Upon Walking in a Cemetery in Istanbul

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Our apartment abuts a Turkish cemetery: graves actually attach to the base of the building we inhabit. The cemetery descends beyond us through beautifully twisted pine trees to a steep, serpentine street below. On sunny days, there is a cacophony of birds. Today the cemetery was silent, except for the sounds of wind, rain and, toward the end of my visit, the bells of the Armenian church (est. 1683) further down the hill.

I chose to visit the cemetery this morning because it was a rainy Sunday. The Turks work six days a week; their ‘day off’ is Friday. It had been raining most of the week, so I figured there would be nobody there but me, the trees and the graves. I was right. I forgot about the rain that the trees had stored for my arrival. The wind did not forget. Having stupidly left my umbrella in the subway on Friday, I came home drenched.

To get there, I walked up to an alley just past the first of the grocers. Our hilltop enclave features three grocers, each catering approximately to the same domestic needs, differing only in variety. (I say ‘first of the grocers’ not because he is the best, but because his is the first shop one encounters upon entering our neighborhood.) I turned left and walked carefully down a steep asphalt decline streaming with rainwater. The road sagged to the right past several broken-down, make-shift shanties, then curved sharply left, the surface turning to gravel onto a series of uneven, decaying concrete steps that veered sharply to the right which led me to the cemetery gate, an unlocked wrought-iron aperture over which were the words, etched in marble, painted black, Kurucesme Mezarlik (Kooroocheshmeh Cemetary).

I have walked through the cemetery several times, seeking solitude and relative silence. It is not ancient; the oldest head-stone I’ve found is dated from only 1874. The earliest graves are furthest down the hill, several featuring Islamic calligraphy and stylised head-stones (turbans, sunbursts, open Korans). A typical grave is surrounded by a raised rectangle of marble with a head-stone at one end (sometimes at both ends), with the recess filled with growing things, many deliberately planted, e.g., roses and lilies. Other graves feature fledgling trees and plants I do not recognize, which may just be Mother Earth regaining some lost territory, bit by bit. I cannot discern the intentionality of the plants growing in the graves plots.

Before Istanbul, when I thought of a cemetery, I envisioned a level or gently sloping grassy area, with regularly spaced horizontal gravestones separated by an occasional tomb. Here, there is no level, no grass. Kurucesme Mezarlik is a semi-vertical maze of paved and unpaved paths, tall, dark trees, marble and concrete walls, raised tombs and sunken graves. One must squeeze between trees and tombs, or step on the marble of someone’s grave trim to continue on a path. The concrete walls differ in composition, coloration and degree of disrepair. Most are composite stone and gravel, some are uniform or painted or feature bits of pottery and shell. Family plots are common, a few surrounded by locked metal fences. Some plots feature potted plants, or small marble receptacles at the ends of graves that now hold only rainwater and green mold. The most frequent head-stone inscription is ‘Ruhuna Fatihah’: Soul triumphant.

Upon Getting a Haircut in Istanbul

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Most Turkish men are very clean. OK, so they don’t shave every day and seem to proudly avoid matching colors in their clothing choices, but in general Turkish men take pride in their appearance. Therefore, haircuts are important. There are ‘kuafors’ everywhere, and they seem to have no shortage of customers of all genders, seven days a week. I’ve seen people being trimmed at seven in the morning on a work day. Male-only snip-shops, however, are called berbers.

My first hair cut in Istanbul took place in an historic (but then, what isn’t historic in Istanbul?) berber shop run by a man named Adil. His shop is in Arnavutkoy, originally a Greek (hence, Christian) enclave about a ten minute walk along the Bosphorus from where I write. Adil is the chief barber in a tiny shop that features three seats facing three sinks connected by an ancient-looking sheet of solid, caramel-and-black streaked marble. Adil is bald, with bushy black eyebrows, and a closely trimmed white beard smelling of talc. The berber shop has been in his family for generations.

Since Adil wished to impress me and insure that I would come back to his shop, he gave me the ultimate neighborhood Turkish haircut experience. It took about 40 minutes and involved trimming hairs away from everything above my shoulders. This being the first haircut in my new country, I was mentally alert to the sequence of events, and had prepared myself for the stimulation of the senses of sight, smell and touch. I was not prepared for the sense of fear, however—a terrifying trial by fire explained below.

