May 31, 2011 § Leave a comment
Yesterday’s post? Happened a couple of weeks before “the accident.” My life definitely doesn’t involve traipsing around graveyards anymore. Though when I can walk again, just try and stop me!
During the first week of my lojman-based convalescence, I was pretty productive. I limited myself to 2, maybe 3 hours of TV followed by 2-3 hours of Ladino interview transcription, reading, harmonica playing, and napping. Use this opportunity, I told myself. Set a schedule, have goals, be productive.
Then weeks 2 and 3 rolled around and my motivation ebbed as I became hypnotized by E2’s daily cycle of Ellen, Martha Stewart, and Gossip Girl. It repeats thrice (great word) and so did I. I’m admitting it, without shame: at some points during the past 3 weeks I watched 9 straight hours of Ellen, Martha, and my favorite Scandalous Upper East Siders.
After a Saturday night chocolate cake and Mad Men binge (the 3-episode cycle from 8-11 pm repeated again at 1 am!), I put my one good foot down and said, “Sherri, pull yourself together.” I threw out what remained of the cake, turned off the TV, and resolved to, well, get shit done. After a good night’s sleep. Sloth makes you tired.
Monday was fantastic. I can be a pretty good taskmaster when I need to be. So I rewarded myself with some late-night lounging. CNBC-E, my favorite American TV channel in Turkey, was showing Bobby, the much-maligned 2006 docudrama of RFK’s assassination, the only movie to unite such disparate stars as Emilio Estevez, Laurence Fishburne, Heather Graham, and Lindsay Lohan. Dressed to the nines in their 60’s finest? Great! I began to willingly suspend my disbelief and actually enjoy the movie–and then this came on the screen:
No, Demi Moore’s not sporting the biggest orange flower ring EVER. It’s a cigarette. In an effort to dissuade viewers from smoking, no one on Turkish television is allowed to be shown smoking or holding a cigarette. So instead, network censors replace cigarettes with neon-colored flowers. This is utterly ridiculous and has the complete opposite effect of drawing the viewers’ eyes even more to what they already know is a cigarette. A cigarette made prettier! I want to smoke psychedelic flowers, too! The ban completely ruined Control, the Joy Division film I watched back in October. Do you know how many flowers Ian Curtis smoked during the 70’s?
This isn’t to say I don’t greatly appreciate the same 2009 law which banned smoking in indoor bars, restaurants, and cafes (though many slyly get around that by simply installing temporary windows in the winter and continuing to claim open-air status). There’s enough real smoke (and smoke blown up people’s asses) in Turkey to go around. But if anyone in the Turkish government thinks this act of TV censorship is preventing anything, they’re wrong.
Of course they’re wrong! Remember when Turkey banned YouTube and every criticism of Ataturk went away? Or when, instead of simply shutting down one person’s site, Turkey banned Blogger? It was like that one time in kindergarten when some kid stole something and wouldn’t admit it so the teacher punished the entire class. I am not your child, Turkish government! And then here’s a whole list of other sites Turkey has recently banned.
It gets worse. In August, the country’s Information Technology Board (BTK) will require that all Turkish households with Internet access choose a content filter. You can’t not choose a filter. They come in different levels: family, children, domestic, and standard. Let’s play “choose your own repression!” But I’m being selfish. It’s to protect the conservative children, won’t somebody think of the children?! says BTK chairman Tayfun Acarer. Of course! In the words of Ersu Ablak, I want freedom, I must be a sick porno freak.
It doesn’t end there. The Telecommunications Directorate issued a list of 138 words that are now banned from Turkish domain names, among them the English words beat, hot, homemade, and, winner of the Overwhelming Irony Award, free. Also forbidden are the Turkish words for breath and, winner of the *Facepalm* Award, forbidden.
The opposition CHP party is ridiculing this which deserves to be ridiculed in TV ads for the upcoming June 12 election. This is my favorite:
I wish I could provide a translated transcript for you, but I don’t understand everything they’re saying. What I do know is that they’re talking plainly about the sheer inanity of the ban, including the forbidden ban. The ad is basically one big partywide *facepalm*.
