A Language Lesson
The Bosphorus (rhymes with phosphorous – but comes from Greek for “cattle passage”) is a strait that divides that the European side of Istanbul from the Asian. We took a ferry across and sat wedged between local families. Now I like making random chit chat with random people but that day was having no luck – not even with eye contact. Everyone seemed to be studiously looking just past us.
Then a young boy and girl – the boy playing a simple tune on his accordion, the girl carrying a bucket for donations – kind of stole my heart. The girl, maybe 10, was beautiful, her hair light brown, her green eyes ringed with a dark border, her face delicate. After I deposited a few liras in her bucket, I asked her if I could take a picture. She looked taken aback and embarrassed as I clicked. I fumbled a “thank you” in Turkish. Her brother, who had come in front of me by then, slowed down to decipher what I was trying to say. He squinted skeptically as I repeated myself. And then he stopped his music to correct my pronunciation.
“Sağol,” he said.
“Saul?”
“Sağol!”
“Saauulll?”
As he moved on, he shook his head gave me an amused smile. A gift. This little interaction was not much. I don’t know why these two children find themselves begging on a ferry, where they go to school, if they go to school, who they are as a people, where they are geopolitically. I don’t know if their parents make them beg, and do they hate it or do they make it into a game. I don’t know anything. But still this small exchange let me skirt those questions and just make a human connection, however fleeting.
In our four days, we didn’t see anyone sleeping on the sidewalks. I saw one drunk person, that’s it. But inflation in Türkiye has been through the roof. Derya, our guide, said people are shrinking their lives, rooming with cousins, forgoing new purchases, living closer to the edge. But there is some social safety net, she said. Islam asks that the faithful donate 10% of their income to the needy. Is that what keeps people off the streets, I wonder. I also didn’t see much garbage on the roads. Public bins are scarce, just like in Japan, so we carried around our garbage until we saw one. I’d love to understand what combination of govt and cultural practices influences the way a country is organized.
I know there’s an iron fist ruling this land, and civil rights and political dissent are shuttered in prisons, but a Turkish friend of ours said that public transit and healthcare are night and day since Erdogan took over. Our friend is no right-wing zealot, by the way. He said it in way of pointing out the complexity of govt rule. Maybe day to day the choice between civil rights and medical care is a tough one? Erdogan doesn’t have mass support. He came in with an army of lawyers who dismantled democracy piece by piece. Trump has studied at his feet.
This also points to the frustrating thing about this sort of highlights-only travel. It's a one-night (okay four-night, technically) stand. It generates more questions than answers. Maybe the only solution is to give it the time it deserves.
Grand Bazaar
3800 stores and 40,000 employees selling Turkish delights in myriad colors and flavors, spices in neat piles, fruit and herb teas, tiny teacups, evil eye emblems, scarves, shawls, hats, handbags, fabric, jewelry, beaded necklaces, bracelets. Derya said the rent in this bazaar is exorbitant, so selling fast and high is crucial. The shopkeepers invite you in with a smile and a platter of sweets. They are all bows and compliments while they hope to make a sale. But as soon as they sniff disappointment, they turn. “You don’t know what you’re seeing,” one salesman snapped at me as I walked away from a shirt that made a dubious claim to be 100% cotton. Another spat “goodbye” when I declined to buy the earrings I had tried on. The carpet sellers held their cool longer. They stayed polite, even though their wares were heavy and the middle-aged men who hauled them out and folded them back seemed sweaty and winded.
Istanbul has an India vibe. The air is tinged with diesel and food, the culture marked by hustle. You don’t know quite what or whom to trust. Don’t drink the tap water. Don’t pay the first price they ask for. Make sure the taxi turns on the meter.
Cats
My goodness. There's a cat in every corner of Istanbul. Anjali was in heaven. She picked them up, tucked them under her chin, kissed them on the head before putting them down. She tried to feed one baklava (it turned up its nose) and water. One cat followed her into a market, and it turned out she belonged to a shopkeeper who hadn’t seen her in four days. He was ecstatic to find her. The govt takes care of these cats, as do the locals. Anyone can take a stray cat to a vet - who will vaccinate it for free and clip a notch in its ear as proof. People feed them and sometimes take them home as adoptees. The cats are pets of Istanbul.
Few stray dogs though. The two we saw were large and well fed. One was taking a shit in middle of the road. You don’t see cats behave like that. Istanbul is luckier than Delhi.
Taxis
Universal behavior: Speeding while blasting music and yelling over the phone and scrolling directions. One driver had a movie inset into the corner of his map. He bellowed on the phone in Turkish most of the way to the airport. Then, when he hung up, he put pedal to the metal and really started zooming. He said a few words loudly to us in English… something about USA and Trump and Obama good...but then gave up on this stilted convo and kept on zooming. We prayed, knowing this was the most dangerous thing we were going to do today.
