Istanbul, AGAIN

It was almost exactly two years ago that I left Turkey for the United States, never to move back again. Friends would ask me when I was planning to return to Turkey. “Next year, inshallah,” I’d say each time. “But not to live—only to visit.” 

A few colleagues had asked me this question, too—an event organizer here, an artists’ manager there—to them, I’d say I had no intention of returning to Turkey for work, unless it was for a really good job. 

But there were no really good dance jobs in Turkey. Business at the venue in Alanya where I’d loved performing had dwindled, and the second summer after I’d worked there, it closed permanently. I’d outgrown working the summer hotel circuit in the coastal areas. While it was fun for a few months, it became intolerable as the season wore on. Besides, with the current exchange rate being so unfavorable for the Turkish lira against the US dollar, I couldn’t see any job being worth the move to Turkey, and the stress and frustration that would indubitably accompany it. 

Then, I got a call from an old Istanbul coworker. He was working as a manager at a new venue, and he asked if I’d be interested in joining him there. My first answer was no, for all the reasons mentioned above. However when he mentioned the salary, the conditions, the fact that the airline ticket would be provided by the employer, I figured I didn’t have anything to lose. Because I’ve been down this road before, I made sure to get a round-trip flight. If things weren’t as delightful as I’d been told, I’d be back in the States on the first thing smoking. 

When I got to my new place of employment, I learned that my former coworker, the manager, had exaggerated my salary, so on my second night, I got a 25% pay decrease. He’d also retracted what he’d said about housing being provided by the employer. The manager, who’d brought me into the place, was soon fired for lying. Not to me, just in general. 

The stretching of the truth didn’t matter much, though. The boss is fair and generous, my coworkers and work environment are pleasant, and the money is rather enough. I perform every evening in a Turkish-owned Arabic restaurant/nightclub. The customers are mostly Iraqi, but also Syrian, Saudi, Moroccan, and Egyptian, and my tips often exceed my nightly pay. 

I’ve been performing at Şehzade for 17 consecutive days, and as with any job, it comes with its highs and lows, but for the most part, I’m quite pleased with the job.  

Backstage at Şehzade

Return of the Dead

I titled this blog in honor of Halloween approaching and due the fact that it’s been ages since I’ve written anything.  It isn’t that noteworthy events haven’t taken place, it’s just that I’ve been rather distracted. I vow to write more often.  I vow to do a lot of things, actually.

A short summary to bring us up to speed:

I went to Turkey on the fifth of September.  I’d left so abruptly last April, I felt I simply must go back and put things in order.  Besides, I had some nice costumes there.  I stayed about 10 days in Istanbul and of course, it wasn’t quite enough time.  I saw many of my friends, but not all of them.  I got a chance to see my Turkish little sister, and to hear Raquy, my lovely friend, next door neighbor (and a kind-of-a big-deal musician–I think she’s in Lebanon participating in a TV show at the moment), perform in Taksim, and the musicians all invited me up to dance as they played for me, so that was fun.  All in all, the trip was more sentimental than functional.

I returned to DC and spent three weeks here, partly performing, partly interpreting, but mostly wasting time–I wasn’t even practicing yoga everyday(!), and before I knew it, it was the Thursday before our Hong Kong trip.  That day, I served as the Spanish interpreter for a a 16 year old inmate at the Youth Detention Center from seven am to seven pm, and the very next day, I flew to the Far East with my mother and sister to attend my brother’s wedding.

{A Chunky Onion Production}

Hong Kong was wonderful.  I stayed about 10 days.  It would have been even better had I not been so broke from the recent Istanbul trip (and the underemployment.)  The wedding was amazing, and was so nice to be together with my family.  Unfortunately, since we’ve left, a few members of said family have become quite miffed with me.  😥

It’s been four days since I got back from Hong Kong, and there’s been a harrowing turn of events including, but not limited to, having to change my return flight to the US, losing my phone forever in a taxi, my Istanbul apartment being burglarized, and other unfortunate occurrences, some of which, in eery retrospect, seem almost to have been foreshadowed during the weeks leading up to this storm of misfortune by things I’d heard, seen, or offhandedly said.  Despite this nightmarish string of setbacks, or perhaps because of them, I have finally found a bit of motivation to get my affairs in order.

Operation work hard and focus is underway.

Detours eventually return to the original path

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a dozen times.  Life in Turkey is a roller coaster of events, emotions, and experiences.  In February, I’d decided to trade in this roller coaster of dance and life highs and lows for training and travel in the US.  I bought my ticket, planning to fly in the third week of April.

