On Sunday night my flatmate and I made our first trip to a Turkish cinema to see 'The Hobbit'. We managed to get in on student tickets, and, blessing our youthful looks and the Turkish disregard of ID checks, we made our way into the auditorium. It was probably about a quater of the size of the average cinema salon in England, and I get the impression that this is one of the bigger ones in Istanbul.
Instead of the half-hour run in period of trailers and phone adverts that we have become accostomed to back at home, there was only a two-minute advert for a Turkish rom-com that conveniently involved a hoard of gorgeous girls in bikinis. Without further ado, they went straight into the film, remembering to turn the house-lights down a few minutes later. Then of course there were the late-comers, so the film was paused to allow them to make their way to their seats. Naturally.
In Turkish cinemas they have an interval about half-way through. Now, you might think that they would wait until the end of a scene to pause, but no, it was not quite so well thought-out. Instead, Lord Elrond was cut-off more or less mid sentence with his face frozen into a slightly unnatural expression. Very undignified for an elf of his standing.
Come the end of the film, everyone clamoured to get out of the auditorium as quickly as possible, nobody hanging back to watch the end-credits, which were stopped after about 20 seconds anyway. It was all brilliantly unceremonious.
12.19.2012
12.13.2012
Guns at sundown
This afternoon a friend and I went for a walk along the waterfront path in Kadikoy. It was cold and clear, with beautiful skies just pinkening as the day approached sunset. All very serene. That is, until the point at which we saw the holster of a gun emerge from the jacket of the hooded man standing in front of us. He then took the gun out completely and we saw him proffer the handle to a passing group of young guys to whom he seemed to be offering a price. It was just so understated that he might as well have been feeding the pigeons...
Much to my disappointment, he didn't make the same offer to my friend and me as we passed him - I guess I've still got a bit of work to do on that bad-girl image.
Much to my disappointment, he didn't make the same offer to my friend and me as we passed him - I guess I've still got a bit of work to do on that bad-girl image.
'The Gitar Cafe'
On a quiet Tuesday evening last week I had possibly one of my best evenings yet in Istanbul, and I'm afraid it was disappointingly devoid embarrassing drunken antics.
I mentioned in a previous blog that I had spoken to a Spanish street musician on the ferry crossing over to the European side. In all his Mediterranean warmth and gusto, he implored me to go to a gig he was playing in a little cafe that goes by the name of 'The Gitar Cafe'. And yes, either they have spelt it wrong, or 'gitar' is Turkish for 'guitar', I'm yet to find out which.
Anyway, not wanting to turn down an invitation, off I went on that Tuesday night, flatmate Kyle in tow. As we shuffled up one of the windy old mohogony staircases that seem to be characteristic of all older buildings in the city, we couldn't help but notice that there was no noise coming from the cafe. We realised why when we entered. The place is no bigger than an average sized living room, dimly lit with a fantastic wrought iron chandalier, and furnished with a motley selection of low sofas, wooden chairs and rickety tables. In anticipation of the music, the atmosphere was such that people were keeping conversation to a low hum.
There is no bar in the cafe, but beer and wine are supplied from a tardis-like fridge in the kitchen round the back. In fact, it occurred to me when I went there for a second time last night that 'The Gitar Cafe' may actually be someone's appartment...
Back to the quiet Tuesday evening. I was greeted by my Spanish friend with much animation before he rushed to the platform at the front to begin his set. He played a couple of covers before moving on to the more raw and emotive Spanish pieces. There was a small group of Spanish women seated next to the stage who would at times spontaneously join with the most perfectly fused harmonies. They later joined Codo on stage with a violin, two clarinets and another guitar and performed a series of what seemed to be Spanish folk or flamenco songs. They were beautiful to watch; they gave the most engaging, natural, joyful performance, the expressions on their faces speaking volumes for their sentiment for the music.
Another thing that amazed me was that instead of treating it as background noise, every person in the room was giving the performance their full attention. In spite of this, it was not an isolated experience; throughout the evening a lovely warmth spread through the audience, until the whole group was full of smiles for eachother. Conversation after the music had finished was easy and fluid.
May there be many more nights like this.
I mentioned in a previous blog that I had spoken to a Spanish street musician on the ferry crossing over to the European side. In all his Mediterranean warmth and gusto, he implored me to go to a gig he was playing in a little cafe that goes by the name of 'The Gitar Cafe'. And yes, either they have spelt it wrong, or 'gitar' is Turkish for 'guitar', I'm yet to find out which.
