Breaking the escape

The big entertainment news in recent days has been the opening of the final Harry Potter movie, and the ending of the HP era dominating bookshelves and cinema screens. I am not ashamed to say that I read the books and saw all the movies, including the finale last week. My boyfriend and I settled into our seats, popcorn and drinks at the ready, arguing over who had the better, less manhandled 3D glasses. After 15 minutes of uncreative advertising, the film finally started.

This post is not primarily a review of the film, which I would rate decent. However, it is vital to understand the flow of the movie in order to grasp my point. The plot manages to cut in the main points of the book, but, as is true with most books-made-film, lacks transition finesse. Many story twists and character revelations are dealt with too briefly in order to catapult us to the climactic showdown between HP and Voldemort. However, still a fair effort.

So, we were still enjoying the slightly choppy storyline, when, in a sequence of action and suspense, the cinema house struck a blow to both audience and film. HP and co. are flying through a firy furnace while the last exit becomes smaller and smaller, death seems imminent. Snap the film closed and house lights came up for the mid-movie break. On top of this, even more advertisements begin playing; because, we didn’t see enough of those before the feature began. It’s something like a shove out of bed waking you from a deep and pleasant dream. They must have tried hard to find the most inappropriate place around the center of the film to break. The scramble between scenes is noticeable, but snipping a prime action sequence in half is a distraction.

Let’s talk about this movie break idea. It is not something we do in the USA, and was a new experience for me. Back in the states, I would ‘go’ just before the lights went down, and hold out on drinking soda until the last half. So, at first I thought, this is good. If I run out of popcorn, I can get more. And what is usually the case in the longer epic-style movies, if my cola is finished within the first half hour, I can run to the rest room without missing anything.

However, the negative points have won me over. Fact: movie is an escape. We viewers venture into a made up world or adventure for a couple of hours to have a break from the bill-paying, daily grind, etc. This break ruins that escape. It is especially blatant when the cut occurs in moments of action such as those described above.

I vote for the end to movie breaks, the destroyer of cinema magic. I’d rather buy the jumbo popcorn anyway and hold it, if I have to.

 

Things to do in Istanbul traffic

It is difficult to understand if one has never experienced it. While I am sure every city has some form of horrific traffic. There seems something especially unique about Istanbul. First the basic causes of said traffic. One: the typical reason. Too many people and cars in too small a space. Two: accidents. As an example, I waited an extra 45 minutes in traffic during a time of day where there should have been none because two miles away two cars had bumped and the drivers of the vehicles were dealing with their problem in the middle lane of a busy bus stop area. Three: misuse of lanes. Lane swapping and leap-frogging are favorite pastimes of public and private drivers alike in traffic. This includes ignoring lane lines all together, traveling the breakdown lane and searching out the mystical quickest lane. Four: weather. Even a light drizzle causes panic in the standard Istanbul driver. Five: the mystery cause. Still have yet to find the source of this cause. It will be a normal day; a quiet traffic hour. Suddenly, traffic will halt and move along inch by inch for 20 minutes only to dissipate just as quickly.

So have looked at what seem to be the main triggers of the daily plight of Istanbul inhabitants; I’ve come up with some ways to make the time pass more quickly, which may or may not also be useful in other traffic jam situations. One: music. I find that blasting nature sounds or classical music is best. If it’s my favorite music, I’m too likely to sing out loud and be the crazy foreign lady. If it’s something pop, I might be tempted to try a discreet dance move. Again the crazy foreign lady. Two: people watch. The trick to this is not to watch the people in your own vehicle of course. Then you get the ‘why the hell are you staring at me look’ which can have other side effects. Guessing conversations and particular thoughts of random people is my preference. Three: sleep. I have yet to master this, although I am told it is the best way. Firstly, I don’t trust people enough and, secondly, haven’t figured out how to get comfy enough. Four: sit next to older ladies. They like to talk. And even though my turkish is well below where it should be, it never stops them from trying to carry on a conversation. Which, I think they could do on their own anyway. Five: make like a dog. This is best when standing. Struggle to a window and, in summer, pull it open and enjoy what breeze there is on your face. Six: the changing city. Keeping track of the ever-changing face of my particular bus route is something of a hobby now: the progress of the many construction projects and the planting and wilting of the city beautification projects.

