Enginarchitecture

At the bottom of the horrifically steep hill on which I live, there is a covered market. I stop there regularly to buy fruits, vegetables and greens for the bunnies. The merchants recognize me and nod hello. The man who sells dried fruit sometimes invites me to sit behind his counter to drink tea.

If you never stepped outside the market walls, you could still tell the season by the changing piles of food. Recently, strawberries came in season. Mounds of cherries will be ripe soon enough, but now are too expensive. Later there will be mullberries, so fragile that if you're bag of them is heavy, half of that bag will be full of mullberry juice by the time you reach home.

Enginar (artichokes) are now in season, and bless them but their's is a long one. Some vendors sell nothing but. They sit with huge piles of them, deftly cutting and discarding the leaves and choke, then selling them in plastic bags with water.

Today at the market, one vender had built himself a green fortress of carefully stacked artichokes, as if prepared for a seige. Surrounded by three and a half walls, he sat in the middle, littering the floor with a speed that demanded my respect.

The Deaf Leading the Yabanci

As a reward for sending a slew of CVs and cover letters yesterday, and because today is, if not technically at least in reality, the last day of vacation, I decided to explore an area of Istanbul I had never seen. In the current issue of Cornucopia, an upscale magazine about Turkey (some think it’s too chichi, I like the photos) there is a short article on Itfaiye Caddesi. Running parallel to Atatürk Bulvari, it is apparently a place where many from Southeast Turkey have immigrated. According to the article, you can hear Arabic spoken in the neighborhood. Additionally, it is peppered with Byzantine churches. Most importantly perhaps, there you can find excellent honey in the comb. These are three things that please me: listening to Arabic, (I don’t understand a thing, but I’m used to it) Byzantine churches and the honey I have just recently learned to appreciate.

I armed myself with a detailed map of the area ripped out of a magazine. Often, maps are useless to me. I couldn’t find my way out of many bathrooms with one. I always have to turn them upside-down or sideways to match the direction in which I am going. My sense of direction is nearly hopeless so I rely on large monuments to guide me. Still, when I successfully follow a map, I pat myself on the back.

There was no back patting today, not yet. As I was walking down Itfaiye Caddesi (I got there by accident) I stopped to locate a museum which was across the street on my torn out map. An old man clutching prayer beads stopped and asked me where I wanted to go. After several attempts at telling him, he motioned to his ears, shook his head, took a folded piece of paper out of his canvas case, and motioned for me to write. Haaaa (this means “now I understand"). He’s deaf. I wrote the name of a Byzantine church for which I was also looking. I didn’t want to look stupid because the museum was within sight just across the street. Regardless, or possibly because of our difficulty communicating, he took the map from my hands, motioned for me to follow him and stepped out into traffic. Unable to tell him that my PTSD (due to being struck by a car several years ago) now and then rears its ugly head, I followed. Apparently there is a god who protects small children and elderly deaf men. And me, but only by association. He stopped a man standing in a store front to ask directions. The man didn’t know, but closed the door and took us down the street to what I believe was an emergency vehicle station. The emergency vehicle man looked carefully at the map, circled a place on it, gestured as he gave us directions and wished us a good day. I could pinpoint the moment he understood that before him was a Tarzan-Turkish-speaking foreigner being led by a deaf man by the subtle change in his expression. There was no disrespect, just curiosity. I had an image in my head of three blind cartoon mice.

My new friend and I ventured, he with a slight limp, a tilt, an occasional stumble and a giggle, across Atatürk Bulvari. Clearly, he is not fazed by regular suicide missions. I was pretty sure the church was in the other direction, but he was already halfway across the street. We stopped frequently to ask the location of the old neighborhood church. He stuck his head in several stores, loudly declaring "Yaaabanci (yabanci means foreigner) wants to know…" I think he was enjoying his position as tour guide. At one point, he walked into an open door onto someone’s private property. Unaware of the barking German shepherd and the house owner, he tried to get directions from a woman and small child. The owner looked at me quizzically. I pointed to my guide, my ears and shook my head. After the man gave us directions he left, only to pull up beside us in his car. All of us had a good laugh before we were deposited at a parking lot facing a small, brick, Byzantine church turned mosque. It was lovely and unexpected, with remnants of mosaics in the small pumpkin domes. The interior was painted a pristine white. It was not, however, Zeyreki Kilisesi.

We stopped to look at two tombstones; one of the poet Necati Beyin Kabridi (I think), the other of the historian/ philosopher Katip Celebi. My guide silently uttered a short prayer.

