Recently, a friend asked me what I miss from my childhood. What a lovely question. I often focus on negative memories, or, because I am surrounded by them, I relive the awkwardness of adolescents. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it, sorting memories, trying to differentiate between nostalgia and lack, and the things whose importance or pleasure I may have exaggerated or over-sentimentalized since.
I miss penny candy. It gave me great joy. I would do some chores around the house to earn 25 cents with the sole intention of riding my bike to the Ben Franklin Store to buy candy. I would choose with great care 24 pieces with one cent left over for tax. The process was a long one, and almost as enjoyable as eating. I would make a pocket out of the front of my T-shirt and study the bins of Smarties, rolled licorice with a little sugar dot in the center, root beer barrels. Kits were more than a penny, but worth the investment because they had four individually wrapped pieces in one package. I would empty my T-shirt pocket on the counter, and the lady whose name I never knew who always wore the same matt red lipstick, a blue smock and cat eye glasses would count them, take my quarter and return my purchase in a small paper bag. Back home, I would eat one piece after another, feeling a little sad when I had finished them and was only left with a small paper bag full of wrappers. Years later, after I had moved away, the same lady whose name I never knew who was wearing the same smock glasses and lipstick (I always assumed it came from the Avon lady) told me that she remembered me and penny candy. For some reason, I was embarrassed.
I miss fishing and the silence of my grandfather.
I miss my dog, the one I shared with my dad. Brandy was an English Setter. Her eyes were surrounded by black spots. She wasn’t the best hunter in the world, but she was gentle.
I miss believing just a little bit that life could really be like a television commercial in which people really do spontaneously burst into song because they really like Dr. Pepper.
I miss the apple tree in the back yard. Dad built two platforms in the tree. I spent hours reading in that tree, swinging from branches, daring myself, my siblings and friends to jump from the higher of the platforms. I miss daring to jump, scared of breaking a bone, but doing it anyway.
I miss getting into trouble. Not the trouble itself, but what preceded it. Taking the hose out to the sandbox under the apple tree to make an unholy mess. Jumping waves in Lake Superior despite express orders not to get wet. Eating the peas on the pod before they were ripe and without permission. Too bad I didn’t think to hide the empty pods farther away from the pea patch.
I miss my Spider Bike with the banana seat, plastic basket with ugly plastic flowers on the front and a raccoon tail from the Corn Palace in South Dakota that I bought with my own 50 cents tied to the back. Popping wheelies. Taking the shortcut through the creamery and maneuvering around the fences no-handed. So that bike nearly killed me one summer day, I still miss it.
I miss winter. A kid’s winter, not the one I have to slog through to get to work and back. Walking to the ice skating rink with my skates over my shoulder in a special bag made for me by my godmother, wearing four pairs of socks and jeans made a little uncomfortable by the extra long johns underneath them. Tobogganing down the golf course hill and spilling the sled. The smell just before it snows. Red cheeks.
I miss Christmas. I miss the anticipation of it. Obsessively decorating sugar cookies. Making Christmas present projects at school, wondering if they were stupid or if Mom would like them. The snow village and nativity set that Mom set up on the bookshelves over a layer of cotton, the little skiers and skaters, houses with red cellophane windows that one day we thought would be fun to poke out with our fingers. The red felt stockings that Mom made for each of us (mine has a snowman on it) filled with an orange, a big candy cane and pocket change in the toe. Dad would make egg noodles the week before Christmas. All the chairs were draped with them. Some of these were for the traditional Christmas Eve chicken soup. I miss Christmas carols, not the ridiculous version of Jingle Bells that was playing on a loop in Ikea today, but the kind we used to sing in church. I miss Christmas Mass, especially when we were old enough to stay up for the midnight one, driving to church and picking our way through the cold parking lot early enough to find a good pew. I especially loved the wooden nativity set at the altar and kept track of the Three Wise Men’s progress to it before Epiphany. One of them had a beautiful elephant.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Home
I recently moved to Rumeli Hisarı, a very different section of Istanbul than Beşiktaş. My old neighborhood, its blacktop and concrete, its ugly rectangular buildings, is not the most aesthetically appealing one. Rumeli Hisarı is more like a village. Its narrow, irregular streets are lined with ivy-covered stone walls. Some of the streets are paved with flattish stones and are flanked by fig and pomegranate trees. Some mornings, as I walk to the bus stop, random people stop to offer me a ride up the steep and winding hill. I take their offers.
From the front garden of my building, I can see a small slice of the Bosphorus, the lights reflecting off the water in the evenings. There were two fig trees in the back yard, but the landlord in all his wisdom cut them down. Fig trees are quite hardy and these will probably grow back in the spring. When they mature, I hope they drop their rotted fruit down the back of my landlord’s neck to his shoes. There is a compost pile to the right of the steps leading from the back to a narrow side street. I am quite fond of the compost pile and regularly heap swept leaves and vegetable peels on it, happy in the thought that I am making rich, dark dirt.
