Everyone’s doing it this summer and with a lot of peer pressure and very little persuasion, I decided to jump the bandwagon and make the trip to Bodrum for some sun, sea, and sunburn (had we been in Australia, I would add ‘surf’ but it’s no secret that the Mediterranean has little in the form of waves). Perhaps if it had been my first time, or if I had remembered to bring along a good thick book, I would have found it a little more exciting; however, I found myself starting to bore easily after a couple of days of tanning, swimming and becoming acquainted with every restaurant waiter along the ‘catwalk’ as they call out and try to entice you to eat at their restaurant. That was until my foreign stardom kicked in for some special treatment at a special price, FREE.
It all started when my friend and I found an outdoor open-air gym near the beach. We thought we had struck gold, although, in reality, it was more like bronze with all the equipment half rusting. We were keen to get into shape while on holiday cos let’s face it, bikini’s are probably the most unflattering thing ever invented. While we started working out (which included half sport, and half literally working out how to use the contraptions), a man ran up from the beach to inform us that use of the gym would set us back 5 euro. In a cheeky manner that we have learnt since our stay in Turkey, I protested in Turkish that we didn’t like the gym anyway and would leave (just as soon as I’d finished my sit-up set) whilst my friend also offered her list of protests. The man quickly let it go with a smile and proceeded to try and chat us up; this didn’t go down too well considering his pick-up line was to squeeze my belly mid sit-up and tell me that I really needed to do a few more as I have a belly from drinking and eating too much ‘bira and bonfile’ (his words, my translation).
Now that we had found a ‘free’ gym, my friend and I promptly went back the next day to do another work-out. Yet again, a man approached us while we were working out. This time, a little smoother than the last, he helped us to ‘work out’ the gym equipment so we could do a better work-out. He was very helpful and invited us down to the beach for a free beer afterwards. It just so happens that he owned the gym, the restaurant and hotel next to the gym, the water sports centre on the beach in front of the gym, and the beautiful wooden gullet that we could see whilst working out at the gym. Some gym. What followed then was a blur of free water sports, a catamaran trip, jet-ski ride, a wonderful prawn salad lunch, cocktails, champagne and dinner on his boat (yup, more prawns). And for what reason? Just because we were foreign and it made him feel good to show us Turkish hospitality. Gotta love it.
And the list of opportunities doesn’t end there. I once found myself on the permanent guest list of a reputable club just because the owner wanted more people ‘like that’ to be seen at the club (and no, I’m not famous or well-known or even known at all for that matter). At my old apartment, we never had to pay for internet because my housemate sweetly went into the hotel next door and asked if we could have their internet code, which they provided no questions asked. We should have asked to send over their house-keeping why we were at it, who knows?
It’s the little extra special treatment on a daily basis that makes being a foreigner in this country a whole other entity. For some reason, Turkish people seem to have an obsession with all things ‘foreign’; they want to look like them, date one of them, live in one of their countries. No one can ever understand why I choose to live ‘here’ when I can live ‘there’. I, personally, think Turkey is a great country; then again, I still get to live by foreign standards (most noticeably in the workplace), therefore perhaps my view is slightly tainted.
Nevertheless, the dangerous slippery slide into stardom has well and truly began for me. It’s incredibly addictive to be constantly in the spotlight of attention by anyone, anywhere, at any given time, just for being you. Just for waking up and walking out your front door. Now, of course, it’s not always in good taste, but I wonder what the effect will be when I go back to my home country and no-one bats an eyelid? Perhaps, somewhere deep in my soul, my new found stardom has tied its little hands around my heart influencing my decision to stay. It has become such a part of my everyday life that I am almost beginning to think I am a star. In the heartfelt words of Dirty Dancing, ‘nobody puts Baby in the corner’.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
It's Gonna be a Hot One Baby
Spring and Autumn in Istanbul appear to have lost their desire to live anymore. Even winter is slowly loosing its will year by year, with snowfall lacking the gusto and energy of its former life. But if there’s one season who knows who’s boss, its Summer. The Turkish Godfather of the seasons, Summer gives us blazing heat and sunshine every year without fail. Having struck a deal with global warming, it gives truth to the age old saying of ‘survival of the fittest’. However, has our once beloved summer let the power rush to its head as it becomes more extreme each year? Is summer really the idealistic time of our memories? Unless you’re among the small percentage of the population who can afford to jet-set to the south coast of Turkey for the entire summer, what are we left to deal with in a city with more than 12 million people?
