Well its merry Muslim Christmas time again. As my young years fly by faster and faster one after the other, i rarely stop to think about the circumstances that have led me to this time and place.
Looking back 5 years, to the historic pre Utku era, i would have never imagined a life in Istanbul with a Turkish man, making sounds from my mouth that are supposed to be Turkish words. Like, who spiked my apple juice with the unexpected?
While this year and a half has seen enough cultural and personal whirlwinds to write a decent drama novel, the essence of my time here is skin deep, it has been transfused into me, injected into my soul. Living in Istanbul is like living with you're fiery, old grandmother who knows and feels more than your whole family combined. She is unsympathetic and non forgiving yet wake the next day and she showers you with loving energy and charisma. She enlightens you with her historic experience and customs, she lends your ear to fables told through generations. Yet, it isn't what you hear, see and smell from her, its the way she shakes you to feel through her every move. You suddenly live your life with feelings never felt before. In an uncontrolled environment, you are forced to grasp a handle on all things real and not to let go, especially in times of dark desperation. Only after realising what you really want can you let go in order to pursue the more controlled destination.
So, i have let go. I have chosen the more familiar ground, where surf meets turf. Its time to head south and plant the seeds, grow the trees and heat the oven or whatever the phrase is. I wont even try to shake Istanbul from my stubborn back. No doubt my future Sydney sleeps hold treacherous dreams of sounds, smells and images through the winding streets of Beyğolu, but a little melancholy never hurt anyone.
You have me firm in you're grip Istanbul, loosen it please, it will make it easier for both of us.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Cutlure In a Box (winter nights and Turkish film)
I never really thought of myself as a home body. From memory i was a mover and shaker, ready to take on the town painting it red with wickedness. Those were the days of roof top dancing to the darbuka, midye tava and beer on the sidewalk and long strolls through Balat and Fener. Those were the pre rainy season days.
These days my apartment, heated at a temperature resembling the Sahara dessert and my local DVD store have a even 50:50 slice of my free time and I'm not ashamed to say so. But before you judge my hibernating tendencies with ‘seez the day’ snobbery, ill tell you that from the couch there is a crash course in Turkish culture that the guide books don't tell you about. The best part being, your baklava behind doesn’t have to move and inch.
As a foreigner in Turkey, watching a Turkish film is like watching my mother put on her makeup as a child. What you see in the reflection is vibrantly familiar yet you can’t quite relate to it the way you want to, you just yearn to one day experience it first hand yourself. Yeşilcam melodramas, modern art house films, and Sultan fairy tales have provided me with transient Turkish makeovers, applying coat after coat of color to my cultural inquisition.
These days my apartment, heated at a temperature resembling the Sahara dessert and my local DVD store have a even 50:50 slice of my free time and I'm not ashamed to say so. But before you judge my hibernating tendencies with ‘seez the day’ snobbery, ill tell you that from the couch there is a crash course in Turkish culture that the guide books don't tell you about. The best part being, your baklava behind doesn’t have to move and inch.
As a foreigner in Turkey, watching a Turkish film is like watching my mother put on her makeup as a child. What you see in the reflection is vibrantly familiar yet you can’t quite relate to it the way you want to, you just yearn to one day experience it first hand yourself. Yeşilcam melodramas, modern art house films, and Sultan fairy tales have provided me with transient Turkish makeovers, applying coat after coat of color to my cultural inquisition.
Turkish cinema has had an interesting ride through the 21st century. Up until 1896, films were a private luxury for the sultans court. Soon after, in a Galata square beer house, films first started to be screened for the Turkish public. However an actual Turkish production wasn't to be made for another 18years when in 1914 the Turkish army funded its reserve officer to make the documentary ‘The Demolition of The Russian Monument at St Stephen’. Fortunatly, the only way possible was up and in the 1940s film producers organised companies and in turn companies started to produce some notable work with their first festival winner ‘Unutulan Sır’ (forgotten secret). The 50s then brought shape to the industry with its budding directors such as Lutfi Akad, Atıf Yilmaz and Metin Erksan leading us into the goldern years of Turkish cinema of Yeşilcam. Described as the ‘Turkish Hollywood’ Yeşilcam, the result of the 1960s socialist desire for cheap collective entertainment, graced Turkish popular culture for a fleeting 10years between 1965-1975. Its downfall came after an economic crisis and the extension of television, yet those melodramatic years are still very much alive in Turkish home film collections today. Leading us to the present; the social and economic changes bred some internationally acclaimed films depicting the social issues of the time such as ‘Yol’ and Lütfi Akads ‘Gelin’. These days Turkish film is becoming more and more present on the international stage with a number of International film festivals being held in Istanbul and Ankara. Turkey with its natural and historic riches, and Istanbul with its spectacular aesthetics and winding Beyğolu streets makes for incredible cinematography, but its seems as though directors have only recently started to hone in on the visual and cultural. While a variety of dramatic and comedic films are out there, critics blame the lack of success of art house films to funding cuts and the intellectual minority. But ask around and spend an hour in your DVD store and you'll find a wild range of psycho thrillers, minimalist pieces, romantic comedies and classic dramas, here a few to start you off.
Selvi Boylum Al Yazmalım (My little red scarf, 1978) by festival award winner Atıf Yılmaz is a post Yeşilcam classic that flutters the hearts of any Turk with appreciation for archetypal melodrama. If not for its ‘city boy meets country girl’ theme then its for Türkan Şoray’s melancholic seduction or Cahit Berkay’s music that exceeds the average dramatic edge. Ask a local about it, and a sweet reminiscent smile appears on their face. Despite laughing when i should have been crying, my laughter was strung with appreciation, especially for Türkan Şoray’s narration of “What is love? Is is passion, or is it kindness?” because apparently you couldn't have both back then a source tells me. This is perhaps the most adored of its kind, and a must see but you better put the feminist in you on mute.
Yol ( The Way ,1982) By Yılmaz Gunay is a poignant, important classic; reflecting the social issues of the time. The screen play was written while Yılmaz Gunay was in jail and portrays an unrelenting image of Turkish authorities through the lives of five inmates struggling to make sense of their circumstances during a week’s leave from prison. Dedicated to the Kurdish struggle, it aroused controversy and was banned in Turkey for several years. Today, ‘Yol’ is one of the most significant films in Turkish history that sheds light on the bleak social issues of it’s period.
Uzak (Distant, 2003) by Nuri Bilge Ceylan is a minimalist, visually stunning art film that has impressed the international stage at the Canne and Chicago film festivals. Ceylan, a distinguished photographer has produced a number of impressive low budget films. The lonely lives of two men from the same village yet worlds apart living together in Istanbul is set under a microscope of long naturalistic scenes with minimal dialogue. Alienated from society, and ‘distant’ from their ideals we as viewers are on the provinces of their minimal interaction and cringing solitude. Ceylan’s spectacular yet simplistic shots around Istanbul and the country side balance these bouts of big city loneliness with beauty. ‘Highly recommended’ doesn't cover it, I'm insisting... see it.