As in any barber shop, one must first confirm with the barber how one wishes one’s head to appear following the operation. Since no one in Adil’s shop speaks English, this process involves much miming, nodding, grunting and thumbs-upping or -downing. Then the shearing begins.

The hair of the head is cut first, done dry, using only scissors guided by fingers. (Electric trimmers are eschewed, used only in the modern in-and-out shops.) There was very little talking during this process, even among the Turk speakers. Haircutting is a serious business here, not conducive to chitchat. After my eyebrows were trimmed in a similar fashion, tea was served, brought by an apprentice, obtained from a shop a few doors away.

Next came the appendages: nose and ears. To trim the inner nasal passages, the berber gently but firmly pushes your head back until you are staring at the ceiling, then inserts his thumb into the chosen nostril to spread it open and snips away with the other hand. Repeat, opposite nostril. Now comes the scary part.

Ear hairs are not trimmed off, they are singed away. The berber dips a cotton swab with a long, thin wooden stem into a bottle of clear, flammable fluid, then ignites it with a cigarette lighter. Meanwhile, the apprentice holds your head to the side with one hand and spreads an ear open with the other. The berber then carefully flicks the flames onto your ear and the hairs are burned away. The experience is harmless but alarming. The first time I went through it, when the apprentice turned my head toward the mirror, my expression resembled that of the panicked horse in Picasso’s “Guernica.” Perhaps sensing my state of disquietude, Adil had his apprentice bring me another glass of tea.

The deluxe Turkish haircut ends with the shave. This features hot towels, fragrant shaving soap and a new razor--the whole works. Extra shaving cream is ladled onto more treacherous or heavily forested areas. I just closed my eyes with a sigh and placed my life into the hands of a stranger who could have slit my throat any time he wanted. I wondered about how many Turkish throats Adil’s Greek ancestors had cut, or vice versa.

After a light dusting with talcum powder, I was soon back on the street, tonsorially enhanced, for less than $10. Adil is a deal!

Fonetik Spelinj (Phonetic Spelling)

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Turkis iz i fesineytinj lenguic. (Turkish is a fascinating language.)

First, it has 29 letters to our 26, but with no Q, W nor X. “But how is that possible?” you ask yourself silently, forehead furrowed like the plains of Kansas in May. “How can there be fewer letters, yet more?” Once, I asked myself these self-same questions, but got stuck on, “Is self-same a real word?”

Turkish vowels are pure; there no diphthongs. However, Turkish speakers pronounce their consonants in a fashion generally opposite of ours: for ‘M’ we say “em”; they say, “meh.” So, here is the phonetic Turkish alphabet:

A = ah
B = beh
C = there are two ‘c’s: one plain ‘c’ and another with a “tail.” The unadorned ‘c’ is pronounced ‘jeh’; the one with a tail is pronounced ‘che.’ So, in Turkey, one does not say one’s ‘ABCs,’ one says one’s ‘Ah-Beh-Jehs.’
D = deh
E = eh
F = feh
G = there are also two g’s: geh (hard ‘g’) and ‘g’ with a diacritical mark shaped like a flat ‘u’ above it. The latter ‘g’ is not sounded; rather, it serves to stress and elongate the vowel preceding it. For example, in my name there are two g’s; if the 2nd ‘g’ had the diacritical mark above it, my name would be pronounced “GrEH-ory”)
H = heh (hence, Turkish for ‘lol’ is HH—just kidding)
I = there are 4 ‘I’s—both in lower and upper case: “i” = ‘ee’; “I” = ‘uh’ with teeth clenched
J = zheh (think French)
K = keh
L = leh
M = meh
N = neh
O = as in ‘c’ and ‘g’, there are two versions of this letter: a plain ‘o’ and one with two dots above it. Unless you can speak German, this vowel may pose a problem. The plain ‘o’ is pronounced “oh.” With the dots, it’s pronounced half-way between ‘oh’ and ‘ee.’
P = peh
R = rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreh (‘r’s are rolled)
S = two versions again, one plain, one tailed. The plain ‘s’ is pronounced “seh,” the tailed ‘s’, “sheh.”
T = teh
U = oo; w/dots, half-way between ‘oo’ and ‘ee.’
V = veh