It’s easy enough to get around the ban by using a service like HotSpot Shield, which encrypts your internet connection. But we shouldn’t need to. Turkey’s been widely criticized by the western world not only for censoring the Internet but for arresting and silencing journalists on trumped-up or false charges. And the Turkish people aren’t taking this laying down either. There have been numerous protests around the country to challenge the government’s continual impinging of freedom. But nothing seems to change, and as CHP stands little chance of upsetting AKP next month, expect plenty more viewings of shiny fluorescent flower inhalation in the coming years.
May 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
Fellow Fulbrighter Amy sent an e-mail a few weeks ago that she had secured State Department funding for a Turkey Fulbright ETA traveling photography exhibit and needed our best photos from the year. Eager to contribute, I borrowed Alex’s ‘one day when I’m a real adult I’ll own one of these’ DSLR cameras and headed to one of my favorite and quietest places in Tekirdag: the Jewish cemetery.
When I found out last June that I would be living in Tekirdag, the first thing I did was google the place, study its history, and contact current residents. Tekirdag used to have a vibrant Jewish population who, after centuries of residence, gradually left throughout the 1900’s for greener pastures: Istanbul, Israel, and America–specifically Seattle. Yes, Seattle. It’s surprisingly home to one of America’s largest Sephardic population (read more about their arrival here). The Jews left for various reasons: greater economic opportunity, the formation of Israel, difficulties in the new Turkish republic, and a 1934 pogrom. So while the town’s got a great history behind it, I am the only living Jew in Tekirdag.
Last summer I called various members of Seattle’s Bikur Holim Synagogue to talk with the children and grandchildren of Tekirdag emigres. They were eager to discuss their 2005 congregational trip to Turkey and their relatives’ memories of their ancestral home. One man in particular, Isaac Azose, sent me DVD footage of his 1992 voyage to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the Sephardic Expulsion from Spain, and also sent me the name of one Nissim Hasan, an old Muslim Turkish man who used to work for a Tekirdagli Jewish family about 50 years ago and spoke Ladino. But Isaac didn’t have Nissim’s phone number; instead, he had the address of one Turhan Ozbek, a real estate agent who could magically put me in touch with Nissim. So one aimless October day, I went in search of Turhan. One small problem: most streets are horribly labeled in Tekirdag and I had just arrived in the city. I had nothing to lose and absolutely no shame, so I walked into a real estate office in the center of town armed with a big smile and my dictionary and asked where I might find this Ozbek character. Huseyin, the man behind the desk, was confused but genuinely curious about me and my mission to find an old man I’d never met before. Wouldn’t you be? A whole parade of mustachioed men came in the tiny office, drank tea, looked puzzled, drank more tea, made some calls, then left. Finally Huseyin put his daughter Deniz on the phone, an Internet cafe proprietress who had lived in London for a year or two. It was determined that Huseyin and I had reached our Turkish/gesticulation communication limit and that Deniz’s translation assistance was desperately needed. To the cafe!
While Deniz’s English skills were marginally better than her computer skills, they still weren’t great. She also was horribly confused about why I needed to find Ozbek to find Hassan but went along with the whole crazy scheme and tried her hardest. Through a whole network of phone calls and asking passersby, we found Ozbek’s office. Not surprisingly he’d moved in the past 15 years. To his office!
His office, as I later came to realize, was a typical Turkish real estate office. A ground-floor room, apartment ads plastering the outside windows. Inside, one small clean desk facing the door, and one filing cabinet. But while many of T.dag’s agents have entered the 20th century and use computers, Ozbek’s office looked like a 1970’s relic: a fading poster of a Middle Eastern tourist site lettered in Arabic, and a typewriter. Oh yes, a typewriter. Even Huseyin thought that was funny.
We sat with bated breath, waiting for Ozbek to return from his lunch break. He returned and told us that Nissim had died five years before.
Well, that was a pretty decisive end.
Huseyin, Deniz, and I went back to Deniz’s cafe and said our goodbyes. But before I left, I asked Deniz for directions to the Jewish cemetery. She told me it was located somewhere behind the bus station, “up”, but that I shouldn’t go there because it’s dangerous. That’s the warning I hear weekly about locations in Tekirdag. They’re not. I went.
