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.

The winter wispers goodbye

Much to my excitement the winter that didn't really live up to its treacherous expectations is signing off for another year. While still chilly, the sun peaks through the once grey skies and gently massages our goose bumps. I must admit though, an Istanbul winter is more than depression, red wine- stained teeth and pasty white skin. It lures mystic and encourages internal UV rays that stimulates the parts of the body that need an extra boost. It says to us, 'go on buy that pair of Italian leather boots and let them be loud as you walk along the croweded streets'. I will now diligently outline the three best things about winter in Istanbul.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.