Mustafa Hakkında Herşey (Everything about Mustafa, 2004) by Çarğan Irmak is a psychological thriller that displays some great talent. We watch, Mustafa (Fikret Kuşkan) a successful business man, collapse after his seemingly great life is torn apart by an accident. The accident unfolds more than a tragic loss, and casts him in a spiral of revenge and uncertainty that appears fatal for a certain taxi driver. Although thrilling in the best of senses, it delves into the subplot sensitively, revealing the not so successful sides to Mustafa’s life that he seems blind to. Great performances and a tight production make this one a good Friday night flick with a block of rich dark chocolate
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Fishermen's Friends
Utku's desire to go fishing resulted in 3 hours of arm extension exercises, a lesson in hooks and a possy of dedicated nine year old fisherboy's who ended up taking over his rod. But guess who caught the only fish of the day.... your's truly of course.
A Hunt For The Perfect Olive
A date with breakfast centers around my olive preparation. The week’s olives are place in a deep ramekin saturated with olive oil, sprinkled with oregano, chili flakes and the juice of half a lemon. A breakfast without olives is like a kebab without the meat, it just doesn’t happen.
This mornings olive preparation gets me thinking about this small oval entity of favorable flavor. I study their glossy gourmet image, wondering if their appeal could really get any better. How good can an olive get? Do I have ‘my’ olive that I shelter myself with it’s familiarity? Am I open and understanding to new and different olives in my life? What if there is a better olive for me? Would I feel comfortable being a serial ‘olivizer’, changing my olive type from week to week, or constantly seeking that perfect olive but never succeeding because I just don’t know what I want out of an olive?
I steer my mental energies back to the less dramatic, more impersonal question of: What makes the perfect olive? Figuring that one can’t claim theirs as being the best without extensive experience, I set out on a hunt for the perfect olive.
First stop Kadiköy, olive central. Off the ferry and up the hill into Kadiköy’s bustling market place, Balık Pazarı, I collide with a number of Şarküteriler (Deli’s), tightly positioned amongst the clamorous competition of vocal advertisements between the fish and vegetable sellers. Here, my little olive heart flutters and my piped pupils bulge at the site of glistening mountains of small salty heaven.
Ecevitler 2 breaks me into optimism with its gentle beckoning owner, Nural, reaching out his miniature olive shovel for my tasting pleasure. An Ecevitler Zeytin rolls on my tongue and I gently chew its salty plump meat off its tiny pip and focus on the task ahead of me. There are at least 10 different olives at this particular Şarküteriler and every one of them needs to be tried, tasted and tested before I move on to exhibit B. Pallet ready and pen in hand I work my way through the list, beginning with the black. The Sele olives are the most common, generally small, wrinkle skinned olives that grace almost every breakfast table. These are hand picked, salted and kept in Sele bags with oregano and bay leaves. Once fully seasoned, the salt is taken away and sold without being washed. Nural’s sele olive is Az Tuzlu Yağlı Zeytin (with oil and a little salt) a small but tender oily number that would suit any humble breakfast plate.
Moving onto his more specialised olives, Nural continues to explain that most of the world’s table olives are produced in Gemlik, a Marmara sea town close to Bursa. The region and climate is perfect for growing thin-skinned, small piped meaty olives. He proudly offer’s me a Süper Lüx Gemlik Zeytin, crimson, plump and slightly peppery it somehow doesn’t quite live up to it’s Süper lüx price tag, the Lüx Gemlik not fairing so well either with its slightly off taste, while the Gemlik Kıvırcık excretes a not too salty, fleshy, almost rosy undertone of flavor that melts in my mouth. Lesson 1: don’t be fooled by ‘Lüx’ labels.
Onto ‘greener’ pastures, I study the Duble Naturel Çizik (double natural), Özel Natural Çizik (special natural), and the Normal Çizik (um... normal). Çizik (to dash) refers to the slight cut given to green olives, releasing its bitterness before the salting process. Quietly curious about the difference between ‘naturals’ I wonder if there is a ‘super natural’ flavor I am yet to experience.... All preserved in lemon juice and oil their flesh has a crisp texture with the citrus influence adding an extra zesty tang. Like the label states, the Özel Natural Çizik despite its larger pip has, again, a subtle rosy undertone revealing how ‘special’ is really is. Then of course, you have the Biberli (with pepper/capsicum), an all time favorite that replaces the pip with a slither of pepper allowing it to slide down effortlessly sparing oneself of the not so favorable pip spit.
As I move on to the surrounding Şarküteriler a few more specialties stick out among the standard selection; I found the Bodrum Çizik a green olive with a purple tinge that is saltier than most of its fellow Çizik’s, hailing from the Aegean coast of Bodrum and Izmir. Further down the market are some gourmet green’s such as the Domat Çizik, a corpulent olive drenched in lemon oil and the Ayvalık Domat Kırma Zeytin another beefy green preserved in herbal lemon dressing, a rather gourmet touch I thought. Finally, in between a toothless fish seller and tonsil inflated fruit seller I discovered the smallest Sele olive known to mankind, the Kuru Sele Zeytin with its dryness not undermining its salty, full flavor.
Although Kadiköy has the tightest handle on all things olive, I kept with the theme of being open about my hunt and made the journey the Eminönü, home of all things spicy. Just to the left of Mısır Çarşısı (spice bazaar) is a stretch of specialized deli stores. All have their specialty, be it, pastırma, cheese or nuts and of course olives. Screaming out at me, amoungst these Turkish delights was Tat Gıda ve Şarküteri, here olives are sold in cheap abundance by zeytin gözlu (olive eyed) sellers. The insane variety included obese purple Kalamata’s that resembled over grown thumbs, which unfortunately only appetised my eyes rather than my pallet with its strange fishy essence. The Bademli olive’s tantalized with their crunchy texture and slither of sweetness in the center, while the Süper Umurbey Zeytin sent it’s blessing with its moist flesh falling off it’s petite pips. But the most unique of the olive family had been tampered with, the Portakallı Zeytin a green and pitted olive with a slice of orange wedged in its center. These, I’m guessing, would only be fit for those chocolate orange eaters, you either love it or you don’t.