Anyway, not wanting to turn down an invitation, off I went on that Tuesday night, flatmate Kyle in tow. As we shuffled up one of the windy old mohogony staircases that seem to be characteristic of all older buildings in the city, we couldn't help but notice that there was no noise coming from the cafe. We realised why when we entered. The place is no bigger than an average sized living room, dimly lit with a fantastic wrought iron chandalier, and furnished with a motley selection of low sofas, wooden chairs and rickety tables. In anticipation of the music, the atmosphere was such that people were keeping conversation to a low hum.
There is no bar in the cafe, but beer and wine are supplied from a tardis-like fridge in the kitchen round the back. In fact, it occurred to me when I went there for a second time last night that 'The Gitar Cafe' may actually be someone's appartment...
Back to the quiet Tuesday evening. I was greeted by my Spanish friend with much animation before he rushed to the platform at the front to begin his set. He played a couple of covers before moving on to the more raw and emotive Spanish pieces. There was a small group of Spanish women seated next to the stage who would at times spontaneously join with the most perfectly fused harmonies. They later joined Codo on stage with a violin, two clarinets and another guitar and performed a series of what seemed to be Spanish folk or flamenco songs. They were beautiful to watch; they gave the most engaging, natural, joyful performance, the expressions on their faces speaking volumes for their sentiment for the music.
Another thing that amazed me was that instead of treating it as background noise, every person in the room was giving the performance their full attention. In spite of this, it was not an isolated experience; throughout the evening a lovely warmth spread through the audience, until the whole group was full of smiles for eachother. Conversation after the music had finished was easy and fluid.
May there be many more nights like this.
12.10.2012
The gods' drink
My flatmate has introduced me to something beautiful. It's a drink, it's called sahlep, and if heaven had a taste, this would be it. For the base flavour they use orchid roots, which are then infused with sweetened milk which is gradually thickened over a slow flame until it reaches a light custard consistency. The final touch is a sprinkle of cinnamon. Honestly, heaven.
Basketball and burgers
The Friday before last a friend of mine took me to a Besiktas (Turkish team)/Barcelona basketball game. Having never particularly thought of Turkey as a big basketball nation, I was surprised at how many people told me that this was a 'cultural' experience not to miss. They were right; Turks, as it turns out, are almost as fanatical about basketball as they are about football, and that is extremely fanatical.
It was pouring down with rain and the roads were near torrents, but this did nothing to dampen spirits as we approached the stadium. Chants were everywhere, vendors selling Besiktas merchandise were swooping in on us from all sides, the smell of the legendary 'spit-burgers' (named thus because it is rumoured that the vendors spit on them) was hanging in the air.
As we entered the stadium we were checked over by security. What my friend failed to tell me was that you aren't allowed to take coins into the stadium because apparently there have been problems in the past with people throwing them onto the court or at players. So the security guard was manically gesticulating at my coin heavy purse and I, of course, had not the faintest clue what she was talking about, but thought she might be asking for a tip. This lead to some confusion as I grudgingly offered her some money, at which point my friend grabbed me by the arm and we beat a hasty retreat back out of the stadium. And then there I was, stuffing coins down my sock. It was painfully obvious as I clinked back into the stadium entrance five minutes later, but security waved me straight through. Silly foreign girl.
Finally inside, the atmosphere was electric, and remained so throughout the entire game. I had been to a basketball game before in Boston and I thought that the fans there were pretty enthusiastic, but Turkish fans put the Americans to shame. Sorry Americans. The entire stadium, almost without exception, was not only on their feet for the duration of the game, but standing on their chairs. Chants, claps, cheers, boos, whistles and war-like arm movements continued throughout, and increased in volume as the score gap increased in numbers, and not in Besiskas' favour. The Besiktas fans maintained admirable fervour even when hope was gone.
We left the stadium with sore throats and red hands. I bought a spit-burger and it was delicious. I think the vendor's saliva really added something.
It was pouring down with rain and the roads were near torrents, but this did nothing to dampen spirits as we approached the stadium. Chants were everywhere, vendors selling Besiktas merchandise were swooping in on us from all sides, the smell of the legendary 'spit-burgers' (named thus because it is rumoured that the vendors spit on them) was hanging in the air.
