My Colorful Neighborhood

Every morning, a man comes down my street selling veggies and fruit.  He yells, “Portakal bir lira!  Portakal bir lira!” (“Oranges one lira!  Oranges one lira!”  A kilo of oranges for one lira.  That’s about 25 cents a pound.  What a bargain!)  The man alternates.  Sometimes it’s a man selling tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and potatoes.  He yells, “Domates!”  One yells, “YEŞİLİİİİİİİİİİİİİK!”  (“Green veggies!”)  I like the one who sells lentils and chickpeas.  Another man sells breakfast rolls.  He yells “PoğaÇAAA!”  His cry sounds so desperate, I hope every day that someone on my street is buying a dozen rolls at least.  He must be selling them though, because he comes every single morning, and sometimes again in the afternoon.  Then the ladies yell out of their windows to ask how much and run their baskets down along the side of the apartment buildings on a rope to buy a kilo of this, five kilos of that.

Meanwhile, the first call to prayer is at about five or six am.  There are a couple of mosques nearby, so it sounds like they’re singing in a round.  In addition, you have the children calling to their grandmothers from the street, and the ladies chatting with their neighbors from window to window or street to window.  All of your chores, your entire social life and religious devotions could take place without you ever leaving the house.

Turkish people aren’t racist, but

. . . they do make some bizarre comments.
Here’s my short list:
I’ve often been asked if my skin color is a tan. If I had a dollar for every time an esthetician asked me if I’d gone to the solarium, I’d have enough to get a lunch special at a vegan cafe.
Last week, when she saw my legs, my new esthetician asked if I’d recently been to the beach. My sister told me she would have said, “No, I’ve been to DNA.”
A lot of Turkish people are into brown skin. Sometimes strangers in a public bathroom or on the street will smile at me and tell me they think my skin color is beautiful. I like that very much.
Then there are the people who have weird brown-skinned fantasies. A dance manager told me once that she wanted to marry a black man so she could have brown children with curly hair, like me. This same dance manager repeatedly tried to book me for samba and hip-hop gigs. “You’d be perfect!” And when I was reluctant to accept–“but we need someone like you!” Really? You “need” an amateur samba dancer whose experience is limited to the 5 or so times she’s gone out drinking and dancing at Brazilian night?
Once, while filming a music video for Israel’s version of The Bachelor with 29 other dancers, 27 of whom I was meeting for the first time, a girl approached me and asked me earnestly if I could introduce her to a black man. With a good job. Who was looking for a wife. Why? She wanted mixed kids. Again, this was the first time the two of us had ever spoken. “Well,” I replied, “I live in Turkey, so most of my friends here are, you know, Turkish. I see lots of African immigrants working as street vendors, though. Maybe you could approach one of them.” She rejected this idea. She wanted someone who could take care of her. “I can’t carry anyone. He’s got to be able to carry me.” Where are your priorities? How badly do you want mixed kids?
There are many other examples, but this recent one stands out: “You can ask any of my friends,” he said. “Hayalim [my dream] is to marry a black woman. In fact, he compared me to a woman he’d “been in love with” for “a few weeks.” I happened to know the person he was talking about. She’s Morrocan. A beautiful, tall, chiseled-cheeked chocolate drop. We don’t even look like we could be cousins, but according to him, the two of us “look just alike.”
Then, of course, I have met one Turkish person who is a bit racist. An acquaintance of mine, upon my return from Bodrum three summers ago, noticed my tan and offered the following observation and advice. “Wow, you got really dark in Bodrum. Too dark. You should go to a hamam [Turkish bath] and have that scrubbed off.” This was coming from the same woman who’d said, (prefaced with “Don’t get me wrong, but”) “There are so many blacks in Istanbul lately, especially around Şişli.” When I raised my eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate, she said, “They cause trouble. They steal and sell drugs.” Of the five black people I’ve met here, two have been teachers, one a teacher’s wife, another a singer (my Moroccan “twin”), and the last one is an engineer.
“I don’t know,” I told my friend. “Seems like the majority of the ones I see in Şişli sell watches.” I didn’t bother adding that the only drug dealers I’ve met so far in Istanbul have all been Turkish. Not that I know very many.

The Nosiest Neighbor

I live in an apartment complex in Alanya with a shared garden, pool, beach, and small, pretty, underutilized amphitheater. There is also our friendly and convenient little market that almost never closes, and a cafe, called Relax, owned and operated by one of our gregarious residents.
I was sitting in Relax this afternoon, when one of the older ladies I’d just met briefly for the first time yesterday struck up a conversation with me. Here are most of the questions she asked me:
How long have you been in Turkey? How old are you? Are you renting that apartment? 2nd floor? Who owns it? Who is that? Oh. Well, what’s her husband’s name? He’s your boss? Where do you work? Do they pay you on time?

It’s a fact that Turkish people can be nosy, but she really caught me off guard! As she fired off questions, I spouted out the facts automatically. The only question I was prepared for was, “Yaşın kaç?” (How old are you?”)
I sweetly responded, “Yaş ve maaş sorulmaz (“Age and salary are not to be asked.”) It’s clever ’cause it rhymes.
She laughed, but then turned to the lady sitting next to her and said: “She looks young, but with all that experience…” and guessed my age spot on!

In a Stone Fortress of Emotion

I was upset at first, but now it’s kinda funny.

Saturday night, my first show went wonderfully. I was well-received, well-treated, and well-paid. I returned to my stone home-away-from home feeling lucky, successful, and happily tired.

The only problem was, Saturday’s show was to be my only show. While I was romanced into coming to Montenegro by a DJ acquaintance of mine for two weeks of ongoing shows, the casino where I performed was under the impression that they were booking me for a one night event. As the DJ is Turkish, the casino manager is Montenegrin, their shared language is English, and the DJ’s English speaking skills are rubbish, I am chalking this entire comedic episode up to a miscommunication. Here’s where the situation gets inconvenient: The casino provided me with lovely accommodations in Montenegro for the days up to and including the night of my show, which took place July 7th. My return flight to Istanbul isn’t until July 19th!

So. . . I’m officially on a completely unplanned and unexpected vacation in Montenegro. In order to economize on lodging, I took a room in the best hostel in Kotor–Old Town Hostel. Incredible, caring staff, beautiful facility, comfortable rooms. However, it is definitely a hostel. Optional daily excursions to the beach, rafting, canoeing, cave exploring, or the national park, 20-year-olds drinking wine from the bottle at the nightly party in the community lounge, a fellow’s hairstyle that includes a silken ponytail complemented by a single, waist-length dreadlock, the obligatory guy with the guitar playing and singing an off-key rendition of “Stand By Me”, a shared bathroom and kitchen, bunk beds, and five roommates. Four of my roommates are Czechoslovakian (two guys and a girl, thankfully none of them snores), and one is a Serbian girl who tends to walk around in her pajamas. . . which are lace panties and a tank top.

Across from the fruit market

I’m not that mad anymore.

Stuff my mom says

Me: Mom, this guy wants to take me out.  He is divorced, with a kid.

Mom: Oh?

Me: Yeah, but so were you.  (Before she met my dad, when my brother was 3 or so, my mother divorced.)

Mom:  Well, he should be taking me out, then.

This old man

Quite possibly the most inappropriate senior citizen I’ve ever met is looking over my shoulder right now as I type this blog.  He does not know English.  He is the father-in-law of my host in Antalya.

He thinks he’s being charming, but if he calls me “black pepper” one more time, I can not be held responsible for my actions.