A Question

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.

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.

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...

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

Peppers

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.

No words needed

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.

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 broom

We 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.

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

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.

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.