Sure, after the dark dismal days of winter it’s hard not to get excited about shedding layers of clothes and dining (by which I really mean drinking) until all hours of the night in sub-tropical temperatures. The promise of heat and sunshine that sporadically appeared between cold nights and rainy days in a season that barely resembled spring, left me longing for summer to a point of frustration. Then, without warning, wham bam thank you maam, I left my house one morning only to find myself dripping wet in a humid 30+ degree heat. Where was the lead up that spring offers? Did the government even have enough time to dig up all the parks to plant their ready-grown tulips by the thousands? Did all the stray cats and dogs have enough time to repopulate the animal street gang? (which by the way, brings another point to mind, I don’t think I have ever seen a street puppy; kittens, sure, by the dozen, but puppies, no). As we are thrown into something short of a heat wave, it would seem, Ladies and Gentlemen, that our old friend summer has arrived.
Without stating the obvious, I’m struggling to remember what exactly does summer bring that gets everyone in a frenzy? I like heat and sunshine as much as the next person and I’m certainly looking forward to loosing my ‘sut gibi’ skin, which in all honesty I have been called. Several times. But there’s a niggling I can’t ignore which contradicts the idealistic picture painted in my mind with the true reality of “A Summer in Istanbul”. Every year, I spend most of the winter wishing away the short days where the sun sets at 4pm, but have I drank away too many brain cells partying it up in Istanbul’s winter nightlife (which, let’s face it, is incomparable to most cities I’ve been to) to remember the true horrors of summer? In a distant far away memory, I’m sure I was cursing last summer about something to do with humidity, or feeling like my skin was melting, or dripping sweat; but I can’t be too sure just how that felt after the chill of winter.
There are, however, some things that are definitely ingrained into my memory. Smells, for example. When Istanbul gets hot, all sorts of aromas start permeating my nostrils. Rubbish, water canals, sewers, and my biggest favourite, body odour. May I introduce an old friend of mine deodorant. Somehow, deodorant hasn’t quite caught on in this country just yet (and where and when I find someone who is wearing it, in the nicest way possible I would like to say that a whole bottle is not really necessary). Public buses are the worst; lucky I’m tall, the air is much clearer up where I stand.
Bare legs, bare arms, bare shoulders. It’s hot, it’s summer, it’s sticky; I want to wear my singlets, skirts and dresses in order to avoid heat stroke, or even worse (shock horror), massive sweat patches. I understand that the percentage of my skin showing is possibly alarming, and I know this topic is debatable seeing I chose to live in a Muslim country, but I would really love to walk around feeling comfortable in my summer clothes. It’s the one thing that I approach with trepidation as I feel barley short of naked as eyes bore through my exposed skin. Although tourism has been flourishing in this country for the last ten years, these clothes still cause a stir on occasion. But what I don’t understand is that the younger generation of Turkish girls are wearing a hell of lot less than I do and draw little attention; I feel slightly discriminated against. However, in saying that, the semi-stardom status that I have in this country is rather addictive; perhaps this is one of those things I just suck up and take the good with the bad.
The last point I can vaguely remember about summer is the tourists arriving by the dozens (or rather millions). And without fail, the arrival of summer means the loss of my ex-pat badge I worked so hard to get. I feel I deserve credit for the groundwork I’ve done in this city (learning the language, shaking off stalker ex-boyfriends, dealing with difficult landlords); but no matter how far I’ve come, every year I get grouped back into the tourist group and get treated no different. All those cafes and shops that suddenly start up their invitations for tea, carpet viewing and what not, as well as the increase of random conversations on Istiklal about where I’m from, am I Russian, do I speak Russian, what is my name, you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen (hello, have you seen Angelina Joile?). I am fully aware of the hypocriticalness of my complaints towards tourists, seeing I myself am no native to this wonderful country. However, I am not ‘just another tourist’; I can actually make Turkish coffee and menemen, does this count for nothing?
So with all said and done, I guess Summer is just lashing out at the world as it comes to the realization that its days numbered (albeit a few million trazillion years off); perhaps it’s just trying to live life to the fullest. I guess we could all just pump up our air conditioners which may just make these hot humid summers end a million years earlier.
Sure, after the dark dismal days of winter it’s hard not to get excited about shedding layers of clothes and dining (by which I really mean drinking) until all hours of the night in sub-tropical temperatures. The promise of heat and sunshine that sporadically appeared between cold nights and rainy days in a season that barely resembled spring, left me longing for summer to a point of frustration. Then, without warning, wham bam thank you maam, I left my house one morning only to find myself dripping wet in a humid 30+ degree heat. Where was the lead up that spring offers? Did the government even have enough time to dig up all the parks to plant their ready-grown tulips by the thousands? Did all the stray cats and dogs have enough time to repopulate the animal street gang? (which by the way, brings another point to mind, I don’t think I have ever seen a street puppy; kittens, sure, by the dozen, but puppies, no). As we are thrown into something short of a heat wave, it would seem, Ladies and Gentlemen, that our old friend summer has arrived.