Finally the untried but discussed, mainly because they risk the crazy foreign lady title. Teach English to the drivers, origami for passengers, photographs along the way…

Burasi Turkiye

Burasi Turkiye. In English-This is Turkey. Not from Turkey? No Problem. Any Traveler or newly made expat soon becomes familiar with this phrase by order of repetition. In any unpleasant situation, when tempers are on edge ready to erupt, someone will sigh and offer this phrase to those standing in the general vicinity. It magically soothes the tension. Turks and those in the know also sigh and grin sadly, knowingly. Nodding of heads, they bear the difficulty. It used to make me fume but after my first year here, I’ve found this cure-all phrase to make myself laugh in the culture shock situations, which at first arrival caused stress, tears, sleeplessness, etc.

So it is with loving humor for Istanbul I relate this most poignant Burasi Turkiye tale. A Thursday in February and it is cold from an insistent wind. My friend and I had walked around Eminonu all afternoon, visiting the spice bazaar, taking pictures of pickle and fish sellers. Temperatures fell off with the sunset and despite the hot sahlep, I was well frozen through to my insides and ready to go home as quickly as possible. Heading back via the tramway. I made my way to the platform and sidled into a space at the edge with a small crowd already waiting the arrival of the tram. Red faces, scarves wrapped up to noses and hats pulled down over foreheads, we waited. One tram going the opposite way passed. We looked hopefully up our track but nothing. The platform population continued to grow in number and impatience. Another Zeytinburnu tram and still more waiting.

After 15 minutes the platform was full, and the tram finally appeared. On approach we gauged passenger count, also full on the train. As the doors opened a mob glued itself around the doors and me in the middle. Annoyed huffs and nasty words popped from the crowd under the squeezing force. Some attempting to exit the stuffed metal box and the chilled outer crowd to enter formed violent funnels in two directions. Force pushing at my back, making me push those in front. In the entrance of the tram we crowded. Packed like sardines is not enough to describe. I could not take in a breath, someone’s overweighted backpack had tucked under my ribcage and a woman molded against my back. The last one in got pinched by the closing doors. The anger simmered slowly and boiled by the fight to enter, as I tried to maneuver to breathe. Everyone was trying to look anywhere but in another pair of eyes. We take off from the platform and one woman finally laughs at the situation and says, ‘Burasi Turkiey.’ Ah yes, only in Turkiye, especially in our beloved Istanbul. A ripple of slightly annoyed laughs and tempers were satiated.

Sun…Plummet

Watching the afternoon slowly turn to evening. Sky’s blue slowly getting darker, lights coming on a yellow wash into the streets and reflecting bulbs off windows. Suns last  brilliant show and that’s it. Night. So it is that I noticed my second day in Istanbul that something seemed to be up. Now it could be a couple different things. My friends have theorized. One: I am a country born and bred kinda girl. And out in the flatness of the countryside, hilly but without mountains, no real tall building to speak of. It is easy to imagine that the sunsets took more time, lazed around a bit at the horizons lip before dipping into night.  Two: It’s about latitude. I am from a northern area and Istanbul is nearer the equator. Hence the sudden drastic change in daylight.

Whatever the reason, imaginary or factual. I was out with a friend all day enjoying my first full day in this new city. Slightly buzzed with jet lag. The sun was gently setting, a very soft orange. We were walking around. Figured maybe we had another hour left. When suddenly it was gone and dark. The switch flipped. I thought my tired time confused mind was playing tricks on me. But the next day as I desperately tried to get back from my friends new apartment to my hotel in the center of Kadikoy. The same phenomenon. I sat on the mini-bus anxiously watching for the water which would tell me I’d come close to my destination. Still gripping the seat , sweat and fear…I am lost and sure of it. So, I get off early and follow the stream of people down a busy street lined by shops, puffed up wedding dresses guarding the upper stories of buildings on both sides of the street. And then the sunlight is suddenly gone. I feel ice cold now, and not because of a drop in temperature. There is something decidedly scary and creepy about roaming an unknown neighborhood of a foreign city in the dark and alone.