The Jewish cemetery was located up a hill past the larger Muslim cemetery, behind some new apartment blocks, and under the watchful gaze of a new mosque. I would have missed it, had I not picked my way down a weedy hill to examine some gray stone slabs half visible through overgrowth.
Many of the older stones at the top of the hill were faded, falling apart, covered in weeds, and inscribed in Hebrew. I walked through and took photos, then descended to examine some much newer stones with Ladino inscriptions.
The newer stones were elevated above-ground and in much better condition than the sunken ground-level ones.
Ladino grave inscriptions are wonderful descriptive poetry:
As I was adjusting to my new super-fancy camera, a woman came down a dirt path with a large walking stick in hand. “Merhaba,” she shouts out to me in Turkish, “Hello.” I respond hesitantly. While the cemetery is right behind an apartment block development, no one’s ever out there. The landscape instantly changes to rural–behind the cemetery is a mosque, a farm, and an unpaved road. Whenever I’ve visited I haven’t seen anyone, including the resident of the shack on the edge of the cemetery. We ended up falling into a great conversation. Nefise was super friendly and eager to hear why I was in Tekirdag (isn’t everyone?). Now retired, she walks a loop around the cemetery and farms every day. Because she’s out so much, she often meets foreign visitors who come to see the Jewish cemetery (there are foreign visitors? Who? When? Tell me!) Nefise takes great pride in the town’s past Jewish history and always warmly greets the tourists, most of whom are descended from the very people laid to rest there. The town government supposedly sends someone to clean the cemetery once a month, and when they don’t come (as usual) she calls up to complain. She has no time for religious or ethnic fighting, and I felt comfortable enough during this conversation to reveal to her that I am Jewish. Didn’t phase her for a second–in fact, all she did was tell me how much she hated the fighting over Gaza. After about 20 minutes and the addition of a neighbor who complimented me on my camera (if only!) my Turkish ran out and Nefise and co. headed home. Buoyed by this lovely and unexpected interaction, I set up the camera again, eager to photograph before the sun sunk too low.
Then a couple of men came down the same path. One shouted out, “Selam Aleikum”, to which I replied, “Aleikum Selam.” I was instantly put on edge. This greeting is perfectly harmless: “Peace be upon you”/”and with you”, more or less. In fact, plain-old “selam” is the casual Turkish way to say, “what’s up?” But the whole “Selam Aleikum” bit? Something only more religious Turks say. Normally not a problem. Except when you’re at the Jewish cemetery.
The two men (the Talker and his sidekick, who remained silent the whole time) approached me. I stood up and closed the camera. “What are you doing here?” Talker asked me in Turkish. “Taking pictures of the cemetery,” I responded. “Why are you here? The real Turks are over there,” he said, pointing at the neighboring Muslim cemetery. “This is Jewish. That is Turk.”
“First I am here. Then I will go over there,” I replied.
“This is Jewish. That is Turk,” he repeated. “Look over there,” he said, waving at the one recent Muslim grave within the confines of the Jewish cemetery. “That’s interesting. Take a picture of that.”
“OK, thanks,” I said. Eager to leave a slightly menacing conversation, I walked over to the grave and pretended to snap pictures. The two men continued walking. Once they were out of sight, I returned to the original subject of my trip.
I took some lovely photographs that day. But I couldn’t get the second conversation out of my mind. Outside of Istanbul, Tekirdag is one of the best places in Turkey to be an ethnic minority or a woman. Sure, people still gawk but they’re generally not openly hostile to outsiders. Plus I can wear short skirts (isn’t that the goal of 3rd wave feminism?) But really, I’ve felt comfortable enough here to be able to tell colleagues and students that I am Jewish, and I don’t fear any backlash. This, as opposed to a fellow Jewish Fulbrighter in a small town in Eastern Turkey who tells his friends he’s Protestant, which is suspicious enough.
Turkish identity is a tricky beast. People who reside in the political borders of Turkey historically speak a variety of languages and self-identify with a host of religions and ethnicities. Kurds, Greeks, Armenians, and Jews are among the most well-known. But what about the Laz, the Roma, the Circassians? Under Ataturk’s goal to create a strong Turkish nation and one Turkish identity, cultural attributes which diverged from the new Turkish norm were suppressed, although generally freedom to practice religion remained. Some minorities embraced this new push, including many Jews who saw this shift as a chance to finally gain acceptance as equals in the Republic–learn new modern Turkish language and ways, serve in the military, fantastic.