Without stating the obvious, I’m struggling to remember what exactly does summer bring that gets everyone in a frenzy? I like heat and sunshine as much as the next person and I’m certainly looking forward to loosing my ‘sut gibi’ skin, which in all honesty I have been called. Several times. But there’s a niggling I can’t ignore which contradicts the idealistic picture painted in my mind with the true reality of “A Summer in Istanbul”. Every year, I spend most of the winter wishing away the short days where the sun sets at 4pm, but have I drank away too many brain cells partying it up in Istanbul’s winter nightlife (which, let’s face it, is incomparable to most cities I’ve been to) to remember the true horrors of summer? In a distant far away memory, I’m sure I was cursing last summer about something to do with humidity, or feeling like my skin was melting, or dripping sweat; but I can’t be too sure just how that felt after the chill of winter.
There are, however, some things that are definitely ingrained into my memory. Smells, for example. When Istanbul gets hot, all sorts of aromas start permeating my nostrils. Rubbish, water canals, sewers, and my biggest favourite, body odour. May I introduce an old friend of mine deodorant. Somehow, deodorant hasn’t quite caught on in this country just yet (and where and when I find someone who is wearing it, in the nicest way possible I would like to say that a whole bottle is not really necessary). Public buses are the worst; lucky I’m tall, the air is much clearer up where I stand.
Bare legs, bare arms, bare shoulders. It’s hot, it’s summer, it’s sticky; I want to wear my singlets, skirts and dresses in order to avoid heat stroke, or even worse (shock horror), massive sweat patches. I understand that the percentage of my skin showing is possibly alarming, and I know this topic is debatable seeing I chose to live in a Muslim country, but I would really love to walk around feeling comfortable in my summer clothes. It’s the one thing that I approach with trepidation as I feel barley short of naked as eyes bore through my exposed skin. Although tourism has been flourishing in this country for the last ten years, these clothes still cause a stir on occasion. But what I don’t understand is that the younger generation of Turkish girls are wearing a hell of lot less than I do and draw little attention; I feel slightly discriminated against. However, in saying that, the semi-stardom status that I have in this country is rather addictive; perhaps this is one of those things I just suck up and take the good with the bad.
The last point I can vaguely remember about summer is the tourists arriving by the dozens (or rather millions). And without fail, the arrival of summer means the loss of my ex-pat badge I worked so hard to get. I feel I deserve credit for the groundwork I’ve done in this city (learning the language, shaking off stalker ex-boyfriends, dealing with difficult landlords); but no matter how far I’ve come, every year I get grouped back into the tourist group and get treated no different. All those cafes and shops that suddenly start up their invitations for tea, carpet viewing and what not, as well as the increase of random conversations on Istiklal about where I’m from, am I Russian, do I speak Russian, what is my name, you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen (hello, have you seen Angelina Joile?). I am fully aware of the hypocriticalness of my complaints towards tourists, seeing I myself am no native to this wonderful country. However, I am not ‘just another tourist’; I can actually make Turkish coffee and menemen, does this count for nothing?
So with all said and done, I guess Summer is just lashing out at the world as it comes to the realization that its days numbered (albeit a few million trazillion years off); perhaps it’s just trying to live life to the fullest. I guess we could all just pump up our air conditioners which may just make these hot humid summers end a million years earlier.
Too Fat for Thought
If you’ve ever lived in London you would have heard of the Heathrow injection. I’m not sure if such a concept has been created for Istanbul’s Ataturk airport (yet), but the basic principal is that upon entering a new country, you uncontrollably start the downward struggle against your waistline, which, should you get a good shot, will increase substantially. Now, I’ve lived in both London and Turkey and all I can say is they must’ve got me real good at both airports.
Of course, it didn’t help that I was travelling around Turkey and eating out every night sampling the delicious Turkish cuisine with its fresh bread, mezzes dripped in olive oil and super sticky sweets; good news for my taste buds, bad news for my hips. By the time my trip hopping around the country finished several months later, the damage was already done. I had ballooned, much to the surprise of my new found Turkish friends, and was relatively emotional about it. And of all the places to be, Turkey, I found out very soon after, is not the country to be sensitive in.