So, after enough taste bud abuse from a severe salt overdose I decided it was time for a verdict. From trying at least 30 olives, the criteria was clear: Plump and moist, thin-skinned, slightly sweet and gently dented with a soft texture. The Ecevitler’s Gemlik Kıvırcık with its rosy aroma and fleshy, soft meat out did its black competitors and in green land the Ayvalık Domat Kırma Zeytin brought it home with its herbal halation and lemon zest. Countless olives tried their best at impressing my pallet, the one thing that came clear to me is however; never judge an olive by its image
Friday, September 14, 2007
So long summer
The hot steamy days that are spent jammed on a packed bus are thankfully ending. For one month of the year Istanbul transforms into one big outdoor Hamam (a traditional Turkish bath). Only there are no big bold women bending you over on the street to give you a serious scrub down and massage. The intense humidity only creates a lovely grease slicked skin mirror effect, where you may find a lovely lass touching up her lipstick in your forid reflection. Generally, these are the days when you best leave your vanity card at home and just roll with it.
The one thing i will miss about Istanbul's August is those long and lovely summer nights. Sitting outside till the wee hours, chugging down beer or sipping on a Gin and Tonic and watching the hustle and bustle of this wild and wonderful place. Either on a roof top terrace listening to the crowds below, feeling the rhythm either from the street or the darbuka (a small drum you'r spirit is ignited and the urge to move your hips in line with the beat is unavoidable.
Now, with cooler days and almost cold nights our little worried winter hearts mourn. Although we embrace the cold change, we know a six month spell of dark days and rainy rows are closer than we'd like. Nevertheless, nights of cooking and snuggling are not to be feared, as we know that every soul needs a hibernation period of some sort, particularly in this city.
The one thing i will miss about Istanbul's August is those long and lovely summer nights. Sitting outside till the wee hours, chugging down beer or sipping on a Gin and Tonic and watching the hustle and bustle of this wild and wonderful place. Either on a roof top terrace listening to the crowds below, feeling the rhythm either from the street or the darbuka (a small drum you'r spirit is ignited and the urge to move your hips in line with the beat is unavoidable.
Now, with cooler days and almost cold nights our little worried winter hearts mourn. Although we embrace the cold change, we know a six month spell of dark days and rainy rows are closer than we'd like. Nevertheless, nights of cooking and snuggling are not to be feared, as we know that every soul needs a hibernation period of some sort, particularly in this city.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Me? A model?
Apparently being tall with blond hair is a license to be a model in Turkey. Naturally, in the midst of being an aspiring Turkish soap opera star, one should make the most of such an opportunity. However, without knowing the first two things about being a model, i was slightly resisting this what seemed to be boring, superficial industry.
My first ever shooting two months ago was with a photographer who was kind enough to ease me into the pose process, he snapped away an unnatural set of photos of me trying to be sexy only resulting in stiff robotic images that looked more like 'rent a date' profile pictures. Finding this comic rather than embarrassing I recovered my ego with humility and took pride in my new vocab list of Turkish fashion verbs.
Aware that some serious professional observation was necessary for me to even try to be a model, Şenan, the photographer and now friend invited me to stay to watch a shoot for hideously ugly Russian exercise outfits. Eager to learn the pose practice i agreed and joined him for lunch consisting of carb free salads (his choice: was he trying to tell me something?).
Soon after, we rise to greet the in coming cattle of models dressed in hot little dresses with bright eyes ready for the selection process. Brazilian beastly beauties and Russian rookies clamber into the exercise outfits for the client's to get a good look at the fill out of these fresh sirloin's. Lined up next to each other like a 1960's beauty contest with expressions ranging from over observed embarrassment, severe self consciousness and detailed determination the girls dropped off one by one until there was one lucky winner, a determined Russian Rookie. Being able to understand the Turkish discussed around them, i started to question my intention to be a part of this rather brutal industry. It was only after remembering the few just as brutal acting auditions i have previously endured, i decided that being turned down based on your looks was much easier than being being turned down based on your talent...
So the chosen Russian Rookie and i had a girly chat about going out in Istanbul while i took the opportunity to quiz her on her extensive industry experience. I then looked on as she lowered her long locks and braced herself for work hour. Changing her poses for every snap she pouted, smirked and thoughtfully gazed off into the distance providing a full range of sexy sporty looks fresh and ready for the Moscow market. Her work manner was strong and controlled, powerful and poised, quite different to her off camera sweet and sensitive persona. Impressed and slightly more intrigued i lingered for a while and took in what i could.
After spending the whole day talking in Turkish about bits and bobs, impressing myself with the ease at which i was expressing, i was invited to another shoot on the roof top of a factory in ghetto Istanbul. Yeah, sounds totally credible right? So way out west in Istanbul, i found myself plonked down with make up and hair folk fussing, male models pruning and the photographer telling me i need 'erotic' photos for my folio....hmmmmm. Quick to explain that i am an actor and don't wish to have any sort of erotic photo protruding out of any sort of folio, he nodded in slight disappointment and directed me to the wardrobe.
Feeling less intimidated without sweet, beautiful composed Russian Rookies around i warmed up my most serious sexy face. 'You are a vamp' the photographer proclaimed in Turkish, 'Yes, Yes! Hold that', he continued to elude to my biker chick persona. Hours of shooting and a kebab later we moved to the roof where 40 degree heat pierced through our peanut butter pasted makeup that made way for sweat to surface.
A cat on a 'hot tin roof' was what i was. With my punk hair and black mini, the sun had warmed me to a tee. Minx was the theme of the afternoon, with the Istanbul skyline set against an empty blue sky, my legs in line with the mosques minarets i felt a million bucks.
Bring on the mini bottles of Moet and pass me a straw!
My first ever shooting two months ago was with a photographer who was kind enough to ease me into the pose process, he snapped away an unnatural set of photos of me trying to be sexy only resulting in stiff robotic images that looked more like 'rent a date' profile pictures. Finding this comic rather than embarrassing I recovered my ego with humility and took pride in my new vocab list of Turkish fashion verbs.
Aware that some serious professional observation was necessary for me to even try to be a model, Şenan, the photographer and now friend invited me to stay to watch a shoot for hideously ugly Russian exercise outfits. Eager to learn the pose practice i agreed and joined him for lunch consisting of carb free salads (his choice: was he trying to tell me something?).
Soon after, we rise to greet the in coming cattle of models dressed in hot little dresses with bright eyes ready for the selection process. Brazilian beastly beauties and Russian rookies clamber into the exercise outfits for the client's to get a good look at the fill out of these fresh sirloin's. Lined up next to each other like a 1960's beauty contest with expressions ranging from over observed embarrassment, severe self consciousness and detailed determination the girls dropped off one by one until there was one lucky winner, a determined Russian Rookie. Being able to understand the Turkish discussed around them, i started to question my intention to be a part of this rather brutal industry. It was only after remembering the few just as brutal acting auditions i have previously endured, i decided that being turned down based on your looks was much easier than being being turned down based on your talent...
So the chosen Russian Rookie and i had a girly chat about going out in Istanbul while i took the opportunity to quiz her on her extensive industry experience. I then looked on as she lowered her long locks and braced herself for work hour. Changing her poses for every snap she pouted, smirked and thoughtfully gazed off into the distance providing a full range of sexy sporty looks fresh and ready for the Moscow market. Her work manner was strong and controlled, powerful and poised, quite different to her off camera sweet and sensitive persona. Impressed and slightly more intrigued i lingered for a while and took in what i could.