Doesn’t always work out so well. Examples include the aforementioned 1934 pogrom, the discriminatory Varlik Vergisi Wealth Tax, 1955 Istanbul pogrom, just to name a few. It’s been and continues to be a bumpy ride. However, many of the Jews I’ve spoken to in Turkey do identify themselves as Turkish, or equally Jewish and Turkish. But there seems to be a quite vocal Turkish minority that, well, will just never accept anyone outside of the ethnic Turk/Sunni Muslim identification as a true Turk. One Jewish woman I spoke with in Izmir said that a colleague once remarked that she was and acted “almost like a real Turk.” This woman’s family has lived in Turkey for about, oh, 500 years. Ouch.
I don’t have a conclusion here. Part of me feels glad to be returning to America, where I’ve never had my national identity called into question because of my religion. To my face, anyway. But I’m most certainly in the minority during a decade of substantially increased xenophobia building on a long history of strained racial and ethnic relations. The Jews of Tekirdag were lucky to find a safe haven in Seattle; I hope when their families visit Tekirdag in the future, more people like Nefise are there to welcome them.
May 29, 2011 § Leave a comment
Before I forget, today is the 558th anniversary of the Fall of Constantinople. Mehmed the Conqueror, only 21 years old (don’t you feel unaccomplished?) defeated Byzantine Emperor Constantine XI and won Constantinople for the Ottomans. Little-known fact, the city wasn’t officially named Istanbul until 1930.
Ottomans are not Turks, Turks are not Ottomans, and Ataturk was quite firm about that shift in identity. But I guess I feel some sort of excitement about today (I think it’s my students’ proud Facebook status updates) and so busted out my best (read: only) Ataturk t-shirt (my Mehmed one is in the wash). If you can think of today as “Kicking Other Ruling Powers Out of Istanbul Day” and make broad comparisons to post-WWI occupation and the Treaty of Lausanne ,then yes, the t-shirt makes a bit more sense.
To commemorate this auspicious day, here’s They Might Be Giants’ version of Istanbul (Not Constantinople). I first heard this song on the Tiny Toons cartoon show and grew up believing that Istanbul was located in the middle of a vast desert. It’s a horribly uninformed, historically inaccurate, and possibly insulting tribute to both Ottomans and Turks. Don’t let TV raise your children!
If you look quickly at the map in the intro, you can see Tekirdag right to the west!
May 29, 2011 § 1 Comment
**Note: there are many pictures that accompany this post, but unfortunately my continually fickle Internet connection won’t allow me to upload my personal ones…I’ll try later**
After the university and the lojman, the place I spend most of my time in Tekirdag is the bus station, or, in the Turkish take on French, otogar. Located right outside of the city center and behind the harbor, the otogar is home to intercity private coach lines traveling long distances to bigger destinations (2 hours or more), intracity public/private buses, and small private vans which travel short distances to regional towns and cities (2 hours or less). But the Tekirdag otogar is so much more than place to embark or arrive; it’s a self-sufficient world.
The ground floor of the semi-circle otogar is full of small private coach offices selling tickets. The coach line names and logos are prominently displayed, along with their most common destinations (which sometimes make you wonder why anyone would possibly want to go to Luleburgaz, but it’s Turkey). Small means small; while some of the offices have room for 10 or more seats, a few are nothing more than a man at a desk. In the middle of the semi-circle are a couple of convenience stores, and to the far left is fully-stocked lokanta (a quick-service restaurant with already-prepared foods kept hot in steamer trays). In between the lokanta and the offices are the pay WC and the Roma family selling chestnuts in the winter and simit all other times.
The second floor (first floor in Turkish terms, but second to all you Americans–let’s just say the floor above the ground floor) is still a mystery to me. There’s a male-only kiraathanesi (coffee/tea house), which for obvious reasons (death glares) I don’t enter. Then there’s the family tea house, which also seems to be solely filled with men. NOTHING MAKES SENSE. Throw in some empty offices, some occupied unlabeled offices (shady!), a mosque, and there you have it: the Tekirdag otogar.
