stretch of my time in Alanya.  I have really enjoyed the experience and will miss many things about life here, but I must say, I’m getting quite antsy to leave!

On the other hand, I’m not sure what I’ll do next.

I’ve changed, as people do, over the past several months living and working in Alanya.  Probably the most significant change I’ve undergone is developing and maintaining a daily yoga practice.  I’ve had an on-again, off-again, under-appreciative relationship with yoga for a very long time, but this time, it’s true love.

Belly Dance Booty Blooper

Normally, I double check everything before hitting the stage, but last night, my coverup was on and my shoes were buckled, and somehow, something slid past “son kontrol”–final inspection.

After my dramatic entrance on to stage, (in a palanquin, no less),

and my regal dismissal of the two strapping young men who carry me onto said raised stage, I proceeded with my show as always.

It wasn’t until midway through my first song–after plenty of turns and spins–that I noticed the jewelry seller out in front waving urgently to get my attention. My skirt was unzipped in the back!

I’d flashed everyone.

What could I do but quickly zip it, chuckle a bit, shrug it off, and keep dancing?

Nothing, so that’s what I did.

Oryantal Lara’s Detox in Paradise?

When I asked my friend Eli, who studied psychology in school and taught in the classroom adjacent to me when I was a teacher at Bosphorus International Preschool, if she thought I was “too self-absorbed” she replied that the mere fact that I was concerned about being too self-absorbed was proof that I was not.

Whew, what a relief, because I do talk about myself quite a lot.

I love my life and I find it exciting. I want to share it with people, and I want them to love their lives as much as possible, too.

I’m always touched, quite pleased, and, more often than not, surprised when someone tells me that I’ve inspired them to do or try something that enriches their happiness, goals, or well-being. It’s true, though, that I’m a bit of an evangelist for living your best life.

I’ve had five guests (friends and family) come stay with me in Alanya on the beach, for anywhere from a long weekend to a few weeks, and four of them mentioned that their time here felt like a detox. One quit smoking cigarettes during her two week stay! (I can’t take credit for that–that’s amazing!) I was thrilled when my mother joined me in practicing yoga while she was here, and I was really excited to hear which of the postures helped to ease a sore spot on her hip/lower back area.

When it comes to food, I prefer to eat all my meals at home and I find it liberating that with the right ingredients and tools, I can prepare most anything I’d like. I became a conscious (can be interpreted as snobby, odd) eater, far before I became an avid cook, and I’m so glad I finally discovered how enjoyable and satisfying it is to make your own healthy, delicious food. Guest number one, a Japanese belly dancer who lives in Istanbul, was always peeking into my pots and pans and blender with curiosity, and guest number five, another former coworker of mine from my school teaching days in Istanbul, said that staying with me was like “having a free cookery lesson”. My sister, who stayed here only nine days, exercised at the open air community gym across the street and jogged around the neighborhood, dropping seven pounds she’d gained after an injury sustained while completing a marathon earlier this year. Seven pounds in nine days! And it’s not like we weren’t eating a LOT. When I have company, a large portion of my day is spent preparing healthy (and delicious!) food and sharing meals with them. Plus, my mother was preparing us delightful dishes, too. What a treat! When I’m alone, I tend to eat more simply, but no less healthily.

My guests went away saying they felt lighter, healthier, more relaxed, had “the digestion of a two year old”, and were expressing plans to “cook more”, “eat more healthy foods”, try this or that recipe at home, or that they might continue eating a vegan diet after they left me. Another two of them were able to go without coffee and played with the idea of not picking up the habit again once they returned home.

I’m in a unique position to enjoy life easily because I really like my job–I absolutely love performing on stage, and the stage on which I dance, the venue that houses it, and the people who work around it are all mostly wonderful, and the benefits and hours are great. What’s more, I don’t work every day–we’re only open three or four days a week–so I don’t get burned out from “too much of a good thing”. Since I perform in the evenings, I have the chance to spend the days relaxing, trying to achieve a yogic handstand (it’s nearly in sight!), cooking, reading, writing, visiting with my neighbors in the garden or our cafe, or teaching yoga to the kids who follow me around the condominium complex. There’s also always the pool downstairs, or the beach, which is just across the underpass from the garden. Nights that I don’t work are spent doing more of the same.

Still, it’s taken me awhile to reach this level of job satisfaction. I’ve held a lot of occupations, walked out of jobs in high dudgeon more than twice, and even (gasp!) been fired from a position I didn’t want, before getting to this point. With a brother who’s a former investment banker and now owns his own event productions company in Hong Kong, a sister who, after leaving her job as a big-time attorney in favor of being a chic mom, returned to work not as a lawyer, but as a high-end realtor, and second sister who formerly worked for a member of congress and as a middle school math teacher, then went on to found a tutoring company and publish a book on GRE math, it kind of runs in my family to maintain our sanity by doing what we were meant to do.

