Turkish Muse

The price of convenience

The level of convenience here in Izmir is astounding. Within one block of my apartment door, I can find fresh produce and milk, a bakery, half a dozen vets, several pharmacies, cheese shops, the best doner place in the city, multiple tea houses, a furniture store, and a myriad of other little things that make life so much more convenient than it ever was in Istanbul.

A few weeks ago we discovered a poultry shop (no, it is not within a block away; it's more like 2 blocks) that sells precut chicken breasts, some seasoned and ready to go. And the best part: rotisserie chicken available every evening at 7 pm. The price: 6 TL. That's cheaper than a whole chicken at the grocery store, the price of which averages about 7 TL.

I was thrilled! Not only do I love eating rotisserie chicken, but I love it even more when someone cooks it for me! How convenient (there's that word again) on the way home from Pilates to pick up a cooked chicken, whip together a salad, open a bottle of red and voila -- instant dinner!

Last night, Jeff and I together ate the entire chicken. I hadn't even realized it until I asked if there would be leftovers for the next day.

"Nope," he said. "This is it. It was a very small chicken."

"Really? Well, I guess that's ok. We're just two people anyway. 6 TL is still a deal."

"Plus, they didn't give us the wings."

"Huh? Did we get the wings last time?"

"Nope, they didn't give us the wings last time either."

"What do you mean? Don't they normally give you the wings? I mean, a chicken has wings."

"Normally they do [give you the wings]."

"Maybe they cut them off."

As soon as I said it, Jeff and I looked up, stricken by the thought. Suddenly, the chicken didn't taste so good and 6 TL seemed an awfully high price to pay for it.

"Oh god," I said.

"Maybe they did cut the wings off," Jeff said sadly.

"I don't think I ever want to eat this chicken again," I said, slowly pushing my now empty plate away from me. "I will gladly pay more and cook the darn chicken myself as long as it comes to me whole."

All day today I wanted to go to the poultry shop and ask about it. What happened to the wings? I would say. What did you do with them?

But I was afraid. I was afraid of what the answer would be, namely, that the chickens had their wings cut off and they lived in cages all squashed up against each other with no room to move let alone breathe and....well....you get what I mean.

So then I thought, hey! Maybe they sell the wings separately! You know. For people who just want to buy chicken wings. It's possible, right? Tell me it's possible. Please.

Good fences might be in order here

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.

Bargaining for Beginners, or, How I got my Birks for 140 lira

Bargaining is difficult for most Westerners, or anyone who hasn't grown up in a haggling culture, and even though I've lived here for two years, I still haven't really gotten that much better at bargaining. For big ticket items, like last year when we had to buy a fridge and stove and washing machine, I just walked right into to Koctas and said, yup, get me that one marked at 600 TL. No muss, no fuss.

But shoes, oh, I can do shoes.

A friend of mine (Hi, Chole!) bought a pair of those newfangled Birkenstocks that everybody seems to be wearing these days, and I was absolutely smitten with them. I knew she had bought them for 140 TL, and I was determined to do the same here in Izmir. A couple days ago I went to a shop where I had seen them in the window.

The price tag on the sandals read 199 TL and I scoffed. "But it's on sale for 160 TL," the salesman, a youngish man with a warm smile, said.

I told him about my friend's purchase in Istanbul and how she had paid 140 TL for them. "But they won't have black anymore," he said, nodding wisely. Perhaps, I said.

"Tell you what," he said. "150 TL if you pay in cash."

I stared at him a second. But...didn't he hear what I just said?, I thought. 140. That's what she bought them for. He stared at me, still smiling.

But I didn't feel like playing the game just yet. Huh, I said. Okay, well, thanks! And Jeff and I walked out the door.

But I was hooked.

The next day I went back, 140 TL in my pocket, determined to only spend that much, no matter how much bargaining I had to do.

"You are back," he said with a smile.

"Yes, I would like to try those on in a 40," I said. Jeff says that often times when I am shopping, I am very direct and confident, like most Westerners, an attitude that comes across to many salesmen as defiant and rude, especially coming from a woman.

"Let me check to see if I have them," he said. A moment later, the salesman returned with a rueful smile I know only too well.

"We don't have a 40, but I do have these (the display pair) in a 39," he said. "I think they will be fine."

I peered at them. I don't know, I thought. Lo and behold, they fit! The salesman grinned, satisfied that he had been right. "See? I knew they would fit," he said matter-of-factly.

I walked around the store a bit. Fine, I said, lovely. They were, indeed, very comfortable, but I knew we still hadn't talked about the price. I could feel a knot forming in my stomach already. The salesman, however, seemed almost giddy.

"How much are they if I pay in cash?" I asked, knowing full well that he would tell me what he told me the day before: 150 TL.

The man bowed his head toward me. "150 TL," he whispered. I leaned in closer. Why the hell is he whispering, I thought.

I pretended to peer at the box and try to read the German on it, all the while wondering how I get him down to 140 TL. Seriously, it's not that big a difference. What's wrong with 140 anyway? How come they're for sale in Istanbul for 140 and 150 here in Izmir? No fair, I thought.

I shrugged at the salesman. "Really, I only want to pay 140," I said sheepishly, almost apologetically.

"Offff, but that is almost a loss for me," he said, waving one hand, palm up, in the air.

I stared. Had I understood him correctly? A loss?!? Are you KIDDING me? I looked at the box again, pretending to think hard. Shit. Now what? What's the next step here? Without thinking, I looked up.

"But these were on display right? How many people tried them on?" I asked, thinking that maybe he'd cut me a deal since they had already been tried on before.

He stammered and sputtered. "What? They're brand new. Okay, maybe 2, maybe 3, people tried them on. They're new. Brand new."

I eyed him suspiciously. I pretended to inspect the box. What to do? What to do?

He smiled at me and shook his head, as if to say, What do you think?

I sighed and looked apologetic but I made my voice firm. "I can only pay 140," I said, with a conviction that I didn't know I had.

"Okay," he whispered, looking at the floor.

I had to physically stop myself from grinning ear to ear and doing a happy dance. Instead, I pretended that by this point I didn't really even want the shoes anymore. I paid in cash, the salesman counting out the two 50s and two 20s slowly, as if he hoped there were more. He pocketed the cash -- he did not put it in the cash register -- and looked at me with a glum expression on his face. He blinked slowly and nodded his head slightly, as much as a thank you as I was going to get.

At this point, I felt the teensiest pang of guilt strike my heart. Maybe he really did make a loss at 140? What if it's more expensive to ship the shoes to Izmir than to Istanbul? My god, maybe I have really cheated him?

But all my guilt was put to rest as I exited the store.

"Next time bring your husband!" the salesman shouted.

When I turned around to acknowledge the remark, he was grinning.