Catch Malkara Yildirim, Metro, Istanbul Seyahat, Kesan, Canakkale Truva headed east and you’ll wind up at Esenler Otogar, Istanbul’s central bus station. This is the otogar to crush all other otogars, the uber-otogar, a seething literal hive of nonstop international transit.
Doesn’t it look like a hive? If not in outward appearance, then at least in the constant buzz of activity. The outside of the hexagon is lined with hundreds of multi-colored signs advertising private coach lines hitting every town and city in Turkey, Bulgaria, Georgia, Syria, Iran, Romania, even Germany. THERE ARE BUSES THAT GO FROM TURKEY TO GERMANY. My god. Intermingled at the corners of the hexagon are competing lokantas and convenience stores are selling the exact same foods and products, differing only in salt content and price. Above the ground level are offices, more restaurants (which, when you try to find them, are mysteriously closed or boarded up), hotels, political party headquarters, barbers, internet cafes, dry cleaners, etc. Overwhelming, no?
Then take a look at the central rectangle in the hive. I know I have. After being too late to catch an evening bus to T.dag and having several hours to kill, I’ve eaten, slept, boarded the metro, and made friends in that rectangle. Not only are there more (like, 20) restaurants offering food from most regions of Turkey (their Tekirdag kofte’s got nothing on our Tekirdag kofte), there are kiraathanes, internet cafes, clothing store, shoe stores, convenience stores, unmarked offices, and lord knows what else. Oh yes, a kuruyemis. During the height of my leblebi addiction, I made friends with the 18 year-old scooping dried fruits and nuts behind the counter. I promised him I’d come back and we’d have lunch together in the rectangle. I never did. I’m sorry. But his prices were so good!
You might think the hexagon and the rectangle provide enough geometrical diversion for the travel-weary. But you’d be wrong.
Underneath Esenler lurks a dark, murky, damp subterranean world offering the EXACT SAME services available on the surface level: countless restaurants, hairdressers, dry cleaners, pay toilets and showers, clothing and shoe stores, tailors, mechanics, and a mysterious internet cafe that I swear doesn’t exist. I descended into the abyss to look for this cafe once and followed the trail of arrowed signs like a modern-day Hansel and/or Gretel. As the trail led me further into the dark and progressively creepier labyrinth, I gave up and backtracked to where the sun shone, thoroughly skeeved out. Another friend confided that she had indeed found the cafe but would never recommend that anyone else search for it. I’ll let that one be.
So what keeps these transportation hubs humming? People, obviously. But not just passengers. Bus travel is popular in Turkey because it’s cheap, easy, and networks are extensive. Gas is pretty expensive here (US, you’ve got it easy) and passengers pay by how many seats they’ll take up, not by how many people are actually traveling. So if you can squeeze your family of 4 into 2 seats from Istanbul to Ankara, you’ve saved yourselves quite a bit of money. And anywhere you’re looking to go, the bus will take you. And if the bus doesn’t take you there, you can find a van at the local otogar to drive you there. Cheap, convenient, and quick.
But that’s not all. What keeps the bus stations humming are the coach line personnel. Not only do you have drivers, who, after schlepping impossibly long distances have only a few hours at most to freshen up and get a haircut before their next drive; you’ve got ticket selling agents who preside over pretty brisk business; touts who stand outside each coach line’s office and yell destinations in their loudest convincing voices (the bus station sounds like this: “AnkaraankaraankarankaraTekirdagTekirdaaaaagAnkaraankaraankaraSamsumankara”–why are so many people going to Ankara?); and bus attendants. This is where Turkey tops all. Each bus has a man (rarely a woman, only had one brusque lady on a trip to Bulgaria) dressed in uniform (tuxedo bowtie on Metro!) who check the passenger manifest, serve your choice of soda, juice, water, or hot coffee/tea (on a bus!), and prepackaged corn-syrup laden Turkish cake. On some lines, the attendants will come around with lemon-scented kolonya and dump far too much of the alcohol-laden liquid on your hands, soaking you, your clothes, and your bags with the unmistakeable scent of fake lemon bordering on Pine-Sol.