While I’m enjoying where I am in life right now, I also have big goals for the future. I want to grow as a dancer, one day becoming as good as the dancers I most admire. And while I love performing in Turkey (and Cyprus and Greece and Montenegro, as occasional opportunities have popped up over the past two and a half years), there are many beautiful performance stages in many countries, and I’d like to dip my toes into the sea of them! Another of my longer-term goals is to give workshops internationally, and all over the US. There’s something rewarding about teaching to dedicated dancers that I’ve only rarely had the pleasure of experiencing. This is something you only get better at over time. It takes a lot of performances and a lot of teaching to get to the “master teacher” level. I often think that once I become tired of (and before I become too old for) performing full-time for public audiences, I’d like to travel the world giving specialized workshops at festivals and intensives into my middle age and far beyond. After all, one of the most incredible teachers I’ve had whispered to me that she was “older than pantyhose”, and she continues to sharing her knowledge with dancers on several continents.

But enough about my dance goals. One of my guests (hi, Julia!) came up with the loveliest suggestion during her stay. “Why not host retreats for people to detox and recharge?” My mother chimed in–“You can get them into a healthy lifestyle. They could do yoga and eat vegan food. . .” and “You’d do it in a tropical place, like this, where they could swim in the sea and relax.” And of course, “I’d come every year!”

The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. I like to help people, it feels good. I love traveling to exotic places. I’m quite the hostess–I used to run a guest house, after all. And I know (and love) healthy tasty food and desserts, sharing yoga, and treating oneself and one’s body kindly. So. . . What else do you need for such a retreat? Clients, I guess. Anything else?

My Run-in with a Turkish “Gentleman”

As flight tickets would have it, my mother, during her return from Alanya to Washington, DC, would have to a) spend the hours between midnight to six am alone at the Istanbul airport, or b) leave Alanya earlier in the day prior to her flight out of Turkey, spend the afternoon and evening relaxing in the home of friends of mine in Istanbul, then head to the airport rested for her six am flight.

I chose Option B for her, then, realizing that her departure would fall on my day off from work, decided to accompany her on her flight to Istanbul, briefly visit with friends, see her off on her journey home, and pick up a few things from my Istanbul apartment.

We took public transportation from the airport, and after making my way through the turnstile to the tramway, I realized I didn’t have enough money on my fare card for my mom to pass through, too. I handed her the card and a 20 lira note, directing her to one of the nearby machines to add money to the card. Since I was nearby, but on the other side of the gate, a young, fat-bellied bald man in a short T shirt took it upon himself to take the card and the money and “help” my mother add the fare to the card at the machine. We didn’t really need his help, but Turkish people are often helpful, so it wasn’t an odd gesture. Suspiciously enough, this guy didn’t know how to work the machine. (Why offer to help, then?) I ended up telling him in Turkish where to put the card, how to introduce the money into the slot, etc. He was chauvinistically ignoring me and trying to force the card into the money slot. Moron.

Finally, he succeeded in loading the money into the card. Instead of returning the card to my mother, he flashed it at the turnstile and gestured for my mother to walk through. Then he flashed it again and walked through himself. Oh, HELL NO!

I got loud. A security guard who’d witnessed the scene came over and reprimanded the bald fatty, telling him to give the young lady (me) her money. The offender got belligerent and disrespectful, telling the security guard to butt out and go “do his job” and that he was going to give me the money for his fare. Luckily, the security guard remained until the get-over artist went into his wallet and handed me a 10 lira note. I looked in my wallet. The smallest bill I had was a 50. I took his 10, and gave him the two coins I had in my wallet. (The correct change would have been eight lira.)

“This is all I have. You should have asked before you used my card.”

He was pissed! It was his own fault. “Give me my change!” he demanded. “You are wrong!” he exclaimed. I told him that if I had had it, I would have given it to him, but I didn’t, so he needed to leave me alone.

I linked arms with my mom, and together we crossed the platform to wait for the tram. He approached us a moment later in a last ditch effort to get a measly five lira from me. I backed up defensively. He told me not to be afraid. (This mofo is crazy!)

“I’m human, you’re human. It’s wrong of you to keep my change.” He was trying a new approach.

I reiterated what I’d said before, speaking to him as though he were a naughty, irritating, and stupid child. (Which he did, in fact, resemble.)

Then my mother and I hopped on our tram and enjoyed the free ride.

Dance Life

After long post-New Year’s hiatus during January and most of February, my performance schedule started to pick up toward the third week of February, starting with my show in Van, then the listening party for a pop singer called Arman, where I performed with incredible percussionist Bünyamin Olguncan, and some other great musicians at Ghetto Music Lounge.  (Don’t ask me why it’s called that, but it’s a cool place.)