On the other side of the boulevard and up the hill, I noticed a Byzantine dome. I gestured to it. My friend started to cross the busy street without looking again, so I pulled on his sleeve and pointed to an underground passage. Up the hill, around a café and past a series of ancient columns. This indeed was the correct church. We attracted enough attention – my friend speaks very loudly – so that, although the church turned mosque turned museum was closed, the man holding the key agreed to let us enter. According to a sign, the building has been recognized as a UNESCO Heritage Site, and I have recently learned that restoration on it has been halted due to lack of funds. Unfortunately, photographs of the interior are forbidden. I would love to have images of the brick walls and high domes, all in various states of decay. There are seven extant original floor mosaic motifs, one of which is visible when a sort of fake grass colored rug is pulled aside, a padlock is unlocked, and a small wooden door is raised. This one is of Samson getting his hair cut.

My guide and I silently agreed on a sort of communication by writing on a piece of paper, nodding and gesturing. I learned that he is 76, has been in Istanbul for 55 years but had never seen Zeyreki Kilisesi before, studied law and became deaf sometime during a bout of meningitis and TB. The whole time, I kept hoping that he would not ruin the experience by asking if I had a husband, if I had kids, or telling me about an estranged wife. An Italian man of the same age would give me a sad marital story before giving me a wink and a nudge. As if. As far as I can tell, there was no hint of such hopes on this fine day. For that, I was very grateful, particularly because this man apparently has no fear.

Following a short bus ride, we went to another small Byzantine church turned mosque. He motioned for me to follow him behind the building to look at brickwork, a bit of sculpted marble and the height to which the ground has risen since the church was built. As I was taking photos, he motioned me to a building across the street with a cultural center in it. After climbing four floors – the man is quite nimble for one with a slight limp and a tilt - he knocked on a few doors until someone opened for us. Apparently, we interrupted some kind of meeting, but were welcome after I was introduced as a teacher who wanted to take pictures from the balcony. We were offered tea and a mercemek köfte, a kind of meatball made with red lentils. One of the men in the meeting gave me a quick tour of the center, pictures of folk dancers and their website address.

Sensing that I might otherwise find myself in all of the Byzantine churches turned mosques in the near vicinity and needing to buy dirt and hay before the stores closed, (a person needs hay for bunnies and more dirt to grow parsley for them) I wrote that I was going to Taksim to meet friends. Certainly, my grammar was far from perfect, but he understood. Since I can’t pat myself on the back for my map-reading skills, I will for my level of Turkish. I realized that I know more than I thought, and might actually be able to use the future tense correctly every once in a while. But I wasn’t allowed to leave quite yet. Across the street from the church is a Federation for the Deaf where I was introduced to a group of men who clearly have respect for my new friend. Tea in a café followed (Simitizza anyone?). Soon, we were writing bits and pieces on the paper. We finally introduced ourselves, and Remzi wondered why I have a Jewish name if I’m not. He also wrote me a little note, part of which I understood and concerns visiting the buildings designed by Mimar Sinan. I have been instructed to have a Turkish friend translate the whole thing for me. Not one wink or nudge.


Oh, I did hear Arabic spoken in a garage-like structure where several men were building cheap particle board desks, but I didn’t have the chance to buy any honey.

Anne geldi

My room mate's mother recently visited us for a weekend. I like her. She kind of reminds me of my Italian-American gramma. She sometimes points to my "Turkish balcony," or slightly pudgy stomach, as if to say "Where did that come from?" and then pushes food. Every morning, she prepares an elaborate kahvalte (breakfast) with cheeses, eggs and sucuk (a garlicky sausage), olives, and sometimes my favorite balkaymak. Bal is honey, kaymak is usually translated as clotted cream, but I think that's not quite right. In essence, it's a potent combination of fat swimming in naturally produced sugar. Liberally spread on freshly baked bread, it's one good reason for living. In her honor, I bought a special tea glass with a blue "A" (anne means mom) fused to the side.

I've learned to live with one of her habits, and from an informal survey of friends, have discovered it's quite a normal one. Each time she visits, she rearranges. One day I came home to discover that the door leading to the living room had been taken off its hinges to make room for the new furniture arrangement. Just last week, I discovered that the same door had been discretely stored behind the kitchen cupboards for months. After she leaves, I have to search for the new locations of spices, the trash can... She does clean out the fridge and that's a good thing. Sometimes, in her fervor but with a lack of options, she puts things back in the same order as she originally found them on a previous visit. Keeps me on my toes.

Metin's Words of Wisdom

I was dreamily thinking out loud on the service bus after school today. I said I was going to go home, make a good cup of coffee, sit on the balcony and read a magazine. Maybe after that, I would embroider. Metin looked at me and with conviction said, "Seize the rest of the day."

Indeed.

Miss Mary

The following is from my niece Mary. It speaks for itself.