All of this (the extensive network, the personal service, the self-contained station worlds) add up to make a more pleasant and generally more interesting bus travel experience than the grimy Greyhound station, though not nearly as colorful or terrifying as the Chinatown bus network. Before “the accident” (refer to it in hushed tones, please), I was a frequent otogar-goer. I was a presence at Esenler at least twice a week, and while I often chose to wait for my bus in the Metro waiting room (cleaner, quieter, less crowded, and with TVs!), my loyalties firmly lie with Istanbul Seyahat (literally, Istanbul Travel). I can’t explain why–it’s the most expensive from Tekirdag to Istanbul (15 lira) and not the most luxurious, but something about the bright orange logo, in-seat TV entertainment system, and past consistent service of the prized Tutku cookie won me over early.
Do you see how good this cookie is? The chocolate-hazelnut cream can actually bring Turks and Greeks together. Amazing. I’m more inclined to believe the Turk would grab that pack and run, but dreaming is nice
I digress. Since I generally travel at the same times each week, I see the same drivers, ticket sellers, porters, and attendants each week. Each week they butcher my name on my ticket. Each week they can’t understand why I live in Tekirdag. Each week they laugh that I live in my neighborhood. Each week they urge me with imploring eyes to please, take some kolonya. Each week I respond with a smile and broken Turkish. But we never really bridged the gap between spoken niceties.
This all changed after “the accident.” I travel to Istanbul now only to visit my adorably English-challenged orthopedist at the Amerikan Hastanesi, scoot on my butt across Tarlabasi Bulvari and up staircases that somehow count as streets in this city, and generally provide comic relief for Turks, especially Turkish children. But my new condition has brought the bus personnel and me together like nothing before. First, I need to buy two seats so I can stick my immobilized leg straight out in the back row. This involves pointing to my leg, repetition of memorized Turkish phrases, and an ‘aw shucks’ smile. The ticket sellers smile sympathetically (sometimes) and happily charge me 30 lira. Next, I need to get up the steep steps to board the bus. This involves handing my crutches and backpack to the attendant, turning around, doing the butt scoot up the stairs, and grabbing the seats to hop down the aisle. The attendant follows me and places my bag and crutches beside me. At first this step involved the attendant holding the foot of my injured leg straight out while I ascended the steps, but luckily I can hold it on my own strength now (it was awkward for everyone involved, trust me). Then, after two hours of the bus seat arm jamming me in the back, I have to get off the bus. Repeat the butt scoot. Then the attendant flags me a taxi and wishes me, again and again, ‘Geçmiş Olsun’ (get well soon). Some of the porters at Esenler will run over and ask me what happened, why the crazy yabanci who always goes to Tekirdag now has a Darth Vader leg brace and wears bright orange shorts. One man in particular helped me recover a jacket I left on a bus back in November and because he never forgot me, was genuinely concerned about my new lack of mobility. I love you, anonymous porter who wouldn’t accept a thank-you chocolate bar. I ate it and thought of you.
Yesterday on the half-empty bus back to Tekirdag (thank you, Esenler ticket seller for not charging me for two tickets with a wink), the attendant plopped himself down next to me and proceeded to tell me his life story, of which I understand about 10%, but I nod and repeat certain words and it looks like I understand. What I got was that he used to be a cook in Finland. This I am sure about. Now he serves cupcakes on the Istanbul Seyahat bus and looks wistfully out windows. I like him.
It was difficult to realize that yesterday’s trip from Esenler to Tekirdag will be my last. When my dad comes next week to help me pack up and ungracefully exit Turkey, we’ll be renting a taxi to take us. This recourse to private transportation is new to me. The public nature of the bus meant that I met everyone: vomiting teyzes who grabbed my knee, engineers learning Spanish, Bulgarian workers, gawking children, Moroccan tour guides, my students. I don’t know how I’ll feel not making the journey on the barreling white coach. The crowded, polluted, and dangerous (those buses pull out like no one’s business to shouts of ‘Gelgelgelgelgelgelgel’–‘comecomecomecomecomecomecome) Esenler has seen my best and worst moments: injuries, farewells and breakups, fear loathing and dread of the ending weeknd, reunions, meals, and more. But I know I’ll be back. I have to come back. And I’ll walk into Istanbul Seyahat’s office, they’ll butcher my name, a teyze will shove me, and I’ll smile.