After spending the whole day talking in Turkish about bits and bobs, impressing myself with the ease at which i was expressing, i was invited to another shoot on the roof top of a factory in ghetto Istanbul. Yeah, sounds totally credible right? So way out west in Istanbul, i found myself plonked down with make up and hair folk fussing, male models pruning and the photographer telling me i need 'erotic' photos for my folio....hmmmmm. Quick to explain that i am an actor and don't wish to have any sort of erotic photo protruding out of any sort of folio, he nodded in slight disappointment and directed me to the wardrobe.
Feeling less intimidated without sweet, beautiful composed Russian Rookies around i warmed up my most serious sexy face. 'You are a vamp' the photographer proclaimed in Turkish, 'Yes, Yes! Hold that', he continued to elude to my biker chick persona. Hours of shooting and a kebab later we moved to the roof where 40 degree heat pierced through our peanut butter pasted makeup that made way for sweat to surface.
A cat on a 'hot tin roof' was what i was. With my punk hair and black mini, the sun had warmed me to a tee. Minx was the theme of the afternoon, with the Istanbul skyline set against an empty blue sky, my legs in line with the mosques minarets i felt a million bucks.
Bring on the mini bottles of Moet and pass me a straw!
A bit of a winge and then a slap
I feel great. Nothing major has happened, but i feel great, and thats major enough. The last few months have been testing and turning me inside out. Feeling closer to the hear and now, my appreciation for all things Turkish around me has risen out of frustrated hostility and cultural paranoia. At my weakest a month ago, i blamed everything else around me except myself, an easier thing to do than i thought.
The intense Istanbul population that once energized me started to suffocate me which soon followed with forgetting my manicured Australian public manners, if you can really call them that. I started barging my way through the busy streets in a 'dog eat dog' like fashion, rudely pushing past annoying cutesy couples that hadn't yet learned how to share a foot path.
My previous form of transport, ferries, were a pleasure and an escape from the cities madness if only for 20minutes. The buses that i now have to catch are spent licking the sweat of a middle aged men's brow's, and catching old ladies after being thrown around the bus by road rage ridden bus drivers.
The blatant stares that Turkish males seem so bad at concealing, went from a 'its just harmless naivety' understanding, to a 'Ne?' (what?) approach, or staring back just as blatently untill they understand how weird it feels to have two eyes eating their complete energy. Highly recommended tactict in fact, as long as their not too young and horny where it can result in them being even more turned on and tailing you all over the city streets.
Then there were my worst days, when a simple Turkish word muttered withing 5 meters of me would drive me into total culturally hostile insanity. My once thirst for conversing in a new language had left the enthusiasm room and my way of dealing with it was by watching the trashiest of Hollywood films where I'd somehow created a romantic vision of cheesy New York affairs and self obsession.
So, i am happy to reveal Oprah, that those days of cultural dieting are over and i am back on the scales in light of a healthier future. Bring on the sardine style buses with sweaty armpits perfectly inline with my well tuned nose, Hello stares from undersexed men and good morning dictinary, are you ready for a workout?
Thanks to those, who sat, listened and consoled. You know who you are.
The intense Istanbul population that once energized me started to suffocate me which soon followed with forgetting my manicured Australian public manners, if you can really call them that. I started barging my way through the busy streets in a 'dog eat dog' like fashion, rudely pushing past annoying cutesy couples that hadn't yet learned how to share a foot path.
My previous form of transport, ferries, were a pleasure and an escape from the cities madness if only for 20minutes. The buses that i now have to catch are spent licking the sweat of a middle aged men's brow's, and catching old ladies after being thrown around the bus by road rage ridden bus drivers.
The blatant stares that Turkish males seem so bad at concealing, went from a 'its just harmless naivety' understanding, to a 'Ne?' (what?) approach, or staring back just as blatently untill they understand how weird it feels to have two eyes eating their complete energy. Highly recommended tactict in fact, as long as their not too young and horny where it can result in them being even more turned on and tailing you all over the city streets.
Then there were my worst days, when a simple Turkish word muttered withing 5 meters of me would drive me into total culturally hostile insanity. My once thirst for conversing in a new language had left the enthusiasm room and my way of dealing with it was by watching the trashiest of Hollywood films where I'd somehow created a romantic vision of cheesy New York affairs and self obsession.
So, i am happy to reveal Oprah, that those days of cultural dieting are over and i am back on the scales in light of a healthier future. Bring on the sardine style buses with sweaty armpits perfectly inline with my well tuned nose, Hello stares from undersexed men and good morning dictinary, are you ready for a workout?
Thanks to those, who sat, listened and consoled. You know who you are.
Monday, March 19, 2007
The winter wispers goodbye
1. Hamams. A Hamam is a traditional Turkish bath, that is pure grass roots, girly fun. My bosom buddy, Shannon and i have frequented the Hamam with two aims. One, to get a steam room scrub down and two, to talk love, life and all the things in between. While talking is a dominent feature for the first half hour, after the the warm marble seeps its love into our bodies, our minds and mouths turn into pureed potato and we just enjoy the quiet company. Hamam's are a gift, I'm not sure who from but if i find out who i will create my own dedicated spiritual group based purely on the creator of the hamam. Oh, and if your freaked out by other women's big beautiful bouncing bodies- then get over it- or you'll miss out on a truly spiritual, peaceful Sunday evening ritual.
2. Boots. Not sure about anyone else, but i rarely wore boots in Aus. Yes ok, i have owned a pair of cheap, paper thin flat blacks before, but they were not BOOTS. I'm talking thick healed, knee climbing, soft leather heaven. Its not uncommon for the less conservative women here to own several pairs of boots, ranging from cowgirl calves and ankle clogs to skin tight stocking style stilettos and fury leather lovelies. Worn over tight jeans or under a-line skirts, the women of Istanbul never look so good. With they're smokey made up eyes and they're cascading chocolate hair they torture the men who know they are a forbidden fruit never to be touched. Well, apparently I'm not so forbidden. Yes i am different, but I'm still an innocent flower right? Rather than taking offence to this weird attention, i ware my boots like i eat my fruit. Whole and with soul.
3. Food. Stuffed intestines anyone? Its a delicacy and one that is enjoyed to the last bite. Another is the head of the Lamb, which is oozing with oily pieces of cheek and goggley eyeballs. The man and i invested in a Lambs head and devoured it with our eyes closed yesterday, it definitely tantalised our taste buds. Hamsi (sardines), is a personal favorite. Preferably fried and washed down with beer, its perhaps more of a summer dish, but i just cant seem to make the distinction. Salep, a warm rice milk topped with cinnamon sugar that is only served in winter and is tailored to warming your body inside out, it's a great compliment to baklava too. These are a few of the favorites and shockers that always get people scrunching their face like a 2 year old until they try it. The rest of the yummy munchies, are all just a part of the beauty of living in Istanbul, and i doubt you'll get it at your 'authentic' kebab house on Sydney road either. So, another sales pitch for a visit to yours truly.
