Turkish Muse

Turkish Muse is now on Couchsurfing!

After two years of wanting to get involved in Couchsurfing, a volunteer-based network that connects travelers with locals who offer free accommodation, I have finally done it! Now that we have an actual guest room in our house and plenty of bathrooms, I figured there's no time like the present to start opening our home to fellow travelers and visitors to Izmir.

I've created a profile and fielded a few requests from people who want to stay with us. We will have our first visitors, a Canadian couple who are traveling the world, soon!

From our Couchsurfing profile:

We have a guest bedroom that sleeps 2 people in a full-size sofabed. There are sheets, pillows and blankets, as well as towels, for your use. There is a closet in the bedroom and a bathroom across that hall that you can use. (The house has three bathrooms, so you can have your own while staying with us; however, we may need to use it occasionally.) Do-it-yourself laundry is available; there is a washing machine in the bathroom and you can hang your clothes on the covered balcony that is outside the guest room.

We live in the Bostanli area of Izmir, a lovely area of Izmir where you will want for nothing. Ferries and buses can take you to the "touristy" section of the city, namely Alsancak and Konak. If you want to stay in a section of the city where "real" people live, work and play, Bostanli is perfect. There are lots of restaurants and bars and travel agencies to accommodate you. To get to many of the sights written about in travel guides, however, you will need to venture out (about a half hour on public transport) to the other side of the harbor.

I've even included a photo of our guest room:

The Hilton it is not, but it also doesn't carry quite the same price tag.

I'm hoping our experience with Couchsurfing will be a good one. Who knows? Maybe Jeff and I will take advantage of other people's couches when we go abroad, in addition to offering up our own for travelers.

Do you have a Couchsurfing account? If so, what has been your experience either hosting or staying with people?

(You can find our profile on Couchsurfing under my name, Barbara Isenberg.)

Çorapçı, meet Mom and Bill; Guys, the Sock Seller

Last week when my mom and step-dad were in town I took them to the Wednesday pazar (market) in my neighborhood. I had only been once before and hadn't really fully explored the labyrinth of tomatoes, wooden spoons, pearl necklaces, fake Adidas sweatpants and shawls that one could buy.

We meandered for a couple of hours, looking at rugs, scarves and other fun things when I heard this crazy man yelling "50 cents! 50 cents! Awoow! Socks! Socks! Awoow!" I looked over and this guy was standing on a table covered in socks -- both him AND the table.

As I do, I turned on my camera and my parents got to pose with the çorapçı (sock seller).

Corapci from Barbara Isenberg on Vimeo.

Learning the hard way

After two years of living in Turkey, you would think that we would have adopted somewhat the Turkish way of thinking, or at least adapted to it. You might even think that we would be more apt to keep an open mind about things that we don't understand.

But live in a foreign country long enough and you'll find that there are some things that still don't come naturally to you, that you just can't seem to wrap your head around.

That is essentially what happened to Jeff and I last week as we looked into taking my mom and step-dad to Foca for a day trip. We figured we likely had to go by bus, something we rarely did in Istanbul, and started asking around for how to get to the coastal city that guide books say is only 45 minutes from Izmir. We talked to the produce shop owner near our house and his advice was to take a taxi to the highway, then catch the bus to Foca.

"Take a taxi to the highway?" I said.

"Are you sure?" Jeff asked.

"Yes, yes," he said. "Just take a taxi to Semitler, then flag down the bus to Foca."

That sounded weird to us. Wait by the highway? How would we know which bus to take? How would we make it stop? What if we didn't see it?

We decided to ask at some of the charter bus companies if they had buses to Foca. Nope, not a one. They suggested we take city bus 612 from the Bostanli Iskele (ferry station) to the otogar, then catch a bus to Foca. That seemed to make more sense to us.

However, if we had looked at the map, we would have realized that it didn't make much sense at all. Note the map below. This is the route that bus 612 takes from Bostanli to the south side of Izmir to the otogar.

What you're looking at here is the city of Izmir. We live on the north side of the harbor; the bus winds its way along the coast before heading inland and south to the otogar.

We got to the otogar in time to see the Foca bus leaving the station, but there was another in a half hour that we got on. If you've ever seen a map of the Izmir area, however, you know that Foca is NORTH of Izmir. So guess what route we had to take to get to Foca?

