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.

Dance/Life. Dance Life.

My apartment here in Alanya has been a whirlwind with guests coming in and out since June.  It’s been fun, but now that I’m on my own again until Allah bilir (god knows), I’ll have a chance to get back to my art (dance), my practice (yoga), and my writing (a book[!]).

I’ve had some interesting life experiences so far.  Some of them are shared on this blog, but many have been omitted.  Also, the tales leading up to how I got to this point have been serendipitous or amusing or lucky or bizarre or tragic, and I thought I’d like to get it all down on virtual paper.  When I asked my sister Julia (who’s written a book herself!) what deadline she thought I should set for the book’s completion, she suggested I aim to finish it by my next birthday.  That gives me 10 months to work on it.

Some of the stories from the blog–like the time I was attacked by the owner of seedy night spot Beyzade’s angry son–might make it in, but other stories will be in the book that I have never told to anyone.  I figure time heals all wounds and minimizes shame.

So wish me luck to finish by June 29th, 2014, and I hope you will all read it!

xoxo,

Lara

Bizarre Night in Lara Land

Okay, and now for the story of worst gig I’ve had in Turkey so far.  I’ve had quite a few bad gigs, so let me rephrase that as the most frightening gig so far.

Let me start off by saying I hate the system in Turkey of sharing tips.  Unfortunately, it’s almost everywhere you go.  You’re expected to dance among the crowd and collect tips, then the manager, the choreographer (if there is one), or even the venue that hired you expects you to split those tips with them.

If it’s the venue that’s taking your tips, it’s most likely going to be a dingy, grimy, hole in the wall.  Enter Beyzade, where the fixed menu with unlimited drinks is half the price it would be at a nice place.  I hated working at Beyzade.  The customers are so broke that they’re stingy–unlike normal customers who go out to enjoy live entertainment, spend money accordingly, and tip generously and with joy, you practically have to reach into these people’s pockets to squeeze a five lira note out of them.  Then the sleaze bags  at Beyzade want 2.5o of your five lira.  It’s degrading.

Still, it was a regular gig, one of the few that I had during my first few months dancing in Turkey, and near my house, so I dealt with it until I found something better.   (When I found something in Cihangir, at a place where I actually earned good money and no one took it from me, I flew out of there.)

A friend of mine had been working at Beyzade for a few years, and bless her heart, she was trying to help me when she invited me to work there with her.  One night, after I had moved on to a place where I felt more comfortable and treated with respect, this friend asked me to sub for her at Beyzade, as she wasn’t feeling well.  She would talk with the people in charge to make sure the program started early so I could get to my other gig in time.

I didn’t want to go.  It’s not a classy place.  I go dressed in full costume, because the management just walks into the office without knocking, and if you happen to be in there changing, they say, “I’m not looking” and barge in anyway.

Intuition had told me months ago never to set foot in that place, but against my better judgement, I agreed to go.

It started off badly.  Management refused to let me perform 15 minutes early, as previously agreed, although the singer had assured me it was no problem for her, and the other two dancers said they would actually prefer to go on stage slightly earlier.  They “compromised” and started our music at 10:57 instead of 11.  After five minutes in the dining room, I was fed up.  The customers were stingy and I’m not a beggar.  The only tips I’d collected were the $20 lira that the waitress gives each dancer.  I was going to be late for my next job if I stayed around harassing diners for tips, so I turned  on my heel and headed back to the office.

This is when I made my cheeky mistake.  I was leaving early, hadn’t collected any money for the restaurant to take from me, so I figured these worthless individuals were going to complain about it.  I decided to save them the trouble by returning their meager 20 lira note.  I stuck in the collar of one of the bosses (the biggest asshole of all) on my way out of the dining room.

He was furious.  He proceeded to follow me out of the dining room, yelling at me.  “Who do you think you are?”  I ran down the stairs and he pursued, catching up to strike me on the side of the neck.  I’m not a violent person, but I hit the mu-f*cker back and started screaming like a crazy person.  He tried to strangle me after that.  I don’t think he was actually trying to kill me, but I wasn’t sure, so I kept screaming and headed for the office.  I made it into the office and thank goodness the singer and (her manager?) were in there.  They weren’t much help, but they did tell Ahmet not to hit me again.

I threw my stuff in my bag, foaming at the mouth and shrieking the whole time, and hoping everyone in the whole place heard me.

My friend was asked not to come back.  She was kind of upset with me, but geez, why would she want to come back to such a place?

Beyzade is located off of Istaklal Caddesi, in Taksim, Istanbul in Terkoz Çarşısı.