I wont say good riddance winter, but i will say good bye.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Aşkım
Sallarina found her sultan, hidden in the dark alley of Utku sokak. White as a ghost he had been running for miles trying to escape the demands of hundreds of harem hooligans. As Sallarina stepped out from a shadow hidden behind the disguise of the White Witch from Wangaratta, she whispered closely into the sultan's ear "come my pretty, i will protect you with my evil eye". Behind the closed doors of the Safronbolu stables she unleashed her true self. Despite premature ageing and post-teen pimples, she was the most lovely women he had seen that day. So, he thought to himself "desperate times call for desperate measures" and he whisked her away to the valley of sweet coffee and hazelnut cigarettes. They built a home made of roasted chestnuts and furnished it with ikea candy. They lived happily ever after knowing that one day the harem would soon become a refuge for soulless sultans who lost their way after not listening to the white witch hiding in the sokak of Safronbolu.
Happy Valentines Day canım benim, seni çok seviyorum.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Crossing Continents
As i wait for my Beşiktaş ferry i breath in the crisp, fresh sea water air. The sky is dark but not black. Intervals of light cascade through the sky as if fighting for the last dance of the day. It has been raining so the water is calm, and the seagulls use the opportunity to glide effortlessly through the air without the usual boisterous Bosphorus breeze to slow them down.
To catch a ferry on the Bosphorus is a daily escape from the city's chaos. It has an intrepid flare, with a continent to cross and rough winds to endure, some days i wonder if i'll even reach the other side. My wonder never reaches the height of worry as i gaze at the landscapes that have remained the ambassador image of this mysterious city for years. As the ferry stretches along the opening of the Marmara sea, the cusp of land that proudly display's its historic gems; the blue Mosque, Hagia Sofia and Topkapı Palace, aim to impress and impress they do. The shape of the mosque with its pillars swimming in the clouds is graceful and euphoric. The combination of gloomy winter skies and eary Islamic landscapes transfixes me into a film fantasy, where i, the exotic princess Sallarina from far away lands has travelled the seas in search for my Sultan. Something like prince Ali in Aladdin, only I'm the heroine and i must rescue my sultan from the evils of the Harem (where sultans once kept their copious amounts of women).
The five minute fantasy fades as my ipod song changes from the dreamy massive attack tunes to a Ministry of Sound heart skipping, ear thumping trance. A sign for silence i think to myself, well at least the silence that the wind chooses and the seagulls define.
As the ferry turns and gives a wink to the golden horn i gaze at the Galata bridge where the hussle and bustle of fishermen and finger food go hand in hand. From there my eyes follow up the hill to Galata tower, standing there staking it's claim in the once Genovese district, looking lonely although it will never dare to admit it. My eyes stretch along the shore front of Beyoğlu where i notice the familiar color scheme that seems so popular in and around the city. A back drop of mostly white apartment buildings elevate the also common reds, yellows and orangy pinks that give warmth to the city in the long dark winter. The odd high rise unwelcomely pops out of the pastel picture and i imagine my secret laser eyeball to disintegrate them into thin air, or thick air rather, in this part of town.
The Bosphorus straights are like Hoddle st on a Friday evening, or Sydney at, well... at anytime of day. Cargo boats sit at the tip of the Marmara sea for what seems like a week at a time, waiting to get a green light to pass through the systematic straights. They look like ancient battle ships wanting to challenge and conquer, itching to break the boundary of the red light district. In the green light district, the ferries drift by merrily in their Thomas the Tank Engine manor teasing the tankers with a cheeky smile. The dozens of seagulls that tail them tantalise the outdoor passengers with cheesy biscuits in their pockets to spare. As old and young stretch out their arms and sprinkle and spray their cheesy biscuit remains into the air, the seagulls use their beaks as basketball rings to fight for the last bite.
I rest my head back as the ferry draws near to the crowded shores. I take a deep breath in and exhale and let go of my 'Sallarina the Sultan savior' fantasy and prepare myself for my 'Sally the surreal surroundings saver' reality. I don't mind the reality really, yeah quite like it actually, not bad at all.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Birthday Bonus
I have half an hour left of being 23. While i should be out prancing around in my scandalous red lace dress, I'm instead having a typing party with the company of the latest hit tune 'MSN pop up sound'. Sad but true. Well someone has to bring home the bacon, maybe beef in this case. Fear not, when this little yabancı (foreigner) behind is out of the palace doors it will be unleashed and will shake a little tail feather. 80s style this time- yeah, its a bash at sal's and every ones invited.
So what are you waiting for? Don't worry, Ill make up the cost of the airfare with Turkish men, or women, or both- which ever you prefer. They're a dime a dozen here, funny that.
4 minutes until the clock strikes 12 and i feel a moment of birthday blues. When at home, my man has this habit of constantly being on the phone, not just enjoying an intimate chat while lounging on the couch, he likes to pace. He paces up and down the whole flat. I assume this is partly his man of the house pride and partly the desire to take back four years of leaving his goldmine of friends behind. Fair enough really. But i often think, shit. Where is my gold mine? Well, we all know where it is, it's just not able to be seen. My time here has been accompanied with the gold sifting pan in hand where I've tried to claim some shiny new friends. Well, i did, some nuggets came my way. Quite a few lovelies actually. But at times like those (the man pacing) and right now i think about what I've left behind. So this birthday ill be dancing with my new nuggets and ill be drinking for my solid gold rocks, you bloody buggers.
And the clock strikes 12. Twenty four and no return, thank god for that.
So what are you waiting for? Don't worry, Ill make up the cost of the airfare with Turkish men, or women, or both- which ever you prefer. They're a dime a dozen here, funny that.
4 minutes until the clock strikes 12 and i feel a moment of birthday blues. When at home, my man has this habit of constantly being on the phone, not just enjoying an intimate chat while lounging on the couch, he likes to pace. He paces up and down the whole flat. I assume this is partly his man of the house pride and partly the desire to take back four years of leaving his goldmine of friends behind. Fair enough really. But i often think, shit. Where is my gold mine? Well, we all know where it is, it's just not able to be seen. My time here has been accompanied with the gold sifting pan in hand where I've tried to claim some shiny new friends. Well, i did, some nuggets came my way. Quite a few lovelies actually. But at times like those (the man pacing) and right now i think about what I've left behind. So this birthday ill be dancing with my new nuggets and ill be drinking for my solid gold rocks, you bloody buggers.