May 12, 2011 § 1 Comment
Once I returned, stiff and weary, from Antalya, I gladly collapsed into bed, happy to be in familiar surroundings. I’ll be spending the next few weeks in my living room, my gilded prison.
Social isolation aside, what’s most difficult about my situation is the geographical purgatory. The accident abruptly removed me not just from the university and town life, but, well, Turkey. I’m not interacting with Turks, attempting to speak Turkish, and besides some TV morning shows and soap operas I watch but don’t understand, I’m not hearing Turkish. Aside from random teyzes chopping wood outside my window, shouts from the schoolyard next door, and the reliable call to prayer, I’ve essentially been removed from Turkey. Forget “Is it Europe? Is it Asia?” The more pertinent question is, “Where is it?”
I watch English-language television, read English-translated books*, and talk with American friends online and on Skype. But I don’t live in America or England.
I watch Ellen and Martha Stewart reruns from last year, but I don’t live in 2010.
I transcribe Ladino. But I don’t live in Ottoman Turkey.
I watch Al-Jazeera, BBC World News, and read books about Central Asia. But I don’t inhabit some nebulous international space. Or do I?
I essentially live nowhere and therefore I live everywhere. I like to imagine that my apartment has detached itself from the lojman and is on a world tour, safely surveying government repression in Yemen and Bahrain, earthquakes in Lorca, Spain (near where I would have been teaching had I gone to Spain), flooding in the Mississippi, murders of miniaturists in the Ottoman Empire, family Shabbat dinners in mid-20th century Izmir, Turkey.
I feel kind of like Tom Hanks in The Terminal, or Tom Hanks in Cast Away, but not like Tom Hanks in Philadelphia (too geographically certain).
Magic carpet ride aside, this liminal existence is pretty disconcerting. I wasn’t ready to be prematurely yanked out of Turkey and I’m upset I won’t be able to live this last month to the fullest. But I’m not ready to go back to the US. Some might say this is a good transition back to American life. It’s not. Since the only representations I get of America are Jay Leno and the Big Bang Theory, I’m growing to despise brainless American TV more and more (Conan, you get a free pass). I feel a strange affinity with Guantanamo Bay detainees.
I don’t know what this is. I’m really looking forward to my next outing, when I’ll try to navigate the seamless Turkish transportation system to make my way to Istanbul for an appointment at the German Hospital.
I’m a citizen of the world. Or at least, I’m queen of the corduroy couch.
*If you want to start a Skype book club, pick up a copy of Orhan Pamuk’s My Name is Red. It’s either that or a book of speeches on Swedish/Turkish/Kurdish relations (a pretty engaging read, and easier to understand than Pamuk).
May 11, 2011 § 2 Comments
“God would never let me be successful! He’ll kill me first!”
“I thought you don’t believe in God.”
“I do for the bad things.”
Seinfeld’s George Costanza is both the most painfully realistic and painfully hilarious character to appear on a modern sitcom. He poisoned his boss, moved back to his parents’ duplex in Queens, fabricated elaborate false identities and webs of lies to prop up those personae, got fired from the Yankees, cheated on an IQ test, pushed over an old woman and children to escape from a fire, double-dipped his chip, got punched by Marisa Tomei, ruined his hand modeling career in a freak hot-iron incident, got swindled and robbed on the way to a job interview, inadvertently killed his long-suffering fiancée with toxic wedding envelope glue, and got caught masturbating by his mother, who then threw her back out. And these are just a few of the Astonishing Tales of Costanza.