I have an unusual neighbor. I can’t tell how old she is: she could be 40, she could be 70. Clearly, life has not been easy for her. She’s short, a little round and walks with a slight limp. Her clothes are old, worn and usually quite dirty. At one time, they were probably very colorful, but now are dull and gray. She wears them in layers, and they don’t always fit her well. Her hair, too, is lifeless and gray, the color of dirty snow with just a hint of yellow. In contrast to her appearance, however, she is incredibly lively. She energetically marches around the neighborhood at all hours of the day and evening. For teeth, she has two coffee-colored stumps. One is on the top left, and the other on the bottom right side of her mouth. Because of her lack of teeth, is difficult for me to understand her. I suppose many people wouldn’t bother to talk her because she is an odd, albeit regular part of the neighborhood landscape, but I have decided that she’s harmless. The first few times I talked to her, she looked at me suspiciously and spoke sharply. Maybe she was worried I would hurt her or steal from her. Later, she began to smile at me and ask questions – sometimes the same one three or four times. “Are you married? Where do you live? Do you work? How long have you lived here?” At least I think that’s what she asks me. Every time I speak to her, she shows surprise that I don’t understand her, and disbelief that I am a foreigner who doesn’t speak Turkish very well. Yesterday, I saw her near the Spice Bazaar, sitting on a low concrete ledge in the rain. She was selling tissues out of a vegetable box set on a plastic garbage bag. She looked at me blankly, then slowly, I think, she realized she knew me but didn’t know from where.
She lives in the house next to mine. In fact, her house looks a lot like her, built of ill-fitting, grubby layers. It’s made of bricks, odd bits of wood, and looks as if it’s held together with glue and chewing gum. My neighbor may be poor, but that doesn’t mean she has no projects, no dreams. At the front and the back of her house, she has piled great stacks of wood and other building materials. I often see her dragging chunks of wood, boxes or even clay roof tiles through the narrow streets to add to her piles. According to my other neighbor, she’s planning to build herself a new house.
I don’t know her story. I don’t know if she has a family, if she had a husband or children. I don’t know if she’s happy, or even if she’s really as crazy as my other neighbors think. I don’t know if I want to know.
From the front garden of my building, I can see a small slice of the Bosphorus, the lights reflecting off the water in the evenings. There were two fig trees in the back yard, but the landlord in all his wisdom cut them down. Fig trees are quite hardy and these will probably grow back in the spring. When they mature, I hope they drop their rotted fruit down the back of my landlord’s neck to his shoes. There is a compost pile to the right of the steps leading from the back to a narrow side street. I am quite fond of the compost pile and regularly heap swept leaves and vegetable peels on it, happy in the thought that I am making rich, dark dirt.
I have an unusual neighbor. I can’t tell how old she is: she could be 40, she could be 70. Clearly, life has not been easy for her. She’s short, a little round and walks with a slight limp. Her clothes are old, worn and usually quite dirty. At one time, they were probably very colorful, but now are dull and gray. She wears them in layers, and they don’t always fit her well. Her hair, too, is lifeless and gray, the color of dirty snow with just a hint of yellow. In contrast to her appearance, however, she is incredibly lively. She energetically marches around the neighborhood at all hours of the day and evening. For teeth, she has two coffee-colored stumps. One is on the top left, and the other on the bottom right side of her mouth. Because of her lack of teeth, is difficult for me to understand her. I suppose many people wouldn’t bother to talk her because she is an odd, albeit regular part of the neighborhood landscape, but I have decided that she’s harmless. The first few times I talked to her, she looked at me suspiciously and spoke sharply. Maybe she was worried I would hurt her or steal from her. Later, she began to smile at me and ask questions – sometimes the same one three or four times. “Are you married? Where do you live? Do you work? How long have you lived here?” At least I think that’s what she asks me. Every time I speak to her, she shows surprise that I don’t understand her, and disbelief that I am a foreigner who doesn’t speak Turkish very well. Yesterday, I saw her near the Spice Bazaar, sitting on a low concrete ledge in the rain. She was selling tissues out of a vegetable box set on a plastic garbage bag. She looked at me blankly, then slowly, I think, she realized she knew me but didn’t know from where.
She lives in the house next to mine. In fact, her house looks a lot like her, built of ill-fitting, grubby layers. It’s made of bricks, odd bits of wood, and looks as if it’s held together with glue and chewing gum. My neighbor may be poor, but that doesn’t mean she has no projects, no dreams. At the front and the back of her house, she has piled great stacks of wood and other building materials. I often see her dragging chunks of wood, boxes or even clay roof tiles through the narrow streets to add to her piles. According to my other neighbor, she’s planning to build herself a new house.
I don’t know her story. I don’t know if she has a family, if she had a husband or children. I don’t know if she’s happy, or even if she’s really as crazy as my other neighbors think. I don’t know if I want to know.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Alaturca
After I so abruptly left the hotel in a fit of anger, vented in the direction of friends, and suddenly felt unburdened, I was in need of a place to stay. I wasn’t worried, as several people offered to put me up for at least a few days. My main concern was for my rabbits.Let me back up for a minute. I brought the rabbits with me. Because the airlines allow dog and cats but not rabbits, Cenk, Shuppiluliuma and I took the night bus from Istanbul to Cappadocia. I didn’t want to ask my housemate to be responsible for them for a month, and I miss them when I’m gone. The trip was kind of rough. The bus people were very kind and let me check on them whenever we made a stop. On the way to Cappadocia, they were accompanied by several pigeons in a box stacked on top of their cat carriers. Maybe they were comforted by the cooing that resonated in the luggage compartment. My friends Taner and Nevzat made a huge, divided cage for them. I like to think they were quite happy in it.