And the clock strikes 12. Twenty four and no return, thank god for that.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Me? A nanny?
Yes, i have taken two little boys under my wing to show them the way. My purpose isn't to wipe buıms and spoon feed pureed apple. Its to teach, ill give it a bit more credit. I am solely an English 'play' teacher. There are 5 maids to do the bum wiping and spoon feeding and there is a mum and a grandma to do all the gooing and gaaing. I'm the role model, the base, the rock or perhaps more the soul, if you will.
Not my job of choice i must admit, but i can understand why it could be someone else's. Especially under these conditions. With a house the size of flinders st station and endless comforts without having to lift a figure and not to mention the more than decent wage, one could be very content. And i am, as this is only a short term stint. I am living in full time, which translates to, if you hear us call then you come running. I have a 3yr old munchkin with eyes like giant marbles and a 7 year old who is trying to find his Independence without letting go of the glorious dependence he has served to him on a silver platter. I have spent the last four days locked in a mansion with no outside access beside my humble morning run. The mornings are spent convincing the little one to start the day and i spend my nights easing their sugar filled bodies with some light conversation over a puzzle or two.
Despite dealing with a touch of night time loneliness in my nanny den and the eruption of daily tantrums with tears of gold, I'm rather content to be a key part of these boys lives. Although, the 3yr old i think has dramatically matured in the last few days. He has taken a liking to whats underneath my clothes rather than the bob the builder set he was so content with last week.... hmmmm, natural?. The little bugger already has back hair for crying out loud, but hey, Turks are known for a little extra body hair.
Iv been getting the Turkish cranking with daily discussions ranging from 'why i don't pray' to 'how much could i get to be a cleaner in Australia?'. Some days i am stoned with Turkish and i just spit out some embarrassing sounds coupled with ridged movements. Other days I ramble on as if I'm Oprah on speed only to see an expression of confusion from the patient maid in front of me. So there you go, i get a bit more bang for my buck- the job has a Turkish course thrown in.
So in a conservative kingdom where praying 5 times a day is a must and spiritual music drifting through the house is a source of air, where does a not so small town Aussie girl fit in? Well she fits just about anywhere apparently, with room for about 700 gypsy families in this fortress, she finds a way to fit.
Not my job of choice i must admit, but i can understand why it could be someone else's. Especially under these conditions. With a house the size of flinders st station and endless comforts without having to lift a figure and not to mention the more than decent wage, one could be very content. And i am, as this is only a short term stint. I am living in full time, which translates to, if you hear us call then you come running. I have a 3yr old munchkin with eyes like giant marbles and a 7 year old who is trying to find his Independence without letting go of the glorious dependence he has served to him on a silver platter. I have spent the last four days locked in a mansion with no outside access beside my humble morning run. The mornings are spent convincing the little one to start the day and i spend my nights easing their sugar filled bodies with some light conversation over a puzzle or two.
Despite dealing with a touch of night time loneliness in my nanny den and the eruption of daily tantrums with tears of gold, I'm rather content to be a key part of these boys lives. Although, the 3yr old i think has dramatically matured in the last few days. He has taken a liking to whats underneath my clothes rather than the bob the builder set he was so content with last week.... hmmmm, natural?. The little bugger already has back hair for crying out loud, but hey, Turks are known for a little extra body hair.
Iv been getting the Turkish cranking with daily discussions ranging from 'why i don't pray' to 'how much could i get to be a cleaner in Australia?'. Some days i am stoned with Turkish and i just spit out some embarrassing sounds coupled with ridged movements. Other days I ramble on as if I'm Oprah on speed only to see an expression of confusion from the patient maid in front of me. So there you go, i get a bit more bang for my buck- the job has a Turkish course thrown in.
So in a conservative kingdom where praying 5 times a day is a must and spiritual music drifting through the house is a source of air, where does a not so small town Aussie girl fit in? Well she fits just about anywhere apparently, with room for about 700 gypsy families in this fortress, she finds a way to fit.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
A Merry Muslim Christmas....
In answer to the most common question that is so gently presented by my sensitively thoughtful cherubs; no, Muslims do not celebrate Christmas. But what are those Christmas trees and Santa figurines doing in all those antique carpet store fronts you ask? Alas! They celebrate something but its not actually Christmas... its new years eve. Yes, news years eve.....is well, Christmas. Isn't globalisation sneaky and advertising clever! They do all the same things (minus baby Jesus under the chimney) they have presents, the big feast (where yours truly took charge of the turkey), a fake tree, and even those cute bell earrings with green and red ribbons tied in a bow (Memories are flooding back of my favorite auntie swanning around with a pare of these neatly tucked into each ear, and playing the role of Mrs clause oh so well).
So, as a foreigner expecting to have to go through some kind of rehab whilst suffering with drawl symptoms from Aussie Christmas fever, i was quite... well, id like to say excited, but more confused. In many ways i relished in the fact that i was somewhere soooo different that they didn't 'EVEN' celebrate Christmas. Shock! Horror! However, even though they don't celebrate the birth of Christ (not like we really do either), they bloody well celebrate Christmas!
So by the end of November, i have my man putting the pressure on with family presents, i have mum 'in law' (oops a bit presumptuous) asking me to do the turkey (i was tempted to turn up with a ham just to throw a spanner in the works) and jingle bells repeatedly playing on the radio!
Whats a culturally confused girl supposed to do? Just roll with it.
And so i rolled with it. We did the Christmas dinner on new years eve. I whipped up a turkey as if it was straight from my own back yard and seasoned it like i was Betty bloody Crocker. We did the presents 'ceremony', each person with their own time slot, we kissed and hugged and shed a little tear. We read our cards allowed, mine half in terrible Turkish and then even more terrible English. We cracked open the booze and didn't waste any time letting down the guard of family formality. We sat down at an intense spread of Turkish tasties and pastries, and braced ourselves for the ironically named dish, the Turkey. The mother of all meats went down well and so did Sal's reputation.
There were six of us- Yucel, Aysen, Utku and Ezgi and her new boyfriend, Mert, who i took under my wing as the 'new comer' and decided to educated him on a woman's worth (yes- i had few wines). We had pappa on one end sucking down raki (ouzo), mamma on the other being the hostess with the mostess and the two kids with their pissed partners on either side. Yes, it was a merry Muslim Christmas, and even though it doesn't quite measure up to fresh prawns, sunset swims and my brothers beer bellies, it still stood strong ground as a bloody good Christmas.
And who would have thought.
So, as a foreigner expecting to have to go through some kind of rehab whilst suffering with drawl symptoms from Aussie Christmas fever, i was quite... well, id like to say excited, but more confused. In many ways i relished in the fact that i was somewhere soooo different that they didn't 'EVEN' celebrate Christmas. Shock! Horror! However, even though they don't celebrate the birth of Christ (not like we really do either), they bloody well celebrate Christmas!
