Just a small-town boy

When you tell people that you are going to Istanbul for a year abroad, the responses vary:

            Stephan: “Brutal Turks. Good luck.”

            Jinhee: “Really? Fuck dude, I hope things improve over there.”

            Jondreau: “Man have fun but keep in mind it’s a weird fucking place and one minute you might be having the time of your life but turn your eye from your drink for one second and the next thing you know you’re getting ! up the ! by a donkey.”

*quotes have been approximated.

So, with this rock-solid advice under my belt, I was prepared for anything.

1. The first, mafia-involving and potentially expat-fun-ending mistake:

                I was warned. I should have known. There were so many signs!

                It was the night of the party at the British Consulate. That is, the once helpful, passport-distributing, amnesty-offering consulate and present-day house of the British Community Council, a glorified Party Planning Committee here in Istanbul. I went there to meet with a friend of mine who was already inside. I was stopped at the gate and surrendered my passport to a man with a list.

- There’s a list?

- Yes, list. Name?

- Thorne. I’m not on the list.

- Yes, list. I am not see your name.

- I’m not on the list.

- Are you sure you are on list?

- I’ll call my friend.

                Three rings, he answers and emerges minutes later from the black gate. He is blitzed and splutters at the guard:

- My friend’s not on the list because we thought he might come but we didn’t know if he could he just came in this morning I’m sure you understand he’s a friend of myself and so-and-so…

- Yes sir, but I talked to person and person says he cannot come in so he cannot come in.

                My friend reels, smiles.

- Sorry, mate.  I’ll call you in an hour.

                I kill an hour with dinner, beer. He doesn’t called because he is blitzed. I know this because I got a text the next day:

- Sorry we didn’t meet up Saturday. We ended up getting thrashed at the consulate. Everyone threw up!

                In the meantime, I am sitting in Taksim square and taking in the scenery. I stand to leave and someone asks for a light in Turkish. I look confused and he asks again in English, good English. He is young, tells me he’s on vacation from Izmir and that he works there as an exporter of marble and porcelain. Porcelain is the bigger business, he explains. He asks if I want to get a drink, and assuming that he means at one of the outdoor bars nearby, I agree.

                Fast forward five minutes and I’ve been taken into a strip club, but nobody’s stripping yet so that’s not immediately obvious. He orders a bottle of raki. He says he wants to get girls. My dumb ass is telling myself that although I know I can’t pay for anything (apartment deposit wiped my account clean that morning), I should stick around because he seems like an okay guy who just wants to have a good time. I think I’m humoring him.

                I stop thinking that when a Bulgarian girl sits down next to me and a Russian plops down on the bench opposite. Mr. Izmir looks satisfied.

- These are beautiful girls, yeah?

                They are not, but I haven’t the heart to say anything.

- I think they work here, dude.

- I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. They are beautiful girls!

                I turn to my sad, bucktoothed, Bulgarian escort.

- So. What’s your job?

                She blushes and sits up straight.

- You sit down and have dinner with people in clubs? Cool job. You see that guy over there? I don’t know him. We just met and I think he’s about to stick me with a very expensive bill. I’ve read about these scams and I know that he works with the club. I’m fucked, aren’t I?

                Her English is quite good, and she kindly beckons to her friend to leave before Mr. Izmir can buy them drinks. I smile and finish my glass of raki, taking up some melon that has been put before me.

- I can’t pay for this. I have no money, you know? Hich param yok, yeah?

                The digested version: Mr. Izmir gets pissed, makes me show him my wallet, which contains twenty-five lira; the bill for two-hundred lira comes and the waiter takes my card, which is denied because I HAVE NO MONEY; I am taken to the back of the restaurant, resigning myself to a beating. I check the exits and am about to bolt when someone in the corner says something, which is then translated:

- You can go, boss says you can go.

- You’re letting him go? Mr. Izmir argues.

                I think I smile, and at least inwardly I have one of those doves-flying-as-the-church-organs-sound moments. I turn and half-run towards the front door without hearing a word more. As I leap up the stairs two at a time, a strippers fake, tasseled breasts shimmy out my exit.

The second, less life-threatening mistake:

                This one’s a little more simple, and it ends with me losing my wallet. I’ll skip straight to the moral: When a malcontent Brit asks you to go get drinks at 4:30pm on a Thursday at a bar reserved for watching the results of horse races, say that you’ve got other plans.

These experiences, once related to a teaching colleague, bring out a new piece of advice.

                 Bev:  “You go around thinking that people are people and that you can trust them, but you can’t trust anybody, especially the people who want you to trust them. The trustworthy ones are the ones that never ask you to trust them and don’t want you to because they know what a bad idea it is. But you have to trust somebody because you’re a person, and people trust each other.”

We’re back to square one on the issue, but we’re wiser, and even when we get duped into joining an importer/exporter in a house of ill repute, we can still find time to drink a glass of raki and laugh in the face of the blushing, bucktoothed, Bulgarian escort who is trying to take the money we don’t have. We promise to be wiser, and we promise not to make the same mistakes twice. We promise not to post any more stories like this which have probably given the Moms a heart attack and others a reason to watch their backs around Turks. Most of all, we promise not to use the royal “we” in sum-ups of our blog posts.