Y = yeh

Z = zeh

Here are some words in common English usage that one can see on store fronts and billboards that are now common Turkish words spelled phonetically:

Active: aktiv
Aesthetic: estetik
Auditorium: oditoryum
Champion: sampiyon (‘s’ w/tail)
Circuit: serkit
College: colej
Courtesy: kirtesiye
Coiffure: kuafur (2nd ‘u’ w/dots)
Decoration: dekoreyson (‘s’ w/tail)
Dinner: doner (‘o’ w/dots)
Gallery: galeri
Garage: garaj
Image: imaj
Logistic: lojistik
National: nasyonel
Reservation: rezervasyon
Restoration: restoreyson (‘s’ w/tail)
Saxophone: saksafon
Scenario: senaryo
Synthetic: sentetik
Taxi: taksi
Technique: teknik
Tourism: turizem
Valet: vale

Look at these words carefully. Clearly, the Turkish spellings make more sense. English is colorful (kolerful) but weird (uird). I will share more of these very common-sense spellings as I discover them.

How to Walk in Istanbul

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When walking in Istanbul, one must constantly look in all directions but up.

Looking Down: Downward observation will provide you with the necessary road/sidewalk/footpath information you will need to insure safe passage and ample ankle protection. Main roads in Istanbul are asphalt, but side roads are cobblestone, often with a broken-away asphalt covering. Pot holes and uneven surfaces are common. Sidewalks are uneven cobblestone, and frequently feature large unmarked trees growing in the middle of them. Curbs are high, serving as barriers against torrential rainwater, and to discourage sidewalk parking (see below). If you do not look down, you will soon fall down. However, one cannot only look down or one will walk into a tree.

Looking Left and Right: Lateral observation will lengthen your life. In Istanbul, all vehicles, including tricycles, have the right-of-way over pedestrians. Looking both ways will heighten your awareness of approaching vehicles. On busy streets, dodging between cars and buses to get to the other side is the norm. Do not expect cars to stop for you in a crosswalk: crosswalks are like targets and are completely ignored by all vehicles, including tricycles.

Looking Straight Ahead: Full frontal observation will keep you from walking into Istanbullus who instinctually know how to navigate the streets while side-talking to one another or operating a cell phone without bumping into one another. However, since we non-Turks lack this innate ability, they will bump into us, and then look at us as though we are retarded. We be tards not!

Due to the narrowness of the streets, Turks frequently choose to park on the sidewalks, half-on, half-off. This forces pedestrians to walk in the streets, which is not especially dangerous because the drivers expect to see people walking in the streets. (NOTE: I recommend walking in the street—the surface is flatter so one can occasionally glance upward—not recommended for newcomers, however.) Some streets discourage sidewalk parking by placing metal pylons at short intervals along the curb sides. Most are just menacing, black cylinders, but some are ornamental in design and give you something to appreciate while looking down. Full frontal observation will assist you in avoiding these toe stubbers and shin bashers.

Looking Up: This behavior will expose you as a tourist, thus making you vulnerable to hawkers and pick-pockets, as well as to the dangers of not having looked down, left, right or straight ahead. While dangerous, looking up in Istanbul is very enjoyable. There is much to see in this direction since houses, apartments and businesses are conjoined and rise steeply skyward. As in a tropical rain forest, there is much activity in the occupied canopy. (NOTE: When the urge to look up overwhelms you, find a bench and have a sit-look—it’s restful and doesn’t look touristy. Benches are usually available at bus stops.) Frequent sightings: drying laundry; rugs being shaken out; buckets being lowered to other apartments or to the street level where money is replaced with groceries; elderly onlookers; children waving; nesting birds; business advertisements; hair salons on the 9th floor; cafes on roof tops; and everywhere, satellite dishes pointing heavenward, making the buildings look like the rigid, rectangular tentacles of octopi frozen in prayer.

The Waters of Istanbul

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Istanbul is surrounded by water, yet it is not an island nor a peninsula. I think it may be an isthmus. I hope it’s an isthmus, because isthmus is such a cool word that one does not get to use often. To the north (on a map, up), lies the Black Sea, which is blue, but which contains a high degree of sulfur, giving it a distinctly blue hue whether seen from the sky, hills or shore. Sulfur or not, the Black Sea is blue. Fact.