As we entered the stadium we were checked over by security. What my friend failed to tell me was that you aren't allowed to take coins into the stadium because apparently there have been problems in the past with people throwing them onto the court or at players. So the security guard was manically gesticulating at my coin heavy purse and I, of course, had not the faintest clue what she was talking about, but thought she might be asking for a tip. This lead to some confusion as I grudgingly offered her some money, at which point my friend grabbed me by the arm and we beat a hasty retreat back out of the stadium. And then there I was, stuffing coins down my sock. It was painfully obvious as I clinked back into the stadium entrance five minutes later, but security waved me straight through. Silly foreign girl.
Finally inside, the atmosphere was electric, and remained so throughout the entire game. I had been to a basketball game before in Boston and I thought that the fans there were pretty enthusiastic, but Turkish fans put the Americans to shame. Sorry Americans. The entire stadium, almost without exception, was not only on their feet for the duration of the game, but standing on their chairs. Chants, claps, cheers, boos, whistles and war-like arm movements continued throughout, and increased in volume as the score gap increased in numbers, and not in Besiskas' favour. The Besiktas fans maintained admirable fervour even when hope was gone.
We left the stadium with sore throats and red hands. I bought a spit-burger and it was delicious. I think the vendor's saliva really added something.
12.04.2012
Illegal aliens
Something I have learnt very quickly here is that the basic employment legalities that would be a given in the UK are more or less completely disregarded in Turkey. There is no such thing as a binding contract. Employment is transient and can be lost or gained within one day. In this city things are constantly shifting.
75% of the foreign teachers here do not have a work permit. I myself was told very early on that I should not expect one.You can imagine that this was at first slightly unnerving for an English girl used to everything being done by the book. However, despite my (and my mother's) initial anxieties, I have come to quite like the idea of living on the wrong side of the law...
75% of the foreign teachers here do not have a work permit. I myself was told very early on that I should not expect one.You can imagine that this was at first slightly unnerving for an English girl used to everything being done by the book. However, despite my (and my mother's) initial anxieties, I have come to quite like the idea of living on the wrong side of the law...
12.03.2012
A musical city
One thing that is unexpectedly prominent in Istanbul is music. The city is full of it, from street musicians, to live traditional music in bars, even to street vendors spontaneously belting out a mournful middle-eastern warble in the moments when sales are down. Many of the older generation will sing as they amble along the street. Whilst in England such people would provoke a few sideways glances (and maybe a call to the nearest mental asylum), spontaneous song seems to be totally acceptable here. And the people seem to respect, almost venerate their musicians. It is not at all uncommon to find a large and lasting crowd gathered around musicians in the street. When people play music in the metro or on the ferry, other passengers, instead of sticking their heads further into the depths of their newspapers will devote their full attention to the spectacle and the majority will always give money.
I went to a free concert last night on the street where I'm living. We only caught the end, but what an ending. The band, and most of the audience, was Kurdish. That became quite clear at the moment when the singer announced that he was going to sing some songs in his native Kurdish dialect. The auditorium erupted. Everyone was on their feet, a load of scarves bearing the Kurdish colours were plucked out of people's handbags, and about half the audience flooded down to the front of the stage where they danced in unison a traditional Kurdish celebratory dance.
Until recently, I discovered yesterday, it was against the law to give your child a Kurdish name. Still now many Kurds carry a Turkish name on their passports in order to avoid discrimination in the workplace, by the police etc. Kurdish names are for use only among those who are also Kurdish. For many years, the language has also been banned in educational and other public institutions. So you can imagine these people's joy at being able to hold a public celebration of Kurdish identity.
I have also never felt so conscious of my foreignness as I did last night. Among about 300 people, I was the only one fair-haired, fair-skinned, blue eyed. A strange feeling.
I went to a free concert last night on the street where I'm living. We only caught the end, but what an ending. The band, and most of the audience, was Kurdish. That became quite clear at the moment when the singer announced that he was going to sing some songs in his native Kurdish dialect. The auditorium erupted. Everyone was on their feet, a load of scarves bearing the Kurdish colours were plucked out of people's handbags, and about half the audience flooded down to the front of the stage where they danced in unison a traditional Kurdish celebratory dance.
Until recently, I discovered yesterday, it was against the law to give your child a Kurdish name. Still now many Kurds carry a Turkish name on their passports in order to avoid discrimination in the workplace, by the police etc. Kurdish names are for use only among those who are also Kurdish. For many years, the language has also been banned in educational and other public institutions. So you can imagine these people's joy at being able to hold a public celebration of Kurdish identity.