Taner, as you may remember from an older post, is the owner of Alaturca Old Collection, a carpet, kilim, and souvenir shop not far from the Uçhisar Castle. (It’s not really a castle. More on that later.) He is partially responsible for my financial ruin; I buy kilims from him. In the evenings, I often went to Alaturca to relax, have dinner, maybe a beer or two. My Italian comprehension improved by listening to his friends who were visiting from Sicily, not to mention absorbing backgammon strategies. I especially like the atmosphere that Taner, his helpers and friends have developed in Alaturca. Of course, it’s a business and the goal of a business is to make a profit, and pay the employees and bills on time. Often, there is a high degree of pressure from carpet and souvenir sellers anywhere in Turkey. A walk through the Grand Bazaar is never without accosts from the leather, carpet, narghile, ceramic sellers. The approach here is quite different. Passersby are invited to drink tea, coffee, maybe a glass of local wine, to sit and chat, to give and receive tips on where to best see the sunset. No pressure. One French family was so pleased by the hospitality – they had arrived by chance while olives, cheese and wine were being passed – that they returned the following evening with wine from their own region.
This room is full of treasures: jewelry, shawls, embroidered and embellished clothing...
Following my departure from the hotel “employ” (I worked in exchange for lodging and meals) Taner came to my rescue by offering me and the bunnies a place to stay in the pension above the shop. Without exaggeration, I had one of the best weeks of vacation at the pension. Italian coffee and Turkish pastries for breakfast. Freedom to come and go unchained from my computer. Puttering. Making jewelry and playing with decorations from Turkmeni brides’ headgear. I especially loved the kitchen. It’s simple, but big. I cooked. Everyone ate happily.
From across the street
Taner and Ferhat We drank raki with melon, a happy combination.
We ate many dinners under the awning.
Every morning, Ali and Nevzat set up all the
tables and trays, hang kilims, roll out the felt rugs...
We ate many dinners under the awning.
Every morning, Ali and Nevzat set up all thetables and trays, hang kilims, roll out the felt rugs...
Every night, they put everything inside.
Balloon over Uchisar
Early one morning, I heard an odd noise, like a large welder’s torch, from somewhere above. A handful of balloons were following the wind over Uçhisar.
Before
Before
One fine day, after I had bought an antique nomad milk filter for too much money (I knew it was a little pricey, but it made me really happy) Taner informed me that he had rooms upstairs full of old things. I was welcome to dig. And dig I did. One fine morning, when it wasn’t too hot, I took it upon myself to pull everything out of the storage bin and spread it out on the roof. I found countless treasures: chains for horses, stirrups, balances, wooden tools, farm tools, wooden boxes to hang on the wall for holding spoons, old mouse traps like cages, a beekeeper’s mask, a mess of old embroideries, parts of old spinning wheels, keys and locks… We hooked up the hose and I washed metal plates, bowls, trays and odds and ends, stacking them on the ledge under the nomad tent awning while greeting anyone who passed below. I got really dirty. It took me three days to put everything back. I’m going back over Ramazan Bayram to hang pots and pans from the beams and rusty shearing scissors on the walls. Someone’s got to do it.
After
Balloon over Uchisar Early one morning, I heard an odd noise, like a large welder’s torch, from somewhere above. A handful of balloons were following the wind over Uçhisar.
Before
BeforeOne fine day, after I had bought an antique nomad milk filter for too much money (I knew it was a little pricey, but it made me really happy) Taner informed me that he had rooms upstairs full of old things. I was welcome to dig. And dig I did. One fine morning, when it wasn’t too hot, I took it upon myself to pull everything out of the storage bin and spread it out on the roof. I found countless treasures: chains for horses, stirrups, balances, wooden tools, farm tools, wooden boxes to hang on the wall for holding spoons, old mouse traps like cages, a beekeeper’s mask, a mess of old embroideries, parts of old spinning wheels, keys and locks… We hooked up the hose and I washed metal plates, bowls, trays and odds and ends, stacking them on the ledge under the nomad tent awning while greeting anyone who passed below. I got really dirty. It took me three days to put everything back. I’m going back over Ramazan Bayram to hang pots and pans from the beams and rusty shearing scissors on the walls. Someone’s got to do it.
AfterPeppers
I don’t really like peppers. Bell peppers, stuffed peppers, long skinny ones… Sometimes, I actually hate them. Their smell makes me nauseous, especially when they’re being cooked. I make an exception for the small dried and very hot ones called “birds’ tongues” in French that are used to make pasta arrabiata.
