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 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

Belly Dancer Days

If you’re a belly dancer who performs at weekends and special events, you’ve got a lot of extra time on your hands. Day time, specifically. And while I love eating lunch in my pajamas as much as the next person, free time, when available in excess, can be difficult to fully appreciate.

My schedule has changed with the seasons, and now I’m much busier. After a hiatus from teaching dance in order to travel this summer, I’ve resumed my two belly dance classes at An ve An in Halkalı, plus added two cardio-dance classes to the program. Additionally, a group of Turkish women has engaged me for a private weekly belly dance lesson, and that’s pretty fun.

I also have been “day-lighting” as a part-time governess. Just for three hours a day, two days a week. Variety is the spice of life, so why not fill that early afternoon slot? Primary duties of this position include homework support and baking vegan sweets with a little girl, plus a bit of literacy tutoring and playing make-believe. Full time play tutoring can be highly lucrative, but for me, six hours a week at this gig is plenty.

I’ve also agreed to edit a book. It is a memoir about a man’s experience as a first-time father in Turkey. He tells a good story, and it’s an interesting read, but he gets a bit touchy about some of the edits I make. I figure the more criticism he receives from me, the less he’ll have to deal with once it’s published.

I also try to take at least one day a week to practice to live music now that my darbuka player and I are both back in town. (He travels to perform a lot. I’d like to get on his level–his band just came off of a month-long European tour.) My drummer/friend and I (and sometimes his super-talented 11 year old son) practice together and record the sessions. Video is a valuable tool–great for identifying and correcting the hideous mistakes unknowingly made during a performance. When I’m satisfied with one of the videos, I’ll post it here.

Even working these grueling daytime hours (usually about one to three hours a day, four days a week), I still have my belly dancer priorities in order, which, last week, included having this turquoise costume made:

I love this costume designer! Adding her to my list of favorites.

Oh, and starting next week, I’ll be choreographing a few numbers for Istanbul International Community School’s high school theater production of Oliver Twist. Here’s a link to the wonderful 1968 musical, Oliver! It’s brilliant.

Belly Dance, Travel, and Three-Piece Suits

It was a comment from my mother that brought to my attention the fact that my blog was lacking an up-to-date post. I haven’t got anything particularly unusual to report, but here’s what I’ve been up to since my dance gig aboard the Aegean Odyssey finished:

My last performance on the cruise took place on August 25.

The next morning we docked in Izmir, and I was in a rush against the clock to get off the ship and to the airport. I was headed to England by way of Istanbul for three days of exploring England with the British bf.

Below is a photo of a man I spied on the street in Oxford. He was not a tourist attraction of Ye Olde England, but rather a "regular bloke" who happened to dress this way.

We also visited the beautiful Blenheim Palace. Absolutely fabulous. Below is a photo I snapped of a loving couple locked in an enthusiastic embrace.

After England, the next destination was Izmir/Çeşme/Çandarlı in Turkey for the wedding of one of my bf’s best friends.

What a lovely place!

Now back in Istanbul, I’ve finally unpacked my suitcases for awhile and am settling into my regular life of performing:

and my new favorite pastime, cooking and baking vegan food. See culinary success (adzuki bean burger) below.

(Culinary failures not pictured.)

Ups & Downs

Life in Istanbul is a roller coaster of ups and downs.

1. Dancing is fun. (Up.)

Egotastic dressing room photo shoot.

2. There is an angry psycho agency manager harassing and threatening me because the dancer I recommended to him for a gig in Greece demanded to be paid in full as agreed. (Down.)

3. I have an awesome apartment and I made a most delicious vegan potato, broccoli, chard, coconut soup. (Up.)

Another culinary success.

4. I finished the soup last night and am now starving again. (Down.)

A boy called Kerim

I have a gay acquaintance who’s in the closet.  He loves to dance and wants very badly to do it professionally, but he doesn’t have any training, and his father doesn’t approve of his becoming a dancer.  He’s always asking me to find him a job.  Unfortunately, there just aren’t that many (read: any) dance jobs for a person with his level of skill in the genres of dance that interest him (Romany and belly dance), but I ask around for him sometimes, anyway.

A few days ago, this acquaintance contacted me to tell me he was in love with me.  Madly, deeply, and hopelessly so.  Please!  I thought.  You and I both know that you’re gay.  Maybe you don’t know that I know–perhaps you don’t even really know yourself.  But I know.  You’re not in love with me, buddy.  So I brushed him off with a “thanks, but no you’re not.”

He asked me how things were going in Bodrum, and if there were any job openings for him.  I told him not really, but if he had any experience with Turkish folk dancing, one of the folkloric groups was short one dancer, and I would talk to my agency about the possibility of hiring him.

Two days later, last night, this fool showed up unannounced at my door.  Just flew to Bodrum with one small bag and no money, no plan and no place to sleep!  I talked to the boss, who said he could stay here for four days, and if he learned quickly, he’d be hired, otherwise, he’d have to move on.

The acquaintance didn’t mention being in love with me again.  He calls me big sister now.

Update:

So, in the 30 minutes since I’ve written this blog entry, the bosses have changed their minds and the boy has to go home.  And he’ll need some money to get there.  From me, of course.

Update:

So, the boy had been asked to leave after his first night and I’d given him money for the bus.  He was starting to get annoying by this time, and I was looking forward to his departure.  Still, we all felt bad because he was down on his luck.  One of our folk dancers offered to talk to the owner of a nearby pub to see if the boy could work there, so against our better judgement, the boy was given permission to stay another night.

That evening, while we dancers were at work, the boy stole my friend’s camera and disappeared.