To the south (down) is the Sea of Marmara, a word that seems to sigh “sea.” When one says “marmara” softly and slowly, one can almost hear the lapping of the waves on a warm, solitary beach. (Hint for Transcendental Meditators: Find a comfortable, isolated spot, close your eyes and murmur ‘marmara’ slowly in time with your breathing. Soon you will attain a level of such deeply serene boredom that you may actually want to get up and do something useful with your life).

Connecting these two seas is the official, certified, stamped and approved dividing line between Asia and Europe, called the Bosphorous. The word is Greek and means “breath.” It is a narrow, deep salt-water strait that features major shipping traffic, no tidal action and dangerous, unpredictable currents (the raisins are safe, however, after being washed). The reason there are no tides is because the Sea of Marmara is somnambulant and the Black Sea is blue. Fact.

Stuck between these aquatic attention-getters is the so-called “Golden Horn,” a deep, brackish river depository with a distinctly horn-like shape that splits the European side of Istanbul in two. I surmise that it was given its name either because the Europeans saw it as a metaphor for a trumpet used to call Christian Soldiers to attack the infidel, or the Turks saw it as a rhinoceros horn shoved up the Austrian empire’s eastern end.

The city has over 16,000,000 inhabitants, not counting the unofficial homeless persons nor the officially non-existent homosexuals. The reason for this remarkable fecundity is simple: no pubs. When not at work, the men stay home at night and make babies. Or they go fishing.

Every waterfront is moustached with a bristling fringe of fishing poles that from above looks like half of a giant, overturned centipede (take that Camus!) The poles are long—at least 12 feet—and telescoping so that they can be carried on a bus. The fishing tackle consists of several small baited hooks attached at intervals to a main line. The reels are large and the line high test, as though intended for handling heavy fish. The fishermen (this appears to be an exclusively male activity, although I have seen women sitting about) don’t appear to use weights, hence the need for long poles (apparently the Istanbullus who have been fishing these waters for centuries have yet to master the mechanics of casting.)

I have only seen maybe six fish caught, small silvery things that make a bait herring look large. In fact, the only containers I have seen for carrying home the day’s take are medium-sized buckets (again, they have to be bus-worthy). And now that I really think about it, these small fish must be the goal, otherwise people wouldn’t be fishing from bridges well above the water. “Why?” you ask, eyebrows arched like a cats in a spat (take that, Seuss!). “Why spend so much money and time to maybe catch a few tiny fish?” Answer: no pubs. Fact.

P.S. One final word: “Isthmus.” Yes!

How to Drive in Istanbul

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1) Don’t.

2) If you must drive, take a driving course first. NOTE: There are no driving courses. The instructors are all dead or institutionalized.

3) HINT: Go to IKEA. Obtain a four-wheeled shopping cart. Fill it with random items, the heavier the better. Once your cart is full, start pushing in front of you as fast as you can. Stay to the right in general but pass whenever possible. Arrows on the floor are only suggestions. Be prepared to stop suddenly and often. If you need to back up, do so at top speed. Say “Pardon” a lot. If stopped for more than a few seconds, pretend to honk, then start insinuating your cart centimeter by centimeter between other carts and pedestrians. Remember the centimeter rule: If there is a centimeter between you and the person ahead, fill it with your cart. Left side or right side, it does not matter. Or, leave the main aisle altogether and venture into a side aisle. Once free, immediately accelerate to maximum speed. For maximum effect, pretend you are talking on a cell phone.

4) If you plan to drive a motorcycle or moped, use a two-wheeled cart pushed in front of you. Stick to right and frequently graze the merchandise. Use side aisles a lot. When turning, wobble a lot.

5) If you plan to drive a truck, get the largest cart you can find then put something on it that sticks out over the back. Pull it behind you slowly using one hand. Pretend to smoke. Stay in the middle of the aisle at all times no matter how many people pass you on the right. Periodically spill your cargo. Stop immediately in the middle of the aisle and reload very slowly. In side aisles, get stuck. For maximum effect, bathe infrequently and grow lots of hair on your forearms.

Vancils in Istanbul

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Hello All!