I do, however, like stringing things: beads, popcorn and now peppers. It was too hot one day to do much of anything, but I needed to do something fiddly. The rooftop of Ala Turca is lined with pepper and tomato plants growing in blue plastic bags. Nevzat picks the peppers and puts them in the fridge. I found them. Ali brought me a big needle and some thick thread. As I chatted with a French woman and her daughter, and as Taner spoke with some Italian customers, I threaded many peppers. I hung them on the outside wall, off the tent post, and under the window like a garland. The Italians received one as a parting gift. They’re quite pretty, like Christmas. The peppers, I mean. The Italians were atractive too.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Princess Diaries Part 3: Abdication
I spent a month of my summer vacation in Cappadocia. There are many entries on my list of places to go in Turkey, yet I consistently return to my favorite village, Uçhisar. This was a working vacation; I once again went to work at the fancy cave hotel, this time to edit websites, write letters and help the manager correspond in English. While my experiences there have been extraordinary (Sports Illustrated shot its next Swimsuit Edition at the hotel and other Cappadocian sites this summer. I don’t really care for such exploitation of women, but I did rub elbows with some well-known photographers, make-up and hair people and editors who are quite nice) I will no longer work at the hotel.
For some time now, I have had an inner conflict about the place as a business. Usually, I was treated well, (although my time wasn’t always respected due to some weird power plays) partially because I’m American but also because the work I do, for essentially nothing, would otherwise be very expensive. However, I have problems with the way in which the employees are treated. The working world in Turkey is a very different one than that in the US. Certainly, there are jobs in the US which are notorious for poor owner-management-employee relations. I can cite many examples from my past “career” in retail management as evidence. Yet here there is a different kind of hierarchy that is tolerated in the culture, and work can be very hard to find. Although it is none of my business, I find it very difficult to watch fellow personnel insulted, humiliated and otherwise abused in ways which I think are extreme even for this business and country.
In addition to my discomfort about the disrespect extended to the employees, I also had a moral issue with some of the texts I was editing. Without going into the details, I felt at odds helping sell the business as something it isn’t. Don’t get me wrong: it’s an incredibly beautiful hotel with exquisite antiques and textiles and an incomparable view. I don’t feel comfortable going into the details on this public a forum. Suffice it to say that I am not motivated to make money out of selling fiction (unless of course I write a novel someday…), and I do not care to work for people who routinely lie.
Maybe I’m too much of an idealist, but I had decided that this would be my last working vacation the first week into my month long stay. I left the hotel office a week early due to a conflict with the owner about taking some of the Sports Illustrated people shopping in Uçhisar because they asked me to, despite the fact that I had his “permission” which he later denied, and later denied even giving. It’s not how to do business he says. The goal is not to make the customer happy unless the proceeds go into the owner’s pockets through heavy commissions. I was so angry I cried. I hate that I do that. It’s a horrible cycle. Anger comes out my eyes, I get mad that I’m emotional, and the compounded anger raises eye ward again. When I said that I would be finished the following week, that I could not work here anymore, the owner told me I could leave now. And I shut my computer, told him I would be out of the lodging the next day and left. His last words to me, shouted from the office were, "And I don't want to hear this story from anyone in the village!" He has no idea that there were additional reasons for leaving, nor will he.
I regret that I left so quickly that I couldn’t say goodbye to my friends in reception, the restaurant, the kitchen and in housekeeping.
I still have 98% of my work on my computer, ready to be delivered to the appropriate person in the Istanbul office. I could take the high road and deliver it, but I doubt it would be used.
Luckily, I have friends who welcomed me and the bunnies. More about that in a following post.
For some time now, I have had an inner conflict about the place as a business. Usually, I was treated well, (although my time wasn’t always respected due to some weird power plays) partially because I’m American but also because the work I do, for essentially nothing, would otherwise be very expensive. However, I have problems with the way in which the employees are treated. The working world in Turkey is a very different one than that in the US. Certainly, there are jobs in the US which are notorious for poor owner-management-employee relations. I can cite many examples from my past “career” in retail management as evidence. Yet here there is a different kind of hierarchy that is tolerated in the culture, and work can be very hard to find. Although it is none of my business, I find it very difficult to watch fellow personnel insulted, humiliated and otherwise abused in ways which I think are extreme even for this business and country.
In addition to my discomfort about the disrespect extended to the employees, I also had a moral issue with some of the texts I was editing. Without going into the details, I felt at odds helping sell the business as something it isn’t. Don’t get me wrong: it’s an incredibly beautiful hotel with exquisite antiques and textiles and an incomparable view. I don’t feel comfortable going into the details on this public a forum. Suffice it to say that I am not motivated to make money out of selling fiction (unless of course I write a novel someday…), and I do not care to work for people who routinely lie.
Maybe I’m too much of an idealist, but I had decided that this would be my last working vacation the first week into my month long stay. I left the hotel office a week early due to a conflict with the owner about taking some of the Sports Illustrated people shopping in Uçhisar because they asked me to, despite the fact that I had his “permission” which he later denied, and later denied even giving. It’s not how to do business he says. The goal is not to make the customer happy unless the proceeds go into the owner’s pockets through heavy commissions. I was so angry I cried. I hate that I do that. It’s a horrible cycle. Anger comes out my eyes, I get mad that I’m emotional, and the compounded anger raises eye ward again. When I said that I would be finished the following week, that I could not work here anymore, the owner told me I could leave now. And I shut my computer, told him I would be out of the lodging the next day and left. His last words to me, shouted from the office were, "And I don't want to hear this story from anyone in the village!" He has no idea that there were additional reasons for leaving, nor will he.