HI!!! My name is Mary Hable. I’m over four and half years old. I live in Lino Lakes, MN with my Mommy and Daddy and two kitties, Chippy and Sophia. I have Tuberous Sclerosis Complex (TSC). TSC has caused things to grow on my kidney, heart, skin and my brain. The things growing on my brain are called tubers and they have caused me to have seizures since I was born. I have been on over ten different kinds of pills to try and stop my seizures but they haven’t worked all the way. About two years ago, I had surgery to remove four of the tubers from my brain and some of my brain to hopefully stop my seizures. It worked for three months. I still have some seizures but they aren’t as bad as they used to be. When I wasn’t even a year old, I was having really bad seizures, sometimes for more than ten minutes each. They made me and my brain tired. Because my brain was tired all the time, I couldn’t learn as fast as other kids. Even though I’m over four and a half years old, I can only do about what a two and a half year old can do. I started walking three weeks after my third birthday. I can’t talk very much but I understand just about everything. I know some sign language too, like “help”, “please” and “potty.” I still wear diapers even though I can go on the potty if I want to. I go to school with other kids that are behind and we have lots of fun.

About one in six thousand people are born with TSC. That’s more than have Lou Gehrig’s disease. The affect on everyone is different, from not even knowing they have it to death within moments of birth. Most people with TSC have seizures and growths on their skin. There is no cure for TSC. Please help me raise money for TSC research so maybe one day all people born with this disease can live typical lives or better yet, people will never again be born with it. We have a long way to go but with your help, I am sure it can happen. Thanks and I Love You! Bye!

Cenk: Warrior Prince

Shuppi was quickly outgrowing his little cage. He soon would not have been able to stand up to his full but short height. Once again, I found myself in the Spice Bazaar, but this time to look for the largest available cage. As I was drinking my glass of tea, I reached inside a cage to pick up a little ball of fur. He was very soft, very rambunctious, and quite adorable. Thankfully, I have a very tolerant room mate. Now Shuppi has a new friend.

Cenk (pronounced Jenk and means Warrior) is a slightly nervous bunny. He doesn't care much to be held, and he will only tolerate a short hypnotism. Although he is younger than Shuppi, he's surpassed him in size. From the size of his back paws, I predict he will be significantly larger. Eventually, they will grow out of this cage and I'll have to think of a better housing solution. Additionally, they'll both have to be fixed to prevent aggressive and territorial behavior. So far, they get along quite well. They cuddle and groom each other. They sit in their little house side by side. It's so cute it's nauseating.

Shuppiluliuma

Recently, I went to the Spice Bazaar to buy basil seeds at the plant stores. It’s not necessary to venture to Eminönü to buy seeds, but I like the crowds and activity. Since I was near the animals, I decided to have a little bunny therapy. I have a weakness for them. Some people say rabbits don’t have personalities. Some people are very wrong. After watching me play with some pink-eyed, white ones, (I’m not a fan of pink eyes but they were easily accessible) the pet seller dragged me (oh that was tough) into his store. He handed me one little fur ball, then another. I became rather attached to a tiny gray one, about a month old, who sat calmly in my palm. I was tempted, but I have a housemate who has a dog. I sat with the bunny. I had a glass of tea. I made a quick phone call to my housemate to ask if it was alright to bring my new friend home. Twenty minutes later I was on the tram with a new cage, dwarf rabbit food, bedding, and a tiny box full of one tinier dwarf bunny.

Shuppiluliuma (Shuppi for short) is named after a Hittite king. He’s small, so he needs a big name. While he is tiny and growing, he’s very fast. Unfortunately, he’s not exactly stable on his feet. As soon as he gets up a good run and a twisting hop, he loses footing and slides a bit. Rabbits have a behavior that we call “prairie dogging.” They stand on their hind legs and look around at the world. Shuppi exhibits such behavior, but overestimates his abilities. At times, he overextends himself and falls over. Undaunted, he does laps around the apartment, exhibiting a knack for getting into places he shouldn’t. The dog is a bit jealous and very curious, but so far hasn’t done him any harm. Shuppi pays very little attention to her, much to her disappointment. His playtime is, of course, supervised to avoid any mishaps.

Currently, Shuppi’s favorite food is parsley. I’m afraid I may be overfeeding him as his belly has become quite round. I put a vase of greens near his cage. This morning, he had already eaten everything within reach. Raised on his back feet, he succeeded in biting a stem above his head, gave a good tug, and fell over backwards, a bit of parsley clenched firmly in his teeth.

I used to have rabbits when I lived in Philadelphia. Norman Murray Feldshu, a female, non-practicing, Jewish, mini lop lived in the kitchen. She died a few years ago at the ripe old age of seven. Pippo Spano, named after a painting by Andrea del Castagno (a pet’s got to have a good name) a rescued, gray, male, dwarf mix rabbit lived in the living room. He loved Norman. As soon as I let him out of the cage every night he would run to Norman’s cage and deposit little gifts for her. Both of them, frustrated by their unrequited love, made the most unnerving grunts. Pippo was fond of running up the stairs, jumping on the furniture, eating popcorn and my housemate’s Akkadian translations. Recently, I had been thinking about Pippo, who was adopted by friends a few years ago before I went to London. After I brought Shuppi home, I learned that Pippo had died the week before. He too died at the ripe old age of seven. He had a really good life.