So by the end of November, i have my man putting the pressure on with family presents, i have mum 'in law' (oops a bit presumptuous) asking me to do the turkey (i was tempted to turn up with a ham just to throw a spanner in the works) and jingle bells repeatedly playing on the radio!
Whats a culturally confused girl supposed to do? Just roll with it.
And so i rolled with it. We did the Christmas dinner on new years eve. I whipped up a turkey as if it was straight from my own back yard and seasoned it like i was Betty bloody Crocker. We did the presents 'ceremony', each person with their own time slot, we kissed and hugged and shed a little tear. We read our cards allowed, mine half in terrible Turkish and then even more terrible English. We cracked open the booze and didn't waste any time letting down the guard of family formality. We sat down at an intense spread of Turkish tasties and pastries, and braced ourselves for the ironically named dish, the Turkey. The mother of all meats went down well and so did Sal's reputation.
There were six of us- Yucel, Aysen, Utku and Ezgi and her new boyfriend, Mert, who i took under my wing as the 'new comer' and decided to educated him on a woman's worth (yes- i had few wines). We had pappa on one end sucking down raki (ouzo), mamma on the other being the hostess with the mostess and the two kids with their pissed partners on either side. Yes, it was a merry Muslim Christmas, and even though it doesn't quite measure up to fresh prawns, sunset swims and my brothers beer bellies, it still stood strong ground as a bloody good Christmas.
And who would have thought.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
RIDE THAT WAVE
I feel like Carrie in 'Sex and the City', Turkish style. I am sitting in my dim lit lounge, feeling philosophically connected to my flat faced friend... my laptop. However, i am not wearing lace underwear and a wife beater singlet like Carrie, nor am thinking about why women are so unsatisfied with their complex/not so complex sexual conquests whilst sipping campari with touch of lime. In this episode i am wearing trackies, drinking beer and listening to turkish love songs..... whilst contemplating my complex/not so complex cultural conquests.
Im not sure if you can really call them conquests though. A conquest is something you have done, defeated, won. I have no conquests, and i don't think i ever will. However, i take things on like i am a conqueror. My mental metal shield and I stand in the front line, ready for the onslaught....
So drama aside..... I have began a life in Turkey. It is an interesting one and deserves my own objective attention. Although, now on my third beer and thirty-third turkish love song my objectiveness is shifting rather swiftly to sentimentality. Ok focus.....
I wish i could scan my brain and then cut and paste it onto this email page. It would be so much easier to see the compassion and confusion in the cultivation of my new found life.
I guess to give it a structure i should start from where i left.
The language was the first focus. I did a 2 week intensive which opened the happiness doors allot. It wasn't just that i was learning to communicate, it was introducing me to the lives of those other expats who chose to settle in the 'City of Lust and Fate' for whatever reason. A young politically-idealistic french couple, a swiss musician who tuned an old turkish ladies piano once a month, a sweed who had been working in Istanbul for 2yrs without knowing the language, a cuban ex-model who fell in love with a turkish tourist while on holiday in Havana, and a handful of german students curious about the turkish-german crossroads they have grown up with, and me. The classes proved to be as intense as their title and usually finished with a couple of beers in the nearby Taksim to ease the brain.
While id like to say that i am now so fluent that i can report on all political matters in turkish, im not (i cant even do it in english). But i can get my self mouthing something along the lines of 'no, lover turkish not want i' (i already have one so fuck off you sleezy bastard). So this period not only gave me the confidence to divert those prying eyes and to impress the local market with my extensive vocab of elma (apples), ekmek (bread) beyaz peynir (feta), it also gave me an intro to a life that i would develop solely on my own. Which was a trivial turning point.
A week after that, uni started. That was excitement central. I forgot what it felt like to walk into uni in its first week. The different societies doing their organic social sign-ups, turkish folk singers bustin a tune on the grass in front of a group of black sea folk dancers, spanish theatre, and friends gathering to tell their tales of their summer adventures. After feeling my fly on the wall status shift to sticking out like a sore thumb, i slipped into the international office where i was babysat for at least 5 minutes. There i see the small selection of international students, similar to a seasonal fruit platter. An assortment of students, some seasonal but a bit too firm for consumption, and others ripe and ready for an all consuming experience (eg- nectarine in peak season from northern queensland). I think i was one of the unseasonals, a mandarin that would peel away a piece of skin only to quickly put it back into place for some more ripening.
I took my time in the social department. I didn't want to rush into friendships desperately. I was more concerned about my study load (double than what i did in aus) and the incredible standard of academia around me. Bosphorus University takes the top 10% of students in Turkey and has a fantastic reputation, especially from humanities and social sciences. So you can imagine me waltzing into class on my first day with my aussie head held high expecting to be advantaged in class with my mother tongue, only to hear things like "but doesn't the Leviathan theory demonstrate that galilean physics provides a human model of psychology that lays the foundation of a genuine science of politics?" from my non-native english speaking fellow students.
Yes i thought i was up-shit creek without a paddle in the amazon for while there and enjoyed a lovely series of panic attacks. Now, after nuzzling my wet nose into the source of their geniusness and absorbing anything and everything in a spunge-like fashion, i have found a dignified place in my classes. All stuff Im really enjoying too, identity and culture, Turkish modern literature (in english translation), History of modern turkey, the play and the stage, social and political philosophy and of course a turkish language class. All juicy and contrasting stuff.
Now, the entertainment department definately has not been neglected. I went through a really 'interesting' time while Utku was playing rambo at military service. He was there for 3 weeks at the beginning of the semester, and naturally sal turned into a loose cannon! I made a party possie from uni and became 18 again. Fanbloodytastic. The weeks were spent roaming the city and giving in to its pull when the sun went down. And man is there a night life here! Forget New York and London, the whole worlds party/drunken/randy population is missing out my brothers and sistas! There is a huge choice of venues; reggae, world music, funk, chilled groves, live gypsy music, heavy metal rock bars, techno dance parties whatever the hell you want! So sal went a tad crazy and after hip-swivilen, booby shakin, belly-protruding dancing she usually ended up solo on the dance floor with her eyes closed mouthing the words she didn't know to a soulful french tune.
So the body got a battering and so did the soul after while. There is only so much drunken rampaging one can cope with. I am steady on my feet now, my head isn't so much in the clouds and i have a couple of great, grounding friends who want to continue their cultural intrigue without the beer goggles on. Still of course, when the night calls every now and again i give into the pull of the 'The City of Lust and Fate'.