 I am only sure of my hotel name and have only one three words of turkish. A shy and almost inaudible ‘Evet’-yes and ‘Hayir’-no but a nonunderstandable pronunciation of ‘teşekkurler’-thanks. In a t-shirt shop I show the card of the hotel and from pointed directions find the water again. Shut the door to my hotel room and breath deeply. The sounds of the street, yelling and cars and tapping high heel shoes, come up through my opened window. I think to myself the sun could have waited a little longer.

Another kind of contrast…

It’s winter and the first Saturday of school break. The freezing wind and rain has driven hordes of families from the waterfront and parks to the many shopping malls around the city. Yes. Istanbul like all major cities, there doesn’t seem to be one area of the city that hasn’t raised at least one shopping haven. A brief lapse in memory led me to think of finding some shelter in a shopping mall as well…but I had forgotten.

At Capitol all empty chairs and cafes are filled with children and their accompanied extended families tagging along. Noise and shopping and sales. I am ready to leave within five minutes but notice everyone gathering at the balconies surrounding the center of the mall, which usually circle around the now covered fountain. A weekend spectacle, display. I wait along with the others to see what will happen.

Clubbing music starts from concert-sized speakers and a group of eight early-teen girls run onto the stage and start to dance. I am shocked. Really shocked. Usually more conservative shoppers here in a conservative area. I have gotten used to more extreme ideas of modesty. Keeping skin covered, in most areas other than Taksim where anything goes.  But these girls in early puberty, there newly molded womanly curves still covered in baby fat, wearing revealing dance costumes that even my free-thinking mother would never have let me exit the house in, let alone perform in front of a huge audience of strangers. They wind their hips and flip their hair in a sexualized dance miming something from Mtv music videos. Shocked. Such a spectacle of young turkish girls and I am no prude. Their parents standing right there taking pictures. All eyes on their darling babies, acting like they’re in an Istiklal club. If I were there older sister…, I think.

What a thing to do on a Saturday at the mall. Perhaps, I have become sensitized to showing skin by my time here; I guess I’ll have to ask my mom. She knows my sensibilities and opinions pretty well.

The mighty strait

No, not a river–the label that the majority of my students reach for when trying to name the rushing, heavily trafficked body of water separating European from Asian Istanbul. Not a sea either, but a strait for our geography buffs. Perhaps the most famous and most polluted also holds the title, in my heart at least, (and I am pretty sure as well in the hearts of all Istanbul) as the most striking and beautiful. People may think that after more than two years it would get old, but every day it still strikes at me. Something that demands to be looked at. Saying: ‘Appreciate me!’ Here’s why…

1. İt’s a fast flowing tumultous body of water, forever changing, as moody and emotional as women, cause come on girls, let’s admit this is true. When windy the waves chop the shore angerly, danger do not pass she says, and in summer sunshine the surface shimmers blue-green, happy and relaxed. Every day it is different–her own personality. The colors always new the waves never the same.
2. There’s something about boats passing, maybe calling to our inner child. At any time of day or night there can be any number of vehicles and people moving up and down or across her. City transport ships carry commuters and tourists from Kadiköy or Üsküdar to other ports. Cargo ships and tankers pass from the Marmara to the Black Sea blowing their deep-throated horns and leaving smaller fishing vessels to bounce like toy boats in their wake. Even submarines pass, keeping guard.
3. It’s the heart of activity in good weather…I don’t just mean runners, although that’s my preferred activity. People are walking, leisurely or in effort to sweat off some of the baklava pounds. Fishermen cast into the waters–frustrating pedestrians. An abundance of tea gardens and breakfast buffets line the curving path. Nothing quite like enjoying the view and limitless glasses of tea. İn summer, men and young boys swim. Taking over the pathways and sounding like elephants bathing racing each other up and down the currents.

And we care, some care, that she is so unwell with poison from the surrounding city. I saw last fall a mother and her son watching the water. The son finished off his candy bar in seconds and threw the wrapper into the water. The mother’s reaction was swift. ‘Does it look like a trash can to you?! I have taught you better than this.’ The son was soundly ashamed of himself. Perhaps there is still hope. We can reclaim the health of the mightiest straight–our Boğaz.

