On moving day last month, Jeff and I stood outside our new apartment building watching as the moving men finagled their truck into a parking spot and figured out how to keep the automatic gate to the building's small lot open. The pharmacists on the ground floor of our building looked on bemusedly, sipping their tea on the patio and probably glad that they didn't have to move tons of flimsy Ikea furniture in the 35-degree heat.
Jeff and I were standing around, as we are wont to do, when an elderly man with stringy white hair strode towards us from the street. His face was determined, his lips set in a thin line. This can't be good, I thought.
But it turns out that we were not first on White Stringy Hair Guy's daily tirade agenda. White Stringy Hair Guy turned his back to us and began berating Moving Man. The poor guy stood there, a stunned expression on his face, as White Stringy Hair Guy gesticulated widely with his arms. He seemed to be yelling about the elevator and the stairs...and something about paint.
White Stringy Hair Guy was telling -- no, not telling, more like reprimanding -- Moving Man that under no circumstances was he to use the elevator. No, not for the refrigerator, not for heavy boxes, not for nothing. The stairs were off limits too, unless Moving Man could promise that the moving men wouldn't scrape the new paint job on the walls. The tenants had, after all, spent a lot of money (emphasis on a lot) to repair the elevator the last time people allowed moving men to use it, and god forbid someone scratch the ugly grey paint they had chosen for the stairwell.
Moving Man tried to hold his ground, but I could see White Stringy Hair Guy just ready to steamroll him if he so much as attempted to defend himself or his way of doing things. I was disgusted. Where this old man think he could get off yelling at this poor guy, who we told could use the elevator? Who was he anyway? Where I come from, we introduce ourselves before we launch a tirade.
Suddenly, White Stringy Hair Guy turns to us.
"First, welcome," he says in spit-fire Turkish and with no attempt at politeness. "No, as I just told this man, you are not allowed to use the elevator. And you can't use the stairs either. We've had a lot of moving men put things that are too heavy into the elevator, and we've paid a lot of money to have it fixed. You have to be careful about using the stairs. We just had the walls painted, and if you scratch up the paint, you'll have to get it fixed."
White Stringy Hair Guy kept jabbering away, and I could feel my blood beginning to boil. I raised my eyebrows and as soon as the man looked away, I turned to Jeff and said, "What the f**k? Seriously? Who is this guy?"
My darling Jeff, always one to help keep my temper in check and diffuse any thorny situation, held his hand out to the man and introduced himself with a big smile. "And who might you be?" he asked.
White Stringy Hair Guy looked down at Jeff's hand for a brief second before he realized that he was supposed to shake it. "I'm your neighbor," he said.
Oh great. Just what we need.
Amid all this, another gentleman approached, one much younger. He offered his two cents. "You can use the elevator," he said to us. "But you'll have to pay 200 lira for the damage."
200 lira for damages?! I seethed. These people can't be serious!
"What damage?" I asked. "What could we possibly do?"
I am not sure how this issue was ultimately settled. I backed away lest my fist accidentally come into contact with White Stringy Hair Guy's arm. After our lovely new neighbors left, I turned to Moving Man. "Of course you can use the elevator," I said. "Salaklar (they're stupid)."
After that, I worked hard to avoid White Stringy Hair Guy. When I saw him outside on the street, or in a cafe, I simply avoided eye contact and walked right by. But it's not like you can avoid someone who lives in the same building as you forever. And so it was that one night several weeks ago we came to face to face in the elevator.
"Hey," he said. "Where do you guys do your shopping?"
"Uhhh....the Migros....and the pazar," I said. By this point, we had arrived at our floor and were itching to unlock the apartment door. But White Stringy Hair Guy was holding the elevator door open and leaning out excitedly.
"You know the American base in Alsancak? You can go there, buy all kinds of stuff, for real cheap like." He was getting excited and I was having a hard time understanding him. "They sell all kinds of stuff, electronics and food."
I had heard rumors of a market of some kind that catered to NATO and military/air force personnel, but I didn't know if it catered to all Americans. (It doesn't, I later learned.) Perhaps it does, I told White Stringy Hair Guy politely. We should check it out, I said to Jeff.
In my mind, I was thinking of my own personal duty free, with imported vodka and Hershey's chocolate, all purchased tax free, that I could hoard at home.
"Yeah, yeah, you should check it out, and I can give you a list of things I need and you can get them for me there," he said.
Whoa. Excuse me? Did he actually think that I would do that? And for him? (It turns out that it is illegal to purchase items at the base commissary or exchange and sell them on the black market, duh.)
I smiled tightly and said perhaps. Then I closed the elevator door and entered the apartment.
