I believe that I'm writing this approximately 24 hours after my arrival at the apartment, although it's hard to believe clocks at this point. The harrowing cab ride was calculated at 15 minutes, a feat unsupported by distance and traffic. I woke at 5 this morning to the first daily prayer and failed to find my way back to sleep. Patiently biding the five remaining hours until the market opened, I bought a few foodstuffs and went on a quest to find a gym. The closest one didn't fit the bill, and while cheap, included some stray cats on the lifting benches and no visible employees. I did find British Side, where I'll be taking a CELTA course over the next month, and was delighted to find a security officer, air conditioning, and the English language. Having accomplished this, I sulked back down and up the absurd pitch of the valley that divides me from my school. Then I napped for 4 hours. Panicked, I prepared myself to go to Taksim Square in search of an A/C adpapter, but stopped at an electricity shop not two streets over and picked one up from them. Here's a narrative of that interaction:
"English"
"No."
"Huh."
Pointing to my chest, I reached for a random plug, made a gesture to mimic plugging a cord into a wall (or a key into a door, or a tail onto a donkey) and repeated:
"America. America. Ah-mur-ee-kah."
He got the point in stride and handed me exactly what I wanted. I've put off Taksim Square for a day, too relieved to be spurred to action (it occurred to me, had my computer died, I wouldn't have had google maps, and that my tourist book only includes a map of the city's central artery). So that's what I've done, and you're probably bored to death, perhaps a coma (mild wooziness?). Now, here are the anecdotes:
1. International flight terminal in Chicago, security check. A beautiful woman, I believe to be Arab turns to be and says,
"Nice bag, where did you get it?"
"Urban Outfitters," I say dejectedly.
"I like it, super-travel-light."
"Yeah, thanks."
She was talking of course about my white (cream) messenger bag (man-purse). Humiliation, clawing humiliation.
2. In the cab, gorgeous coastal road, tankers offshore in the bosphorus looking like ladies in waiting. Moving around cars and over lines, treating traffic laws the way a painter treats the rules of perspective. Suddenly, huge, a half-eroded stone wall, probably erected by some famous guy, emerges on either side of the six-lane highway. Tradition. Modernity. Lawrence's opening to "Odour of the Chrysanthemums" describes a train out-pacing a running colt. Same sensation, probably a great photo there, and gone in a second as if it never was.
3. Out to dinner with Sirin (nice woman, waited to let me into the apartment) and company when a boisterous Turk bumps into our table.
"Oh, pardon"
The respond, jeering:
"Paaardon, oh please paaardon meeee. Hehehehe."
Turns out he was their friend, had heard them speaking English (so as to include me) and had responded properly. He sits, rambles, digs questions, reveals that he knows Joe, assures me:
"We are not sooo Middle-Eastern."
"I saw more women," Sirin tells me, "wearing that black sheet thingy in London than in Istanbul."
I wonder briefly what the proper name for black sheet thingy is, turns out it's called a chador (thanks wikipedia for your streamlined "islamic dress: female" category). The ebullient istanbulite leaves, and I am informed by Sirin:
"He is so awesome. For instance, he is gay, and he never attempts to hide it from anyone."
I make known my support for him, for gays, for Istanbul's European sensibilities. I feel weird about the whole exchange, and the chip on Turkey's shoulder reveals itself to be a tumor. Then, feeling tired, I kill the conversation.
"So how about that flotilla?"
Sighs, mixed emotions, embarrassment, a curiously American reaction.
4. I pay for my groceries, put my wallet in my back pocket, awkwardly work the food into my bag, turn, leave, feel back pocket. It's empty, of course it's empty. I panic, return to the cashier to find no wallet, and look baffled at the old man who is now paying for his food. A man walks by me, smiles, hands me back my wallet, and keeps walking. He's the same one who sold me a sim card the day before, and he works next door. I look at the old man, who is now laughing as if to say ah-so-you're-a-dumbshit. The money, the cards, everything is where it should be. He was fucking with me, and I feel castrated.
"English"
"No."
"Huh."
Pointing to my chest, I reached for a random plug, made a gesture to mimic plugging a cord into a wall (or a key into a door, or a tail onto a donkey) and repeated:
"America. America. Ah-mur-ee-kah."
He got the point in stride and handed me exactly what I wanted. I've put off Taksim Square for a day, too relieved to be spurred to action (it occurred to me, had my computer died, I wouldn't have had google maps, and that my tourist book only includes a map of the city's central artery). So that's what I've done, and you're probably bored to death, perhaps a coma (mild wooziness?). Now, here are the anecdotes:
1. International flight terminal in Chicago, security check. A beautiful woman, I believe to be Arab turns to be and says,
"Nice bag, where did you get it?"
"Urban Outfitters," I say dejectedly.
"I like it, super-travel-light."
"Yeah, thanks."
She was talking of course about my white (cream) messenger bag (man-purse). Humiliation, clawing humiliation.
3. Out to dinner with Sirin (nice woman, waited to let me into the apartment) and company when a boisterous Turk bumps into our table.
"Oh, pardon"
The respond, jeering:
"Paaardon, oh please paaardon meeee. Hehehehe."
Turns out he was their friend, had heard them speaking English (so as to include me) and had responded properly. He sits, rambles, digs questions, reveals that he knows Joe, assures me:
"We are not sooo Middle-Eastern."
"I saw more women," Sirin tells me, "wearing that black sheet thingy in London than in Istanbul."
I wonder briefly what the proper name for black sheet thingy is, turns out it's called a chador (thanks wikipedia for your streamlined "islamic dress: female" category). The ebullient istanbulite leaves, and I am informed by Sirin:
"He is so awesome. For instance, he is gay, and he never attempts to hide it from anyone."
I make known my support for him, for gays, for Istanbul's European sensibilities. I feel weird about the whole exchange, and the chip on Turkey's shoulder reveals itself to be a tumor. Then, feeling tired, I kill the conversation.
"So how about that flotilla?"
Sighs, mixed emotions, embarrassment, a curiously American reaction.
4. I pay for my groceries, put my wallet in my back pocket, awkwardly work the food into my bag, turn, leave, feel back pocket. It's empty, of course it's empty. I panic, return to the cashier to find no wallet, and look baffled at the old man who is now paying for his food. A man walks by me, smiles, hands me back my wallet, and keeps walking. He's the same one who sold me a sim card the day before, and he works next door. I look at the old man, who is now laughing as if to say ah-so-you're-a-dumbshit. The money, the cards, everything is where it should be. He was fucking with me, and I feel castrated.
#1 I can't believe you are actually writing and letting people read it.
ReplyDelete#2 I really liked the entry, really great. Other than a few mega douchy phrases (like ladies in waiting, way a painter treats the rules of perspective) the writing was great.
#3 Do crazy shit and try to hang onto your wallet for longer than a day you fucking gringo.