I regret that I left so quickly that I couldn’t say goodbye to my friends in reception, the restaurant, the kitchen and in housekeeping.
I still have 98% of my work on my computer, ready to be delivered to the appropriate person in the Istanbul office. I could take the high road and deliver it, but I doubt it would be used.
Luckily, I have friends who welcomed me and the bunnies. More about that in a following post.
Off to work
Off to work
I live in the personnel lodging, the ground floor of an odd house, with 5 others from the hotel. It's odd in that whoever built it didn't finish little things such as putting in the last tile in the bathroom, nailing in random bits of molding along the floor. The space under the front steps serves as a chicken coop. One morning, the landlord opened a little side door to release chickens, roosters, a whole lot of chicks and one big ugly turkey. It's not a castle, but it's not bad either.
The best part of living in the house is the huge dog out front. He's at least part Kangal, the national breed of Turkey. I call him Köpek (Dog). One of the neighbor boys swears his name is Ateş (fire). Since the dog responded the 9th time the boy called him by the name, said boy remains convinced it is the right one. I stick with Köpek.
Every morning, I meet Köpek out front. After a week, he has become accustomed to me and now thumps his tail when he sees me, raising little clouds of dust. After a brief greeting and a good scratching behind the ears, we head off to work at the hotel, towards and through the old part of Uçhisar.
Woman sweeping with a twig broomWe pass houses, say "good morning" to others going to work or about their morning business. It's not unusual to navigate around tractor, horse or donkey-drawn carriages. One morning, a man in a pickup filled with large crystal chunks drove by, announcing from his truck speakers that salt was for sale . Sometimes, we're joined by another dog.
Piles of chick peas
Tea drinkers
The men drinking their early morning tea stare at us as we walk past. (Click on the photo to enlarge it.) At first, I thought they were looking at the woman with the huge body guard dog, but they stare at everybody.
We walk through the small park and past the bakal (convenience store) where I buy Tutku for the waiters and where Kemal lets me borrow Time Magazine with a promise to return it the following day, to reach my favorite Greek-house- lined street. Some of these houses are abandoned, others in various states of decay, and others are currently in reconstruction. I follow the progress of a group of stone cutters who chip away precisely and seemingly effortlessly at stone blocks. They're used to me calling the dog and watching them work.
Stone cutters
If it's not too hot, the women who sell handmade lace and oya trimmed scarves sit on their doorsteps. The woman at the onyx shop and my new friends at the terrace restaurant
yell "Good morning how are you?"
Looking over the valley
About half way down the hill, Köpek stops to stretch on the very low road barrier and looks over the valley as if to appreciate the view before we finally reach the hotel.
Piles of chick peas
Tea drinkersThe men drinking their early morning tea stare at us as we walk past. (Click on the photo to enlarge it.) At first, I thought they were looking at the woman with the huge body guard dog, but they stare at everybody.
Although kids will often curiously approach Köpek, delivery men and municipal workers seem visibly afraid of him. Köpek remains oblivious. Despite his size and apparent strength, he cowers at motorcycles and is indifferent to cats and most other dogs.
We walk through the small park and past the bakal (convenience store) where I buy Tutku for the waiters and where Kemal lets me borrow Time Magazine with a promise to return it the following day, to reach my favorite Greek-house- lined street. Some of these houses are abandoned, others in various states of decay, and others are currently in reconstruction. I follow the progress of a group of stone cutters who chip away precisely and seemingly effortlessly at stone blocks. They're used to me calling the dog and watching them work.
Stone cutters
yell "Good morning how are you?"
Looking over the valleyAbout half way down the hill, Köpek stops to stretch on the very low road barrier and looks over the valley as if to appreciate the view before we finally reach the hotel.
This is usually our morning ritual. This morning, Köpek found the lower leg of a recently butchered animal, maybe a goat, next to the dumpster in front of the house. He grabbed the leg in his great jaws (I once fed him lamb chop bones. He chewed them like Pez.) and trotted back to his spot in the dirt. Food trumps me any day.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Nohut
It's good to know from where our food comes.
On my way to work at the hotel, I saw piles of a kind of straw on the sides of the streets. Because I am nosey, I picked one up to see what was inside a sort of thin-walled pod. I discovered a single chick pea (nohut in Turkish) inside. Now I know.
Dried Apricots
Across the street from the Post Office in Uçhisar and overlooking Pigeon Valley, an elderly man has laid out his apricots to dry in the sun. Knees bent on the concrete, he arranges the fruit to look like little dessicated soldiers lined up in rows. Every day, their colors change, from bright to burnt orange.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Tandir Bread
Şerife Anna and I don’t share a mother tongue, but we do have a common language of the stomach. Every other day or so, Şerife Anna makes tandır bread. A tandır is a simple traditional oven. It’s nothing but a cylindrical, flat floored hole in the rock. All cave homes have them.