This Friday and Saturday past, I performed with Besidos, the Balkan-gypsy-pop quartet of Germany in their shows at Nublu Istanbul.  It was so much fun!  Here’s a video from Saturday:

Yesterday was pretty cool, too.  I, along with 29 other dancers, performed an oryantal choreography in a music video for Israeli singer Dudu, to be released this summer in Israel.  We also had to sing a bit.  In Hebrew!  The filming took place in a beautiful hotel on the Bosphorus in the Tarabya area of Istanbul and lasted allllllll day.  I met some cool dancers, and a few weird ones, too.

So much fun!  What’s next?

Hey, old maid! Thoughts on aging and Turkey.

Turkish people have a unique perspective on aging.  Here in Istanbul, it’s common for couples to marry in their early or mid-20s, and begin having children shortly after that.  An unmarried woman who’s in her late 20s might receive this “charming” comment: “Evde kaldın artık.”  Literally, it translates as, “You’ve stayed at [your parents’] home”, but the meaning is: “You’re an old maid.”

My (Turkish) dentist once told me that Turkish people don’t take very good care of themselves.  Of course, there are exceptions to this rule, but I have observed that most men have begun to develop a “Turkish balcony” (fat belly) by the time they reach 27 or so, and I also understand (I received this information during the same conversation with said dentist) that the average age for full dentures in this country is 40.  When I mentioned to a friend that I hoped to have all my same teeth for the rest of my life, she and her adult son laughed heartily.  They genuinely thought I was joking, as though this were an impossible goal.  Further, and rather unfortunately, it’s more common to smoke cigarettes here than to not smoke.  A lot of my acquaintances here also visit the tanning booths, and I don’t know anyone here who uses sun cream, except maybe on a day at the beach.

I know that aging, and all that comes with it, is difficult for people everywhere.  Even I, who happily entered my flirty thirties this past June, felt a bit wistful when I looked into the mirror at age 27 and realized I no longer looked 16.  Still, when my baby-faced friend was moaning about “getting old” on her 22nd birthday, it was hard not to roll my eyes.  Actually, I’m pretty sure I did roll my eyes, and then, like a crotchety old woman, I probably lectured her, saying something like, “Please!  Stop wasting your youth mourning your youth.”

Here in Turkey, 55 is old.  65 is ancient.  When I told someone my mother’s age, he asked if she could still walk and get around easily.  What?  Walk?!  My mother can touch her toes without bending her knees.

The contractor working in my apartment building is one of the exceptions to this early aging phenomenon.  While he did marry young and have two children well before 30, he doesn’t look any older than he is.  At forty, he’s divorced, fit as a fiddle, has never smoked cigarettes, and drinks only the occasional beer.  He looks pretty good, actually.  I even admit to checking him out while he was moving my refrigerator.  But guess what?  He certainly wasn’t checking me out.  He thought I was a university student, a few years older than his son.  Instead, he had a crush on my friend, who was visiting me from the United States.  She’ll be 50 next month!

Youth is fleeting, and I certainly take precautions now to preserve mine, but life is a gift at every stage, and since aging is inevitable, why not try to enjoy it?

Why Turkey?

“*Klasik bir soru: Neden Türkiye?”

People, especially Turkish people, are always asking me why on Earth I choose to live in Turkey. Upon meeting a new person, I am more often than not faced with this question, usually followed by a half-joking: “We Turks want to go to America!”

Well, here is my reply.

For one, Turkey’s just plain interesting. My, what vast contrasts it has! It’s modern and ancient and cosmopolitan and quaint at the same time. Take this guy, a karpuzcu, selling watermelons off of his horse-drawn cart.

You don’t see that in Washington, DC!

I spotted him on my way to a charming bakery for Sunday breakfast in a chic area of the city called Nişantaşı. As luck would have it, when I returned home two hours later, he happened to be parked on my street.

Mmm, watermelon.

Another reason I’m still in Turkey is because it is beautiful. Take Istanbul, for example. It is a bustling, chaotic city, but you don’t have to look very far for a beautiful view of the sea.

You might even get lucky and have a friend or a work contact who owns a boat where you can hang out and do a little yacht yoga.

Camel pose, tree pose, cheeky pose

As the “unusual and interesting” foreign dancer, you get opportunities to perform with internationally renowned musicians. You might even get a chaise lounge in your dressing room!!!

BaBa ZuLa concert at EcoFest Istanbul. . . Note that my backstage pass reads “ARTIST” in Turkish. Please also note my glitter gel.

And of course, while doing what you love for a living is delightful, doing what you love for a living while on a boat is divine.

“I’m on a boat, m***** f*****.” –T. Payne

So, there you have it–my answer to *the classic question* “Why Turkey?”–here in photographs.