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.

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.

*Sapıklar, Sapıklar, Sapık Var

I signed on to work for 11 days at a music hall in Karaman, a smaller city outside of Konya, Turkey. I took the job upon the recommendation of a friend, a female singer who was headed there for a two week appointment herself. The music hall is in a very religious region of Turkey–the city of Konya boasts several major sacred attractions. When she was hired by the establishment, my friend encouraged me to join her–they were interested in contracting a dancer as well. My friend thought she was hooking me up, as the pay was high, and the singer contracted to perform a few weeks prior had told her it was a gold mine, a real gem of a gig.
In actuality, this dream job was a nightmare. Dancers (there are about 6 in all) perform one or two songs on stage, then go traveling around the tables to dance with the audience members, 95 percent of whom are men. Of that 95 percent, 80 percent are perverts.
This is what happens in a place where people are repressed by a rigidly religious society, I suppose. Instead of going to a normal nightclub to dance and have fun in a mixed-gender setting, the women remain at home and the men become perverts who slink around in low-brow clubs and try their luck at groping the entertainment.
After a 60 year old man, who appeared to be jolly and fairly normal, dropped to his knees to wipe his face, slick with sweat from dancing to twangy village music (yeah, the music was a problem, too) on the skirt of my very expensive custom-made costume, I was pretty much done. Other shocking, irritating, and pathetic incidents occurred during my 48-hour descent into hell, but I’ll save those details for the tell-all book I’ll eventually have to write.
I lasted two days in Karaman before I broke contract, forfeiting my return airline ticket, and spending a small fortune to get back to Istanbul on the first thing smoking out of Karaman-Konya.
*Sapık is Turkish for pervert.