 

Yup, you guessed it. We had to travel through the city -- AGAIN -- to go north.

And we didn't just drive straight through. We stopped. Oh, yes, we made many many stops. We stopped at street corners, we stopped in front of cafes, and we stopped along the highway, all to pick up passengers also going to Foca.

I guess that's what our neighbor meant when he said to take a taxi to the highway, huh?

The ride to Foca took a whooping two hours, and the whole time Jeff and I alternated between grumbling and trying to calm ourselves down. About an hour after leaving the otogar we passed Karsiyaka, which is about a 5 minute car ride to our neighborhood. We groaned. "How were we supposed to know that going to the highway and waiting for the bus was a better idea?" I said to Jeff. "It's just not what we do in the States. You get on the bus and the bus goes, no stops, all the way to its destination."

It just goes to show that no matter how long you live in a foreign country, there's probably always going to be things that you're still going to be learning the hard way.

Wondering

The pazars (markets) in Turkey are an endless source of fascination for me. It really doesn't matter how many times I go, or how many different ones I go to, the pazar has not yet lost its magic.

The people are what make the pazar so special. They're hardworking. They're fast. They're also extremely knowledgeable about what they sell. They're young. They're old. They're mostly male, but sometimes you'll see a woman behind the counter.

Sometimes certain people catch your eye.

See that kid in the top right corner? The one with his lips open and pursed?

He's yelling out to passersby that his fish are the freshest, best, cheapest. That you wouldn't way to buy your fish anywhere else but there. As soon as a customer calls out what he wants -- a kilo of levrek, half a kilo of sardines -- the kid is at work in a flash.

He doesn't bother to remove the cigarette dangling from his lips as he cleans and guts the fish. Inhaling the smoke on one side of his mouth and blowing it out the other, his hands move rapidly, scraping, cutting, jabbing, pulling, turning. I wonder if the ash from his cigarette finds its way into the fish....?

He looks like he's been doing this since he was a kid and will likely keep doing it until he's an old man. He looks as if his skill was learned from watching his father or an uncle do the same thing in the same location year after year. I wonder if the kid has health insurance and paid days off. Somehow I doubt it.

It's repetitive work, selling fish. Eventually, I imagine that all the fish start to look the same. I wonder if the noise of the pazar becomes as comforting as silence. Like laying in bed after spending the day at the beach, watching and listening to the waves crash against the shore, I wonder if, when the kid finally turns in for the night, he can still hear the yelling and the bartering and commotion.

 

I wonder all these things. How old is he? 16? 19? 23? Probably somewhere around there, I guess. I wonder about silly things, like if he has ever been to the dentist and if his parents speak Kurdish and if he wishes he were doing something else right now. I wonder if he is nice to cats. I wonder if he is a university student studying mechanical engineering and is helping out his family for the week. I wonder if he will do this every day for the rest of his life.

The thing is, in Turkey, you never know with people. All of the assumptions, the baggage, the preconceived notions that you come here with from your home country, they just never match up with what you see the way that they might at home. A lot of times you're left just to wonder.

What's Cooking: Izmir Köftesi

If you've spent any time in Turkey, you surely have eaten köfte. Most of the time you get it grilled (izgara köfte) and if you're really lucky, the köfte is moist and flavorful. But sometimes ... well, let's be honest here: Most izgara köfte at your run of the mill lokanta is dry and and flavorless, resembling more a frozen meat patty that was just run through the George Foreman grill. Yech.

Which is why when I saw this recipe for Izmir Köftesi, which requires the köfte be fried slightly, then baked in a tomato sauce, I knew we had to try it. And am I ever glad we did. Since making it the first night, Jeff and I have eaten this dish another handful of times, and we are planning to make it tomorrow night for dinner guests. (Hi, Mike and Den!)

The recipe makes a HUGE pan of kofte, so it's more than enough for 2 people and plenty for 4. Plus, you can freeze leftovers and reheat them on the stove later and the köfte tastes just as good as when it came out of the oven.

On a side note, I have never seen this dish offered in any local restaurants, so I don't know why it is called Izmir Köftesi. Maybe it's a dish made more frequently in the home?