Rather than observing the historic architecture, sights and general aesthetics of Istanbul. At the moment, my observations have been more closely related to the social structure here in Turkville. They arent calculated observations, just general feelings and energy i get from friends and 'the' family. At the moment i am struggling with it. I am struggling being part of something i am not sure how to be a part of. I will always be a foreigner, and that's ok.... for now, i think i am happy in that box where it allows excuses for not withstanding the pressures that have never before been presented to me. However my box has a crack, and i have a responsibility to mend it. Nobody can do it for me. I have to find a way to mend it without offending anyone and at the same time being true to myself. I know these metaphors aren't giving much away, im not quite comfortable typing it in an email where it can be taken out of context. Its something i am taking note of and bringing to the surface every now and again... when it needs to be listened to.
So i wanted to position this email more around the surface events. It hopefully paints a picture of the wave i was surfing and the unavoidable dump at the end (straight from Manly beach when the water witch is at her best). You know what, upon arrival at Istanbul they should plaster a big warning sign at immigration WARNING: THIS CITY IS LIKE A DRUG, ENJOY THE HIGH BUT PREPARE FOR AN ALL CONSUMING COME DOWN.
Im not sure if you can really call them conquests though. A conquest is something you have done, defeated, won. I have no conquests, and i don't think i ever will. However, i take things on like i am a conqueror. My mental metal shield and I stand in the front line, ready for the onslaught....
So drama aside..... I have began a life in Turkey. It is an interesting one and deserves my own objective attention. Although, now on my third beer and thirty-third turkish love song my objectiveness is shifting rather swiftly to sentimentality. Ok focus.....
I wish i could scan my brain and then cut and paste it onto this email page. It would be so much easier to see the compassion and confusion in the cultivation of my new found life.
I guess to give it a structure i should start from where i left.
The language was the first focus. I did a 2 week intensive which opened the happiness doors allot. It wasn't just that i was learning to communicate, it was introducing me to the lives of those other expats who chose to settle in the 'City of Lust and Fate' for whatever reason. A young politically-idealistic french couple, a swiss musician who tuned an old turkish ladies piano once a month, a sweed who had been working in Istanbul for 2yrs without knowing the language, a cuban ex-model who fell in love with a turkish tourist while on holiday in Havana, and a handful of german students curious about the turkish-german crossroads they have grown up with, and me. The classes proved to be as intense as their title and usually finished with a couple of beers in the nearby Taksim to ease the brain.
While id like to say that i am now so fluent that i can report on all political matters in turkish, im not (i cant even do it in english). But i can get my self mouthing something along the lines of 'no, lover turkish not want i' (i already have one so fuck off you sleezy bastard). So this period not only gave me the confidence to divert those prying eyes and to impress the local market with my extensive vocab of elma (apples), ekmek (bread) beyaz peynir (feta), it also gave me an intro to a life that i would develop solely on my own. Which was a trivial turning point.
A week after that, uni started. That was excitement central. I forgot what it felt like to walk into uni in its first week. The different societies doing their organic social sign-ups, turkish folk singers bustin a tune on the grass in front of a group of black sea folk dancers, spanish theatre, and friends gathering to tell their tales of their summer adventures. After feeling my fly on the wall status shift to sticking out like a sore thumb, i slipped into the international office where i was babysat for at least 5 minutes. There i see the small selection of international students, similar to a seasonal fruit platter. An assortment of students, some seasonal but a bit too firm for consumption, and others ripe and ready for an all consuming experience (eg- nectarine in peak season from northern queensland). I think i was one of the unseasonals, a mandarin that would peel away a piece of skin only to quickly put it back into place for some more ripening.
I took my time in the social department. I didn't want to rush into friendships desperately. I was more concerned about my study load (double than what i did in aus) and the incredible standard of academia around me. Bosphorus University takes the top 10% of students in Turkey and has a fantastic reputation, especially from humanities and social sciences. So you can imagine me waltzing into class on my first day with my aussie head held high expecting to be advantaged in class with my mother tongue, only to hear things like "but doesn't the Leviathan theory demonstrate that galilean physics provides a human model of psychology that lays the foundation of a genuine science of politics?" from my non-native english speaking fellow students.
Yes i thought i was up-shit creek without a paddle in the amazon for while there and enjoyed a lovely series of panic attacks. Now, after nuzzling my wet nose into the source of their geniusness and absorbing anything and everything in a spunge-like fashion, i have found a dignified place in my classes. All stuff Im really enjoying too, identity and culture, Turkish modern literature (in english translation), History of modern turkey, the play and the stage, social and political philosophy and of course a turkish language class. All juicy and contrasting stuff.
Now, the entertainment department definately has not been neglected. I went through a really 'interesting' time while Utku was playing rambo at military service. He was there for 3 weeks at the beginning of the semester, and naturally sal turned into a loose cannon! I made a party possie from uni and became 18 again. Fanbloodytastic. The weeks were spent roaming the city and giving in to its pull when the sun went down. And man is there a night life here! Forget New York and London, the whole worlds party/drunken/randy population is missing out my brothers and sistas! There is a huge choice of venues; reggae, world music, funk, chilled groves, live gypsy music, heavy metal rock bars, techno dance parties whatever the hell you want! So sal went a tad crazy and after hip-swivilen, booby shakin, belly-protruding dancing she usually ended up solo on the dance floor with her eyes closed mouthing the words she didn't know to a soulful french tune.
So the body got a battering and so did the soul after while. There is only so much drunken rampaging one can cope with. I am steady on my feet now, my head isn't so much in the clouds and i have a couple of great, grounding friends who want to continue their cultural intrigue without the beer goggles on. Still of course, when the night calls every now and again i give into the pull of the 'The City of Lust and Fate'.
Rather than observing the historic architecture, sights and general aesthetics of Istanbul. At the moment, my observations have been more closely related to the social structure here in Turkville. They arent calculated observations, just general feelings and energy i get from friends and 'the' family. At the moment i am struggling with it. I am struggling being part of something i am not sure how to be a part of. I will always be a foreigner, and that's ok.... for now, i think i am happy in that box where it allows excuses for not withstanding the pressures that have never before been presented to me. However my box has a crack, and i have a responsibility to mend it. Nobody can do it for me. I have to find a way to mend it without offending anyone and at the same time being true to myself. I know these metaphors aren't giving much away, im not quite comfortable typing it in an email where it can be taken out of context. Its something i am taking note of and bringing to the surface every now and again... when it needs to be listened to.
So i wanted to position this email more around the surface events. It hopefully paints a picture of the wave i was surfing and the unavoidable dump at the end (straight from Manly beach when the water witch is at her best). You know what, upon arrival at Istanbul they should plaster a big warning sign at immigration WARNING: THIS CITY IS LIKE A DRUG, ENJOY THE HIGH BUT PREPARE FOR AN ALL CONSUMING COME DOWN.
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Light me up
A small example of the color the Grand Bazar displays, in more ways than one.
Sunset on the Bosphorus
Sipping a warm class of tea, waiting for the ferry to take me to a wedding where the lights center the Bosphorus