Şerife prepares the oven by burning twigs and branches until sufficiently hot coals remain at the bottom, then places several metal plates in the tandır to absorb the heat.
Please note: My original intention was to place the above text next to the appropriate photographs. After fighting with and losing to Blogspot, I am settling for this compromise.
Then, she coats rounded dough with an egg mixture, forms a hole in each piece of bread, and sticks them to the side of the tandır The oven is covered with a large metal plate until the bread is golden brown on the top.
Şerife then removes the bread with a kind of hook.
Şerife then removes the bread with a kind of hook.
I prefer to eat tandır bread when it’s warm. The crust is chewy-crunchy, the interior soft. It’s best with lots of butter or crumbly village cheese that has been stored in clay pots.
Please note: My original intention was to place the above text next to the appropriate photographs. After fighting with and losing to Blogspot, I am settling for this compromise.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Mulberries
The mulberries are in season in June. When I lived outside Philadelphia, I was the only person I knew who ate them. Between here and there, next to sidewalks and on lawns, huge mulberry trees drop their fruit to leave purple splotches on the concrete. The birds and I are the only ones I’ve ever seen eat them. I used to sneak onto lawns, grab as many berries as quickly as I could, and walk down the street with stained fingers and lips.
In Turkey, there are both white and black mulberries. You can buy dried white ones in the stores that sell nuts, dried fruit and leblebe (roasted chick peas. Yum.) There is a very small ice cream shop in Bebek, about the size of a closet, that sells the best black mulberry ice cream. When they’re in season, you can buy mulberries from the markets and even on the street. Since they are fragile, you have to carry them carefully. More than once I have arrived home with a soggy paper bag of mulberry juice.
Between my apartment and work, there are several white mulberry trees. The fruit is not too sweet and very refreshing. Every day, I stop and eat them. I pull the branches to reach as many as I can. More often than not, the perfectly ripe ones drop to the blacktop before I can pick them. Sometimes, I interrupt another person guiltily involved in the same sport. Sometimes we ignore each other, at other times we help each other. I’ll pull the branches and point while a stranger picks the fruit. Then we give each other moist towellettes from the bottom of our handbags and say “thank you.” (Always have a packet of moist towellettes handy, especially in the summer heat.)
The ripest, plumpest and juiciest berries, the size of half of my thumb, are always out of my reach towards the top of the tree. They taunt me.
In Turkey, there are both white and black mulberries. You can buy dried white ones in the stores that sell nuts, dried fruit and leblebe (roasted chick peas. Yum.) There is a very small ice cream shop in Bebek, about the size of a closet, that sells the best black mulberry ice cream. When they’re in season, you can buy mulberries from the markets and even on the street. Since they are fragile, you have to carry them carefully. More than once I have arrived home with a soggy paper bag of mulberry juice.
Between my apartment and work, there are several white mulberry trees. The fruit is not too sweet and very refreshing. Every day, I stop and eat them. I pull the branches to reach as many as I can. More often than not, the perfectly ripe ones drop to the blacktop before I can pick them. Sometimes, I interrupt another person guiltily involved in the same sport. Sometimes we ignore each other, at other times we help each other. I’ll pull the branches and point while a stranger picks the fruit. Then we give each other moist towellettes from the bottom of our handbags and say “thank you.” (Always have a packet of moist towellettes handy, especially in the summer heat.)
The ripest, plumpest and juiciest berries, the size of half of my thumb, are always out of my reach towards the top of the tree. They taunt me.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Saturday Tradition
On Saturdays, I go to Sultanahmet to visit friends who work in a ceramics shop on a corner facing the Hippodrome. These friends are like a little family, transplanted from Avanos in Cappadocia, who live and work together. Each of them has special tasks assigned according to their complementary skills. Two are master potters. Zafer is charged with giving demonstrations on the pottery wheel on the ground floor. Ibo, unlucky at gambling but lucky in love, speaks fluent Japanese and therefore is in charge of the Japanese tourists. When business is slow, he and Zafer can be found diligently studying Japanese and English respectively. Erdal, a folk dancing expert with years of experience organizing Turkish Nights, speaks Italian and several other languages. He also makes a fine çi köfte, a very spicy kind of meatball made with finely ground, raw beef and bulgur. Şaban, another master potter, speaks very good English and can sell ceramics like nobody’s business. He very conscientiously describes the stages of making ceramics, from forming vessels out of clay to the calligraphic painting and glazing processes involved, and the uses of Hittite libation vessels reproduced in the Avanos workshop.
So on Saturdays, I make my way to Sultanahmet with a treat. Sometimes it’s chocolate or ice cream, maybe fresh strawberries, sometimes börek. On sunny days, we sit outside with tea or homemade Cappadocian wine, watching tourists pass and guessing their nationalities. The shop sometimes doubles as an information booth. At the corner, visitors often consult their maps looking a little lost and on the verge of in-the-middle-of-the-street-dispute so common in tourist areas. Often, they refuse the help offered them from the shop, only to turn back after a few minutes of confused wandering. If business is slow, Şaban teaches me how to play backgammon. I’m not good at it. There are little Turkish lessons for me, and English grammar points for them. Recently, I explained the passive voice to Zafer. I’m good at that.