I have also never felt so conscious of my foreignness as I did last night. Among about 300 people, I was the only one fair-haired, fair-skinned, blue eyed. A strange feeling.
12.01.2012
First impressions
After the initial scrabble to find myself a job, an appartment and a Turkish phrase book, I finally find myself with time on my hands to document something of my first impressions of Istanbul. French poet Alphonse de Lamartine once famously said that "if one had but a single glance to give the world, one should gaze on Istanbul". I know that Istanbul is certainly not the only thing in the world worth gazing at, but having been here for two weeks now, I whole-heartedly agree that it is one of them.
First, you can't help but be overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place. A city twice the size of London in ground spread and population, it can also claim to exist in two different continents. I had heard before of the old description of the place as 'the city where East meets West', but I assumed until I got here that this was meant only in terms of culture. No. The city of Istanbul actually marks the place where the world divides into Europe and Asia. The division is represented by the vast and shimmering Bosphorus Strait, running from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara, thus cleaving the city in half.
I have found myself a teaching job which requires me to split my time between two branches of a school, one in Europe and one in Asia. To travel between the two you cross the Bosphorus Strait by boat; a cross-continental commute. As you chug along in a ferry lined with cushioned benches, an in-house waiter offering you Cay (Turkish tea), looking out on the unmatchably evocative view of the minaret-adorned skyline, you can't help but think that surely, surely this is the best commute in the world. Especially next to the London Underground.
But it's not just the size of Istanbul, or even the fact that it straddles two continents that makes it remarkable. It is the sheer life of the place. The city has a life that pulses howls shudders up through the soles of your shoes as you walk the (dangerously uneven) streets. It is shambolic unruly ancient scruffy decrepit unpredictable - but here lies its appeal.
The school has provided me an apartment in a district called Kadikoy in Anatolia (the Asian side). The nights are never quiet - I do not know when people sleep here. Your dreams are suspended against a vague consciousness of the incessant background noise of car horns, musicians, shouts, street cats, traffic. My bedroom window looks out over the leafy surround of a vast and gleaming white Orthodox church. There have been a couple of times since I've been here that I've heard the church bells chiming against the sound of the Muslim call to prayer. This, I think, sums up what most modern Istanbullus would like the city to represent; a place of tolerance, harmony and unison.
I met a street musician two nights ago who told me that he believes in always acknowledging how much you don't know, and how much there is always left to learn. This rings true for me, especially at this time, in this place.
First, you can't help but be overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place. A city twice the size of London in ground spread and population, it can also claim to exist in two different continents. I had heard before of the old description of the place as 'the city where East meets West', but I assumed until I got here that this was meant only in terms of culture. No. The city of Istanbul actually marks the place where the world divides into Europe and Asia. The division is represented by the vast and shimmering Bosphorus Strait, running from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara, thus cleaving the city in half.
I have found myself a teaching job which requires me to split my time between two branches of a school, one in Europe and one in Asia. To travel between the two you cross the Bosphorus Strait by boat; a cross-continental commute. As you chug along in a ferry lined with cushioned benches, an in-house waiter offering you Cay (Turkish tea), looking out on the unmatchably evocative view of the minaret-adorned skyline, you can't help but think that surely, surely this is the best commute in the world. Especially next to the London Underground.
But it's not just the size of Istanbul, or even the fact that it straddles two continents that makes it remarkable. It is the sheer life of the place. The city has a life that pulses howls shudders up through the soles of your shoes as you walk the (dangerously uneven) streets. It is shambolic unruly ancient scruffy decrepit unpredictable - but here lies its appeal.
The school has provided me an apartment in a district called Kadikoy in Anatolia (the Asian side). The nights are never quiet - I do not know when people sleep here. Your dreams are suspended against a vague consciousness of the incessant background noise of car horns, musicians, shouts, street cats, traffic. My bedroom window looks out over the leafy surround of a vast and gleaming white Orthodox church. There have been a couple of times since I've been here that I've heard the church bells chiming against the sound of the Muslim call to prayer. This, I think, sums up what most modern Istanbullus would like the city to represent; a place of tolerance, harmony and unison.
I met a street musician two nights ago who told me that he believes in always acknowledging how much you don't know, and how much there is always left to learn. This rings true for me, especially at this time, in this place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)