Izmir Köftesi

(Adapted from The Sultan's Kitchen, page 77)
serves 4-6

Ingredients:
1 kilo lean ground beef or lamb
1 small onion, grated
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 eggs
1 teaspoon paprika
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh parsley
salt and pepper
1/4 cup virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon tomato paste
3 large tomatoes, diced
2 cups water or lamb/beef stock
2 medium green peppers, seeded and cut diagonally into slices

Heat the oven to 175 degrees Celsius or 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Make the sauce first. Melt the butter in a small saucepan. Stir in the tomato paste, then add the tomatoes and water or stock. Season with salt and pepper. Bring the mixture to a boil. Let simmer, stirring occasionally, while you make the köfte so that the tomatoes boil down.
Combine the ground lamb or beef, onion, garlic, eggs, paprika, cumin and parsley in a large bowl. Season with salt and pepper. With moistened hands, mix the ingredients for about 2 minutes. Keep a bowl of warm water nearby to wet your hands while working. Shape the meat mixture into 20-25 oval balls.
Heat the oil in a large skillet over high heat, add the köfte and lightly brown the meat all over (about 5 minutes). Place the köfte in an ovenproof dish and set them aside.
Pour the tomato sauce over the köfte. Arrange the green peppers on top. Cover the dish and bake for 40 minutes. To check for doneness, cut one köfte open; it should be brown, not pink.
Serve with fried potatoes or rice and salad.

 

Afiyet olsun!

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.

Permanent Staycation

Do you have any idea how much I have not gotten done in the past three weeks?

Three weeks I've been here in Izmir, and the entirety of that time has felt like one looooong vacation. After busting our humps for a very busy first week, the house was all set up and I moved onto the next project: doing nothing.

In three weeks, I have published about as many posts to this blog, ignored dozens of emails languishing in my inbox -- so if you have sent me a message, I am not ignoring you, really, and I WILL respond (hopefully this weekend) -- and have probably gained a few kilos with all the food and drink I've  been consuming.

I'm having a hard time adapting to the oh-so-relaxed atmosphere in Izmir. It's hard to go from the fast-paced, go-go-go lifestyle of Istanbul to....not much at all. It's like going from 60 to 0 in 5 seconds. I can't do that.

So for the last few weeks, I have done absolutely nothing, nothing at all, other than work and clean my house. I've read books, watched movies and television, sat on my balcony late at night with a glass of wine, taken walks in my neighborhood. I've been reading lots of blogs and telling myself it's for "inspiration", you know, for when I finally get back to writing.

I woke up this morning and decided that today is the day I am going to shake off my sloth and get to it. I'm going to shower before 9 am, I said (didn't happen), eat fruit for breakfast (I ate carrot cake; does that count?), and write and complete a to-do (well, I wrote it).

And then I went searching for a photograph among the many I took when my friend was in town this past week and found this:

 

I took this photo earlier this week while eating lunch at a restaurant right on the harbour. Then I found out the restaurant had wireless internet and I could do my work there.

With a view like that, and the sun shining and the breeze blowing (watch out for salt in your laptop!), how could you do anything other than sit a spell with a cup of tea?

Only in Turkey can you win cigarettes at an amusement park

Last Saturday afternoon, in an effort to while away a few hours in Izmir before our plane left for Istanbul, Jeff and I wandered through the lovely Izmir Park near the 9 Eylul Meydani. In it, we discovered Luna Park, where we rode the ferris wheel and a cheesy "haunted house". (I love those things!)

And then I saw the funniest damn thing.

Look closely at what the player is trying to win by trying to throw a wooden ring around his prize.

Yup, I kid you not: cigarettes.

Oh man, did I have a good laugh at that. I mean, seriously. Cigarettes? At an amusement park? Where, I should mention, more than half of the rides are for people under age 10?

The point of the game, like most similar ones, is to encompass the cigarette pack with the ring. The rules are explained thusly:

Every now and again I just can't believe some of the things I see in this country.

Our new home

After Jeff and I signed the contract on our new place and got the keys Friday afternoon, we spent a few hours in our new house debating where to put our furniture and marveling at our awesome kitchen.

As promised, here are a few pictures of our new apartment. You can find all of them posted to Facebook below.

The salon

The balcony off the salon

The kitchen

To check out all the pictures, including the weird "master bath", click here.