After a pilgrimage to the silver market yesterday, I stopped to buy baklava for the Saturday tradition. I pointed at a handful of varieties and asked for one portion of each. One portion there was about three times the size of anywhere else, and I accidentally found myself with a box of about 1 ½ kilos of syrupy goodness.
Outside the ceramics shop, a backgammon game with an uncle was in progress next to a huge chestnut tree. I wonder what this uncle thinks of the crazy American who regularly stops by with food. Zafer brought me a plate, and I carried half the baklava to the sidewalk. Once a waitress, always a waitress. A few cousins and a brother arrived; a large bottle of Coke appeared from somewhere. Passersby laughingly remarked that they didn’t know it was bayram (a holiday.) I retrieved the remaining baklava packet from the kitchen, in case.
An elderly neighbor lady with head scarf and hennaed fingers regularly passes by and sometimes sits on the corner. She, like many others like her, sells packets of tissue and mastic flavored gum the consistency of rubber to earn ekmek para (bread money.) Sometimes I buy tissues from her, but yesterday I had already purchased from another lady much like her. Her accent is so thick that I can understand only one in about fifteen words she says, but I do understand when she refers to the American woman who visits on weekends. She was invited to sit and have baklava. She asked for and received a glass of water. Although her eyes said otherwise, she declared she wouldn’t eat because she would rather take some home to her grandchildren. “Teze (auntie) please help yourself and then take some home.” Teze almost greedily took a portion the size of a small slice of pie and happily ate with sticky fingers. She then asked for the grandchildren and with our consent lined a plastic bag with napkins and deposited a few choice pieces in it. At each ever quicker reach into the baklava packet, she looked up as if to ask permission, eventually emptying the box into her syrup soaked bag. Grateful, and happy with a surprise for the children, she thanked me and shuffled her way around the corner to wherever she lives.
So on Saturdays, I make my way to Sultanahmet with a treat. Sometimes it’s chocolate or ice cream, maybe fresh strawberries, sometimes börek. On sunny days, we sit outside with tea or homemade Cappadocian wine, watching tourists pass and guessing their nationalities. The shop sometimes doubles as an information booth. At the corner, visitors often consult their maps looking a little lost and on the verge of in-the-middle-of-the-street-dispute so common in tourist areas. Often, they refuse the help offered them from the shop, only to turn back after a few minutes of confused wandering. If business is slow, Şaban teaches me how to play backgammon. I’m not good at it. There are little Turkish lessons for me, and English grammar points for them. Recently, I explained the passive voice to Zafer. I’m good at that.
After a pilgrimage to the silver market yesterday, I stopped to buy baklava for the Saturday tradition. I pointed at a handful of varieties and asked for one portion of each. One portion there was about three times the size of anywhere else, and I accidentally found myself with a box of about 1 ½ kilos of syrupy goodness.
Outside the ceramics shop, a backgammon game with an uncle was in progress next to a huge chestnut tree. I wonder what this uncle thinks of the crazy American who regularly stops by with food. Zafer brought me a plate, and I carried half the baklava to the sidewalk. Once a waitress, always a waitress. A few cousins and a brother arrived; a large bottle of Coke appeared from somewhere. Passersby laughingly remarked that they didn’t know it was bayram (a holiday.) I retrieved the remaining baklava packet from the kitchen, in case.
An elderly neighbor lady with head scarf and hennaed fingers regularly passes by and sometimes sits on the corner. She, like many others like her, sells packets of tissue and mastic flavored gum the consistency of rubber to earn ekmek para (bread money.) Sometimes I buy tissues from her, but yesterday I had already purchased from another lady much like her. Her accent is so thick that I can understand only one in about fifteen words she says, but I do understand when she refers to the American woman who visits on weekends. She was invited to sit and have baklava. She asked for and received a glass of water. Although her eyes said otherwise, she declared she wouldn’t eat because she would rather take some home to her grandchildren. “Teze (auntie) please help yourself and then take some home.” Teze almost greedily took a portion the size of a small slice of pie and happily ate with sticky fingers. She then asked for the grandchildren and with our consent lined a plastic bag with napkins and deposited a few choice pieces in it. At each ever quicker reach into the baklava packet, she looked up as if to ask permission, eventually emptying the box into her syrup soaked bag. Grateful, and happy with a surprise for the children, she thanked me and shuffled her way around the corner to wherever she lives.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Buying Silver
My latest obsession is buying silver beads to make earrings and other beautiful things. I usually buy them at the Tavuk Pazaar, near the Grand Bazaar. Tavuk means “chicken.” There aren’t any chickens in the bazaar anymore, but there are lots of silver and bead shops. Recently, I was disoriented (well, I’m often disoriented. I got myself lost and found yesterday for about 20 minutes between here and there. At least I was in an interesting place.) while looking for the bazaar. A random man sitting on a stool in the middle of the sidewalk asked if I wanted to go to the Grand Bazaar. I asked for directions to the Tavuk Pazaar. Another random man in a bright red sweatshirt asked me why I wanted to go there. When I told him, he said he had a silver atelier in the area. If I went with him, he would then take me where I wanted to go.