I was at my old workplace when I went to the kitchen to grab myself a coffee; you wouldn’t think that would be so damaging to the personal self-esteem, however, by the time I returned to my desk I had definitely deflated a few notches. During my coffee escapade, the tea lady had taken it upon herself to note my increase in weight, not by sitting me down and telling me constructively of course, but by squeezing one of my love handles between her fingers and tutting to herself. Being sensitive as I already was, I can’t say this move went down all so well, and promptly called a foreign friend to help me feel better (She did what? No, you’re not that fat.). My subsequent visits to the kitchen didn’t go much better as I was either informed that the coffee I was drinking gives you cellulite, or did I notice the massive big red spot on my face? ‘The one right there, wait, let me just point it out for you’. Now mind you, none of this was done with malevolence, or spite, or jealously. Just care, affection and the general Turkish concern for vanity, whether it be their own or yours.
And it doesn’t stop at weight. I found it rather amusing, whilst going for a wax of all things, that the beautician actually asked what I did and how much I earned within about 5 minutes of inflicting pain (I lied of course, if I said how much I really earn, she would probably be suspicious of how a 5’10, green-eyed, blond foreigner earns such money). I’ve found now that if someone asks me how much I earn, I just reply that ‘it changes from week to week’. If it manages to confuse them in the first instance, I usually can navigate the conversation to better grounds. Which they usually navigate back to some other personal question. Like how much do I pay for rent, which to me seems like an indirect way of finding out how much I earn by finding out how much I can afford. I’m still young, so the age question doesn’t affect me so much, but it also usually gets thrown in there among the top 5 things to ask.
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the course of my stay in Turkey, it’s that tact and Turks go together about as well as chalk and cheese. The openness of the Turkish culture initially surprised me, although as time goes by, I have also come to the realization that deep down I also really want to know the answers to the questions. Cultural standards and social acceptability had managed to suppress these desires prior to my move to Turkey, but now that the flood gates have been opened, I find myself wishing to ask the very same questions. Then again, who am I kidding; I’m long past wishing to know, I’ve already become ‘one of them’.
Of course, it didn’t help that I was travelling around Turkey and eating out every night sampling the delicious Turkish cuisine with its fresh bread, mezzes dripped in olive oil and super sticky sweets; good news for my taste buds, bad news for my hips. By the time my trip hopping around the country finished several months later, the damage was already done. I had ballooned, much to the surprise of my new found Turkish friends, and was relatively emotional about it. And of all the places to be, Turkey, I found out very soon after, is not the country to be sensitive in.
I was at my old workplace when I went to the kitchen to grab myself a coffee; you wouldn’t think that would be so damaging to the personal self-esteem, however, by the time I returned to my desk I had definitely deflated a few notches. During my coffee escapade, the tea lady had taken it upon herself to note my increase in weight, not by sitting me down and telling me constructively of course, but by squeezing one of my love handles between her fingers and tutting to herself. Being sensitive as I already was, I can’t say this move went down all so well, and promptly called a foreign friend to help me feel better (She did what? No, you’re not that fat.). My subsequent visits to the kitchen didn’t go much better as I was either informed that the coffee I was drinking gives you cellulite, or did I notice the massive big red spot on my face? ‘The one right there, wait, let me just point it out for you’. Now mind you, none of this was done with malevolence, or spite, or jealously. Just care, affection and the general Turkish concern for vanity, whether it be their own or yours.
And it doesn’t stop at weight. I found it rather amusing, whilst going for a wax of all things, that the beautician actually asked what I did and how much I earned within about 5 minutes of inflicting pain (I lied of course, if I said how much I really earn, she would probably be suspicious of how a 5’10, green-eyed, blond foreigner earns such money). I’ve found now that if someone asks me how much I earn, I just reply that ‘it changes from week to week’. If it manages to confuse them in the first instance, I usually can navigate the conversation to better grounds. Which they usually navigate back to some other personal question. Like how much do I pay for rent, which to me seems like an indirect way of finding out how much I earn by finding out how much I can afford. I’m still young, so the age question doesn’t affect me so much, but it also usually gets thrown in there among the top 5 things to ask.
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the course of my stay in Turkey, it’s that tact and Turks go together about as well as chalk and cheese. The openness of the Turkish culture initially surprised me, although as time goes by, I have also come to the realization that deep down I also really want to know the answers to the questions. Cultural standards and social acceptability had managed to suppress these desires prior to my move to Turkey, but now that the flood gates have been opened, I find myself wishing to ask the very same questions. Then again, who am I kidding; I’m long past wishing to know, I’ve already become ‘one of them’.
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