Turkish Muse

Putting on my slippers as we speak

There are lots of common beliefs in Turkish culture that I just don't subscribe to.

Like, going barefoot in the house will make you ill.

Sitting on a cement or marble step will make you infertile.

Or, a fan blowing behind you will put a crink in your neck.

You've heard all of these before and more. And for two and a half years, I scoffed at them, laughed at them, smiled politely at people who told me that cat hair will get in my brain, all the while labeling them LOCO.

Last week as I was leaving pilates class and the studio owner was hanging up garland in front of a big window next to the front door, I tried to sneak out without letting too much cold air get inside the studio.

"It's okay," she said. "I don't mind it," gesturing for me to keep the door open.

"But it's cold," I said, pointing out the obvious.

"Really, it's fine. You can keep the door open."

And then...I don't even know where this came from, some strange, hidden part of my brain that I didn't know existed:

"But you'll get sick," I said.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I gasped. I don't even know why I said it. I don't even believe that cold air makes people sick. In fact, I don't even think it's a matter of belief; it's simply not true.

I walked home all the while wondering why I told her that a draft of cold air would make her ill. Have I gone soft in the head? Have I been here too long? Am I starting to think like the old Turkish teyze who tells her daughter that her eggs will shrivel up and die if she sits on a concrete step?

Maybe I said it because that's what I think the studio owner was expecting to hear? But even if she was expecting it, she doesn't buy into the old wives' tale either because she waved away my concern that way that I always do.

What about you? Has this type of thing ever happened to you?

In the thick of things

Things are in full swing here in the 'Bul as we prepare to move to Izmir next Monday. Yes, NEXT MONDAY. Good lord, we work fast, don't we?

We've hired the movers and they're coming out next Monday morning to pack our stuff, load it onto their truck and begin the 6-hour drive to Izmir. At least, that's the plan. Jeff and I -- along with Andy, Lou, Phoenix and Frankie -- are catching a 6pm flight to Izmir, upon where we will board the cats at a vet's office for the night until Tuesday morning when the movers come to unload our stuff in our new place.

As I said, that's the plan. As to whether or not that will actually happen, beats me.

Despite the fact that we don't have to pack anything because the movers are doing that for us (we are, however, packing our important stuff ourselves, like the computer), there is still a LOT of other stuff that needs to be taken care of, much of which, sadly, is simply beyond my Turkish-language capabilities.

Case in point: This afternoon, I called Turk Telekom, the company that provides our home telephone and ADSL internet service. I was calling to cancel our service in Istanbul since, ya know, we're moving to Izmir. It is a step that is on every single person's moving to-do list in the US: cancel utilities.

So, in my basic Turkish I said, "I live in Istanbul now, but I am moving to Izmir next week. So...I need to cancel my telephone."

"But why?" the man on the other end asked.

"What do you mean, why? I'm moving," I said.

"But you can just transfer your service."

Huh? OH. That's right. There's only ONE telecoms company in all of Turkey, so...yeah, I guess I wouldn't need to cancel my service, only to start it up again with the exact same company.

Duh. Sometimes I forget these things.

Then he launched into a 5-minute explanation of what I needed to do to transfer my service. Unfortunately, I understood none of what he said. Have you ever had this happen to you? Someone speaks to you in a foreign language and what you understand goes something like this:

".....letter.....Eminonu....go.....and.....after that......easy.....ok?"

At which point, I said, "Can I do this over the phone?"

There was a pause, and I think the man understood at that moment that I hadn't understand a thing. I would have much preferred for the conversation to go like this:

Me: "Can I transfer my service over the phone?"

Man: "No."

Me: "Do I have to go to Eminonu?"

Man: "No."

Me: "Where do I need to go?"

Man: "Beyoglu."

Me: "What kind of paperwork do I need to bring?"

Man: "Your bill and your passport."

See how easy that would be? If all my phone conversations in Turkish could look like a simple Q&A session, that would work out very well for me. (Ultimately, I had to have a colleague of mine call the telephone company and ask what I needed to do.)

That included writing a letter outlining what I wanted to have done. So here is what I wrote in Turkish:

"Dear Turk Telekom Manager,

I am living in Istanbul now. Next week I am moving to Izmir. I want to change my telephone and internet.

My old address is: xxxxx

My new address is: xxxxx

Signed, Barbara J Isenberg"

It ain't poetry, but hopefully it will get the job done.

There are no condoms in our olive oil

It's been almost two years that we have been in Turkey, and it has been a while since I have made a truly honest, but hilarious, mistake with my Turkish abilities. Much of this has not to do with my Turkish getting better -- unfortunately, it is more likely due to my lack of speaking it regularly.

But what I said last Friday was truly a whopper.

While sitting in the real estate agent's office, we struck up a conversation with one of our new landlord's friends, who happens to also be a new neighbor of ours. He was telling us about the olive oil that his family makes in Ayvalık and sells across the street. It's all natural, he said, very clean. "Very fresh," he said.

"Icinde prezervatif yok, degil mi?" I asked, enquiring if there were any preservatives in the olive oil. I was just trying to make conversation, to join in the discussion with what little Turkish I know that can be applied to a dialogue about olive oil production and sales.

Of course, I know that there are no preservatives in all natural olive oil -- I mean, isn't that kind of the point? -- but, as I said, just making conversation.

Except I didn't actually say what I thought I said.