I assessed the situation quickly. I decided that if he tried anything, a good public “Shame on you!” would suffice to get rid of him. He took me across the tram tracks, down a side street, into an ugly building, up the ugly building stairs and buzzed us into the workshop. A group of men were working on various parts of silver rings, “Turkish Bulgari.” After a tea, a chat about teaching English and a gander through their catalogue of relatively ugly merchandise (the rings were nice), Aslan guided me to the Chicken Bazaar.
After I had purchased a handful of silver beads, I managed to communicate that I wanted some silver wire. Aslan steered me down a smaller side street to his friend’s workshop. We walked into a dirty corridor and entered a small room where four men were working diligently. One was carving the final details into molded silver crosses. Another was shining something. Yet another was using a huge punch press to make Turkish flag symbols, the crescent moon and star, out of a narrow sheet of silver. Each moon and star fell neatly into a box.
Aslan spoke to his friend who measured a few meters of wire. It was too thick, so we ventured to another side street to an even dirtier little room. His friend put the rolled wire onto a metal thing and fired it up with a blow torch. Then he attached it to a machine that spun and stretched the wire. After I deemed it perfect, I paid the man a whole YTL and we made our way to the street.
About this time, Aslan started to take my arm and repeat my name. Time for my exit. My usual line for anyone trying to sell me something or for whenever I really want to leave is “My friends are waiting for me in Taksim.” Sometimes, I have to repeat this line several times before I can disentangle myself. Aslan headed me toward the tram and on his merry way back to work.
I assessed the situation quickly. I decided that if he tried anything, a good public “Shame on you!” would suffice to get rid of him. He took me across the tram tracks, down a side street, into an ugly building, up the ugly building stairs and buzzed us into the workshop. A group of men were working on various parts of silver rings, “Turkish Bulgari.” After a tea, a chat about teaching English and a gander through their catalogue of relatively ugly merchandise (the rings were nice), Aslan guided me to the Chicken Bazaar.
After I had purchased a handful of silver beads, I managed to communicate that I wanted some silver wire. Aslan steered me down a smaller side street to his friend’s workshop. We walked into a dirty corridor and entered a small room where four men were working diligently. One was carving the final details into molded silver crosses. Another was shining something. Yet another was using a huge punch press to make Turkish flag symbols, the crescent moon and star, out of a narrow sheet of silver. Each moon and star fell neatly into a box.
Aslan spoke to his friend who measured a few meters of wire. It was too thick, so we ventured to another side street to an even dirtier little room. His friend put the rolled wire onto a metal thing and fired it up with a blow torch. Then he attached it to a machine that spun and stretched the wire. After I deemed it perfect, I paid the man a whole YTL and we made our way to the street.
About this time, Aslan started to take my arm and repeat my name. Time for my exit. My usual line for anyone trying to sell me something or for whenever I really want to leave is “My friends are waiting for me in Taksim.” Sometimes, I have to repeat this line several times before I can disentangle myself. Aslan headed me toward the tram and on his merry way back to work.
A Visit
My parents came for a visit recently. It’s strange to see family and friends here, but strange in a good way. Usually I go to see them, or describe to them the places I find interesting. In many ways, we have no idea what each others’ lives are like. It’s a relief, in fact, that my mom and dad have seen where I live, and now know that I’m no more in danger of contracting bird flu or being attacked by terrorists than they are. Now they really know I don’t live in the Middle East. What’s normal to me, though, is sometimes little surprising, and maybe sometimes uncomfortable for them. For example, my dad often remarked upon the number of mosques and had many questions about Muslims. At times I found it kind of frustrating, yet on the other hand it’s understandable. We have a very unbalanced view of Turkey in the US. (Frankly, I never thought about Turkey much before I moved to Istanbul, except to be jealous of friends who came here on archaeological digs, and to want to see Haghia Sophia after having taught about it so many times.) More importantly, I think they now understand why I want to stay. Instead of thinking that maybe I’m running away from something, I actually have a place here and (big gasp) a purpose for staying.
Walking with Nevzat Photos
The door on the left is to a chapel, on the right, a church.
Inside the church
The yellowis bit is part of a cross, now damaged, on the ceiling. It's surrounded by medallions and what appear to be twisted vines.
The church door.
Nevzat showed me where his family has land, where he used to ride on the thresher when he was a kid because it was fun. This little church is on one of those plots. You can still tell where fruit s and vegetables were planted on the now relatively abandoned land. He said that when his grandparents were alive, the church was intact, therefore the interior wasn't exposed as it is now. One day, part of the church fell down. They cleared the rocks from the church wall, and continued farming. Unfortunately, there are no photos of the undamaged church.If you look carefully, you can see that the small windows are blocked. Clever little birds made their mud nests in them, with a little entry tunnel.
I refused to climb into this chapel. To be precise, my knees refused. Nevzat found toe-holes and made it up the slope without trouble. Most Turkish names mean something; rain, freedom, warrior... I think in the remote past, Nevzat meant slightly crazy goat.I asked how the monks managed to get up the hill. Apparently, it was much easier these many centuries ago because the ground level has sunk considerably.
Nevzat took this picture. I can't take credit for it.
Rock formations
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)