What could possibly be realistic about such ridiculous stories? Perhaps it’s not so much what happened as the underlying personality characteristics that allow a person to act in such a way to give birth to such incidents. Wikipedia describes George as exhibiting “a number of negative character traits, among them stinginess, selfishness, dishonesty, insecurity, and neurosis.” Who among us (neurotic Northeastern jews, I’m looking at you) does this not describe? In the brilliantly and awkwardly funny Curb Your Enthusiasm, we find that George’s character and exploits were based on Larry David’s, Seinfeld’s co-creator and the true brains behind the show (you know it’s true) life. These bizarre combinations of and terrifying interactions with humanity, these unfortunate situations–with the right friends, the right circumstances, and the right neuroses, any of these stories could happen to you. And that’s the premise of Curb Your Enthusiasm—this is your reality, slightly exaggerated (read here for an interesting debate between the stylized George and the stylized Larry)
In Seinfeld’s Season 4’s ‘sitcom about nothing within a sitcom about nothing’ arc, Jerry and George’s TV pilot gets picked up by NBC. Unemployed, without hope, and without a girlfriend, this is the single greatest thing to happen to George in years. Yet he’s overcome with staggering doubt. In his therapist’s office, he relates the confession that starts this entry: “God would never let me be successful. He’ll kill me first.” George is the perpetual loser—he won’t admit it, but deep inside, he knows it. While auditioning actors to play the ‘George’ role on the new pilot (the self-reflexive post-modernity of the whole show is overwhelming), one actor asks, “What are we looking at here? Is this guy a real loser?” George responds sharply and dismissively, “ No, not a loser!” A bit too sharply and dismissively. We know you’re lying, George. The universe simply doesn’t work in your favor.
Most of my life has unintentionally come to resemble George’s. An encyclopedia of painfully awkward and hilarious situations, false identities (you don’t think I’ll tell you my fake e-mail addresses, do you?), and the knowledge that when something goes too well, disaster is right around the corner, no matter how many evil eyes you have in your house.
Since the depths of the previous fall’s discontent, my life in Turkey has substantially improved: better grip of teaching, better understanding of the country and the language, better relationships. I was looking forward to a triumphant last month of class parties, travel, Istanbul, farewells to friends, a long-awaited return to the US, and then an exciting move to Vienna. With this general satisfaction in mind, Alex and I headed to the unofficial Fulbright farewell weekend at an all-inclusive Mediterranean seaside resort in Antalya, on Turkey’s southern coast. Things were perfect! Killer buffets, two pools, saunas, a Turkish bath, a beach with cool, clear water. I should’ve been on the lookout. Mid-afternoon on Saturday I suffered a blatantly ridiculous pool-based accident and broke a bone in my left knee. Alex has summed up the hospital visit and wincingly hilarious Sunday trip back to T.dag on her blog.
I’m now home, safely ensconced on my orange corduroy couch, surrounded by books, satellite TV, and a fickle Internet connection. I’m glad I’m comfortable because, well, I’m not leaving for a good long while. While I’m lucky enough to live on the ground floor of our building, the building itself is down several steps from the curb, at the bottom of a steep and uneven hill. And to access anything from our apartment block wasteland of a neighborhood, I need to climb several steps to board the minibus/dolmus. It just ain’t gonna happen. The next foreseeable exit date is Tuesday, when I head to T.dag’s finest English-speaking orthopedist (when I locate him/her) for a 10-day check-up and hopeful cast removal.
Things aren’t so bad! If someone buys and prepares my food for me, I can transport it in my backpack or in my mouth like a dog and eat. I managed to put my own socks on this morning. I even somewhat bathed myself.
Since I’ve got a hell of a lot of time on my hands now, I hope to update this blog daily with thoughts and stories I’ve been too neglectful to write about this year. I’ve got the rest of today to ponder exactly why the universe has it in for me, and prepare myself for some visitors and Sinema Lojman’s (aka my laptop’s) showing of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.
In case you’re wondering, the Seinfeld pilot does get cancelled when NBC’s president joins Greenpeace to impress Elaine and the new head axes the sitcom. Sad trombone. But in perhaps the strangest ‘art imitates life imitates art’ moment of my life and Seinfeld, I leave you with the Season 8 finale, in which George, surprised by 3 months’ severance pay after being fired from the Yankees, plans the Summer of George, a hedonistic zenith of relaxation and frisbee golf. Until he slips on an invitation he previously dropped on the steps and breaks both his legs. Sound familiar?
skip to 4:47 and live what I feel
Yarina gorusuruz! (see you tomorrow!)