It was shortly after this decision that I was contacted to participate in a belly dance competition/reality television show in Cairo, Egypt, called Al Raqessa.  As my involvement in the show was slated to finish toward the end of March, resulting in a happy detour in my varied and unpredictable life, it would not conflict with my plans of departure from Turkey in April.

However, a week before my scheduled trip to Egypt came a phone call from a captain I’d worked with a few times.  I was wanted to perform on a Bosphorus boat tour. . .  nightly. . .  for a year.  Although I was on my way to Cairo for a couple weeks, then to the US for an extended period, I agreed to do it, knowing that Burası Türkiye–This is Turkey–and things could change at any moment.  I explained to them that I’d be away filming a television show for 10-20 days, found them a suitable replacement, and performed several times during the week leading up to my departure.  I was pleased with the venue, and I enjoyed performing there, so much in fact, that I began to reconsider leaving Turkey.  Perhaps I’d stay until the end of the year, then find someone to take my place . . .  Perhaps I’d stay until next spring.  Perhaps. . .  I felt quite content, appreciated, and well-compensated performing on the yacht, and when I left for Cairo, I was told to hurry back.

My time in Cairo was amazing and bizarre, frustrating and exciting.  It deserves a blog entry of its own.  I laughed, I cried, I learned, I may have thrown a temper tantrum. . .  I met wonderful new friends and was reunited with old ones.  I learned that all Egyptian food tastes better with tahini.  I was in Cairo for 18 days.

Obligatory jumping in the desert in front of a pyramid photo

I returned to Istanbul and immediately resumed performing on the yacht.  Soon after, there was a misunderstanding with one of the less likeable members of the management team.  I still don’t understand exactly what transpired . . .  They were dissatisfied with one of my subs?  I was gone closer to 20 days than 10?  It’s still unclear, but what I know for sure is that I will not be working with them now or ever again.

So, luckily, I hadn’t yet altered my flight arrangements from Turkey.  I’m taking this as a sign from the Universe to continue the path I was on before Cairo–a combination of training–Rocket yoga, belly dance master classes, aerial dance lessons, aerial yoga teacher training, performing, FAMILY and FRIENDS, and of course a bit of exploring within the US.  Purple mountain majesties and all that.

New Chapter!

Much has happened, but I’ll keep it succinct.

On December 23, I flew to the States from Istanbul for five week holiday.  I enjoyed so much spending time with my family and friends, performing, attending classes, giving a workshop, and indulging in store-bought vegan baked goods.  I began to wonder if five weeks in the US would be enough.

During the time I was in DC, I signed up for an unlimited introductory week of Bikram yoga.  As you can imagine a carpeted room heated up to 105 degrees Fareinheit and used for intense physical activity would, it stank to high heaven in there.  Still, I began to hate it less and less with every class, it was a chance to bond with my sister, who I’d dragged along, and it really does do wonders for your flexibility.  The Karunamayi and Iyengar yoga classes I attended (with my mom!) were great, too.  I also took classes with the amazing Egyptian folkloric and oriental dance instructor, Faten Salama.  The studio gouges you a bit for drop-ins, but it’s better to pay up than to not study with Faten at all.  I also drove all the way out into the depths of Baltimore to take my very first aerial silks class.  Think Cirque du Soleil.  You climb up (gracefully) between two pieces of fabric suspended from the ceiling, secure yourself in the silks, and make beautiful shapes with your body while hanging several feet above ground.  I was convinced after my first experience with aerial dance that I would like to be an aerialist.  In fact, I had known I would love it even before my first class.

I got a chance to travel a bit, too.  I spent MLK weekend in Cleveland.  I saw all the key mid-western players–my best friends and their babies, my dad and step mother, some very old and dear friends–it worked out that I had a performance scheduled in Cleveland, so practically everyone I knew in the city came to see me dance.  After Cleveland, I headed to Oakland.  I have about 30 cousins out there, and I got to spend time with a bunch of them.  My hip young cousin took me to Sunny Spot Cafe, a legal marijuana dispensary.  (For medicinal purposes only, of course.)  Another one of my cousins x-rayed my wrist.  He’s an orthopedic surgeon, and compulsive handstand attempts had caused me to sprain it about 3 and a half months earlier.  It had nearly healed by the time I’d reached California, but I was relieved to get the final word that I hadn’t caused any permanent damage.