The room went silent. The man stared blankly at me, not even blinking. I was beginning to think he hadn't understood me and was about to repeat myself when Jeff, a horrified look on his face, leaned forward and said slowly,

"Prezervatif. It means condom, not preservative."

Oh.

Oh. Prezervatif. As in rubber. French letter. Condom. Preservative.

The real estate agent, a young, vivacious woman, suddenly roared with laughter. Her boss, who was busy filling in our rental contract on the computer, tightened her lips to keep from laughing. My face flushed immediately and I began apologizing profusely to the man, who I think, more out of respect than anything else, chose to pretend the entire incident had never happened.

I was mortified. I have never made a mistake quite like that in Turkish. I routinely mix up the the words tanışmak (to greet) and taşınmak (to move) and çiçek (flower) and çilek (strawberry), but at least I recognize my tendency to confuse those words and am working to stop.

Now I've got something else to work on.

Sen kopek?

The difference between having taken one Turkish class and none at all is huge. For weeks now I've been trying to teach Jeff to learn the difference between saying in Turkish "I am ..." and "This is my ...". For example, "I am a cat" and "This is my cat" are obviously different sentences, but for someone learning Turkish as a foreign language, it can be hard to keep the two straight.

To say in Turkish, for example, "I am a cat," you say, "Ben kediyim." But to say "This is my cat", you say, "Benim kedim." There is definitely a difference, however slight, between "Kediyim" and "Kedim."

It wasn't until last Sunday night, our first in Antalya, that the glaring importance of understanding this grammatical difference became truly apparent.

We were walking down a street in Kaleici, the old city part of Antalya, which was mostly empty while we were there because it's off-season and the throngs of Russian and European tourists haven't yet descended on the city. Most of the shopkeepers, in fact, seemed bored as they stirred their tea, resting listlessly on their stoops. The familiar calls of "Would you like to buy?" seemed less hopeful than usual.

Anyway, we see this really good-looking dog laying on the middle of the road (it's pedestrian only, don't worry). Jeff starts cooing at the dog, telling him what a good boy he is, when a shopkeeper steps out of his carpet store prepared to tell us all about his authentic Turkish carpets, when Jeff strikes up a conversation. In Turkish.

"Sen kopek?" Jeff asks brightly, pointing to the dog, which translates literally to, "You dog?" I am about to point out his mistake but the shopkeeper does it for me.

"No, I am not a dog," he says, completely unfazed, in English, "But this is my dog."

A look of recognition crossed Jeff's face and turned bright red at the same time he burst out laughing. Jeff apologised profusely to the shopkeeper, but he said not to worry, he's heard that kind of mistake before.

So it's decided: In June Jeff begins Turkish 1.

At the salon

On the wall of the salon in Cihangir that I frequent there is a menu of sorts of the different areas of your body you can have waxed which include your legs, arms, underarm and what can be translated as your "special district."

Gerrymandering, anyone?

I'll have a steak with my mint julep, please

When Jeff and I were invited to a Garden Party last month, I didn't really give any thought to what one might wear or bring to a party that sounded so fashionable and glamorous.

It wasn't until yesterday morning when I was getting ready that I started picturing Southern Garden Parties, the kind one might find in Virginia on a well-manicured lawn with prim and neat gardens. I pictured ladies in white hats sipping mint juleps in the shade and men in suits playing crochet.

I thought about what I should wear to this Garden Party. A dress? Skirt? Nice pants? Should I wear heels?

I called my American friend Sarah, who was going with us and who happened to go to secondary school in Virginia, and asked for her thoughts. I figured she'd have some insight into the matter.

"Well, I know what to wear to a garden party in the States, but not in Istanbul. And not in March," she said.

That didn't give me much to go on. But we three trekked out to the suburbs of Istanbul to my host sister's house from when I was an exchange student here and discovered that her idea of a Garden Party was more or less an old-fashioned American barbeque with the men all at the grill: (Notice how hard Jeff is working.)

And the women hanging out drinking all the wine:

Apparently there was no need for us to have worried because the Garden Party was exactly that: a party in a garden. (And why do I keep capitalising "Garden Party"? I have no idea.)

But, of course, I should have known, as my host sister is kinda crazy. And I suppose, so am I. And lest you think she's drinking water here, let me tell you that in her champagne glass is straight-up raki, no water, no ice.

Now that's my kind of Garden Party.

   

Newspaper, or Ant Butt

Every morning on my way to the metro, I pick up a new daily tabloid called "Gaste." When I get to work, I usually spend about 15 minutes or so perusing the articles reading what I can understand and looking up words in my dictionary for articles that pique my attention.

This morning, I was thinking about what the word Gaste meant. I looked it up in my Turkish-English dictionary, and it said "gaster." Gaster? I never heard that word before.

So I Googled the word gaster. Do you know what it means? Are you ready for this?

Courtesy of Wikipedia: The gaster is the bulbous posterior portion of the metasoma found in Apocrita Hymenoptera (bees, wasps and ants).

In other words, an ant's butt.

Immediately, I start laughing and tell my Canadian colleague about this newspaper, named after the butt of an ant. I'm a bit incredulous. This must be a mistake, I think. No way did they name this newspaper after an ant's bulbous posterior.

It turns out that gaste is slang for gazete, which means newspaper in Turkish. Sort of like if we named a newspaper "Daily."

Which, of course, makes so much more sense.

But it isn't half as fun as saying, "Could I get a copy of today's ant butt?"