How we love being foreign in İstanbul

İt started for me, as it does for most people who are new in this megacity, three months into my initial entry into the country.And boy was there build up? Everyone had something to say, advice to give and none of it was positive. Needless to say left me feeling a little apprehensive. ‘You have to get up at like 4am to go over there and get a number. Then you have to wait…and wait…and more waiting.’ ‘When you finally get inside, you’ll get another number and have to wait more.’  AND ‘Nobody speaks English.’

Waiting again for the harrowing journey to the emniyet, dealing again with the challenges to achieveing the task of renewing my residency permit, İ feel a nostalgic remembrance. All the wonderful moments waiting in a crowded room. People on the floor and leaning against all the walls. Students playing cards, made up women and their sugar daddies, families with grouchy babies, everyone stressed, all refugees in a station waiting to go somewhere. When really we are all waiting so we can stay where we are. Something my fellow teachers and İ have nicknamed ‘hell’. A little piece of it in İstanbul.

And for the most memorable, let’s set the scene, in accordance with the song Summer in the city, it was July and the air felt like an unairconditioned gym. This at only 7:30. Picture a string of foreigners lined up against the emniyet wall guarded by a machine gun bearing officer, looks about 18. All up before sun rise. All impatient and anxious to get into the building with their precious number. Taken at 6 am with a mysterious man on a crumpled piece of paper ( who this man works for, who knows?) My friend and colleague, Kathy, is reading a book to pass the time, İ am fighting the urge to throw up. Early mornings pre-dawn mornings do not agree with my stomach. İ feel her bend towards me…to tell me something…but then she’s still going down toward the ground. A hero steps from the line to catch her. She’s pale and purple-tinged. Everyone suddenly becomes helpful. Russian women slapping her none-to-gently and splashes water in her face. The police seeing a crowd forming jump into action and call an ambulance. We end up in a public hospital for three hours. Still losing our numbers. This particular time took 4 tries to achieve the goal.

Now we again wait. İt is a waiting game. Checking to make our online appointment every hour or so. Waiting for their to be a free date. Wondering what to do. We are again waiting and stressing. Makes me think maybe they should make a t-shirt. İ survived the yabancı emniyet.

Call me Merve

When I first moved to Istanbul a little over two years ago, the extent of my knowledge of turkish history and culture could fit into one line of a song lyric. ‘İstanbul was Constantinople’. But since my curiosity of the country first began when I heard of Turkish delight in one of my bedtime stories I had wanted to see this mysterious city. I wasn’t nervous. Ready with my new job, two suitcases and a useful phrase book picked up from a bookstore in my last USA stop in New York City.

Figured İ could pick up a few phrases enough to prepare me for my first few days. Enough to get by. İ hadn’t counted on the extra vowels and complex tongue twisters of consonant rubbing against consonant. İ could kind of manage no ‘Hayir’–’hire’. Yes ‘Evet’–’e-vet’. But thank you was a little bit beyond me, practicing in my head on the 10 hour flight from JFK to İstanbul airport.

My difficulties with Turkish language pronunciation, made more crucial when İ began to learn student names, were matched in the Türks difficulties with my given name. A old Welsh one ending in the infamous ‘th’. İ especially enjoyed giving my name at Starbucks….Never failed to get a different name each time. Sometimes other names they knew were English…Melanie, Maureen, Melissa. Or something that didn’t resemble anything any parent would inflict upon their new born child.

My friends continued to argue over what Türk name they could rename me but no one could seem to agree. So İ have continued to use Mary. Mono-syllable and well-known.

Just last week. Dragging with end of the semester blues: assignments to finish, students getting winter break fever, and a night of four hours sleep. İ stopped into my Starbucks before class. Gave the same easy name. (Note: And having become able to order in passable turkish) İ waited and received my cup.

‘Merve’. The barista had unknowingly dubbed me with a new turkish title. İ proudly walked out of the Starbucks…İ had been able to pass as turkish and gotten my new name. Slowly turning Türk.