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.

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!

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.