My return from California to DC left me in a panic.  I had only four more days to spend before returning to Istanbul, and there was so much more to do.  A yoga friend came to visit me from Rhode Island, so of course we went to Carson Clay Calhoun’s Rocket yoga classes.  Lots of jumping, balancing on our hands and sore muscles.

While I love Turkey and enjoy many things about my life here, it was during this trip that I began to have thoughts about returning to the States sooner than later. After a little over a week of deliberating, I have decided to move back to the US, at least for awhile.  I’ve got a whole plan worked out, and I’m very excited.

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.

Istanbul Again, Part 3: An Unlikely Judge

This will be the third and final entry of my “Istanbul, Again” series.  Enough, already–I’ve been back nearly three weeks.

Before I wrap it up, though, another mention of my  six-month stint in Alanya.  This summer, I went from an on-again, off-again yoga practitioner to a full-out dedicated daily yogini.  In Alanya, I practiced #yogaeverywhere.  At home, at the park, on the beach, by the pool, in the garden, at work, at historical ruins, on this fountain:

While of course, a few people gave me odd looks, most people smiled at me or gave me “thumbs up”, many were curious about yoga, and several people, on different occasions, joined in.

Life in Alanya is sunny and carefree–the levels of stress, crowding, traffic, pollution, judgement of others, and agitation are far higher in Istanbul.  I often find myself feeling defensive, even aggressive, when walking the streets of Istanbul en route to work, home, or market.  Yesterday was different.  I was feeling incredibly cheerful and relaxed.  My housekeeper (an angel slid down from heaven on a rainbow) had met me at home to prepare my apartment for an impending visit from a fellow dancer from Cairo, the weather was crisp and bright, I was on time, but not early on my commute to my appointment, and I was listening to two beautiful songs on repeat. It was all I could do to keep from dancing on the metro.  In fact, I’m sure I swayed a bit.

When I exited the metro, I headed to the minibus stop.  It looked like I would have to wait a bit, so I glanced around and spotted a place along a wall, near the bottom of a ramp, away from both street and most pedestrian traffic.  I treated myself to a brief round of yogic sun salutations:  Reach up, touch the ground, single plank and push up, gentle backbend, push all the up and back, repeat.

People walking by glanced at me as they went on their way.  An middle aged woman and her companion stopped so she could give me a big smile.  A teenage boy walking by with his friends said to me encouraging, “Kolay gelsin, abla.”  “Abla” meaning sister, and “Kolay gelsin”–literally “May it come easily”–an empathetic nicety used upon coming into contact with a person who is working on something.

Just as I was coming out of dancer pose and had stopped to adjust my headphones, a girl of about 18 approached me.

“Napiyorsun?” she asked me.  What are you doing?

“I’m waiting for the minibus.”  Wasn’t it obvious?

“No, I mean what are you doing?” she asked again.

“Yoga yapiyorum,” I responded.  I’m doing yoga.  I gave her a smile.

“But everyone is looking at you,” she said.

“It’s okay.  They can look.”

“No, we don’t do that here.”  Oh?  You mean here in Turkey?  Where I’ve lived for five years?

I raised my eyebrows and said nothing.

“People can misunderstand you,” she explained.

“It’s you who misunderstands,” I said to her.

She sputtered some other words, but I’d decided to stop listening.  I adjusted the headphones and took a few breaths.  A lady and her daughter waved at me from a departing minibus, but I couldn’t smile back or enjoy my music or yoga anymore.  I looked down at my phone instead.

Of all the busy-body older ladies and all the perverted men and all the religious freaks that could have passed by me, it was an 18-year-old female student who shamed me out of my wonderful mood and movement with her “well-meaning” commentary.

As a person whose look is fairly uncommon here in Turkey, and as a woman of child-bearing age, some people are going to stare at me, or possibly make remarks to me regardless of what I do, whether I demurely sit and wait for the bus, meekly keeping my eyes on the ground, or gracefully and unobtrusively do a few calisthenics.  I was neither vulgar nor inappropriate.  The seemingly most unlikely individual to criticize me was the one person who I offended, and it surprised me how deeply and thoroughly she negatively affected my mood.

Once I reached my destination, after replaying the event over and over in my mind on the way, I recounted the story to my client, a writer, translator, and the father of an eight year old girl.  I even shed a single (and slightly embarrassing) tear of frustration over the fact that I’d let her spoil my mood and also out of relief of having expressed myself and being understood.  As I wiped it away, my client’s daughter Defne appeared, carrying a tray with a cup of tea for each of us.

Pleasant mood restored.

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.

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.