I am writing on the computer in Greg's classroom, as we still do not have internet in our apartment. You may notice some interesting typos, as I am using a Turkish keyboard, which slows me down considerably! Turkish as four forms of the letter i ... confusing! as well as no q, x, or w.

Well, today is the first day of classes, and we both are looking forward to meeting the students. The faculty is a great group of people of all ages (we are not the only gray haired, although all aging Turkish women keep their hair black), from all corners of the world (Australia, New Zealand, Canada, India, France, Turkey). We had our first faculty event last Friday, and it was fun -- good conversation, and fabulous food. (Imagine salmon served with walnuts, dried cranberries, and fresh figs; several types of olives; fresh melons; peaches; Indian curry ...)

We have become quick friends with a couple, Bill and Hale Barry (yes, her name is right), and they are taking us under their wing, showing us the city and the culture. He is from Michigan, she is Turkish. They are both fluent in the language, so they can help us immensely, as few people here speak English. We can actually use our German to communicate frequently.

Our apartment is in one of two buildings that the school owns (probably a total of 100 units), in a busy suburb on the Asian side of the city. The bus ride to and from school takes 30 - 45 minutes, depending on the traffic. Oh, the traffic! We think it's best to leave the driving to the native Istanbulus! Greg is writing an amusing account of the traffic, which will come your way soon. The apartment is large and spacious, with a nice kitchen, 1.5 baths, 3 bedrooms. We have made two trips to IKEA so far, so we are decorated in efficent and economical Swedish style.

There are a total of 17 MEF schools, only one is outside of Turkey, and only one is International. The International school shares the campus with a national school; there are about 2000 national students, and 250 plus international students. The national school has a number of well-equipped music rooms, and seems to have a rather extensive program. The international school has only one classroom for elementary music, and one classroom for secondary music. But we share the auditorium, and some music events/activities are shared between the schools. We will learn more later, as our language skills increase (i.e., exist!), as the national school music faculty speaks limited English.

We are still trying to get our bearings in this huge city, and want to figure out the bus systems before we venture too far away from the apartment or the school. Little by little ... step by step. We visited a small Greek district near the school, and Greg had his first full shave/haircut/massage there, while I moseyed along the Bosphorus. He looks ever so dapper now! The areas around the school are definitely upper class, much more "European" and cosmopolitan than Umraniye.

We are now in Ramazan, a Muslim period of fasting and reflection. About 3:00 am, one or two very enthsiastic and artistic drummers walk through the neighborhood, alerting everyone to arise and eat before sunrise. Then, after dark, the fast is broken, and many families are out at the restaurants and kebaps, eating and celebrating. We see many shrouded and veiled women in Umraniye, mostly dressed with arms and legs covered, and with a head scarf that covers all the hair.

Cooking here is an adventure, too. I made spaghetti last night, with marinara sauce made from scratch. The tomatoes are so flavorful, and cheap. It's not easy to find the right spices, though, so the sauce was definitely somewhat Italian with a Turkish flair. We couldn't find basil, so oregano and parsley had to suffice. The district near our apartment (Camlik, in Umraniye), has a number of small shops -- bakeries, groceries, cafes/restaurants, pharmacies, cell phone shop, etc. And, yes, everything is uphill, on both sides of the city. We are constantly walking and climbing, carrying home groceries, doing the European thing. Fresh bread, fresh and dried fruit, veggies (tomatoes, cukes, eggplant), yogurt (flavorful, not tart), olives, cheese, chicken, beef -- these are consumed every day. We have breakfast and lunch at the school, so we actually have few meals to prepare.

We now have a CD/DVD player, and are scheduled for cable tv to be connected Sept. 5th. We are supposed to have internet at the apartment soon. Our evenings have been full of reading, scrabble, cribbage, and laughter over the events of each day. We have few hours at home during the week, as the bus picks us up at 6:45, and brings us back by 17:00. We fall asleep early, and are up early -- a change for me! Makes us healthy, wealthy (ha!), and wise (haha!), and also, exhausted by 15:00 ...

The weather has been in the 80's, the humidity is usually mild, there is always a pleasant, cooling breeze, the electricity has been constant (unlike the school's phone and internet service), the pace of life is slower (unless you are driving), turks tend to be laid-back, unless driving or discussing politics or football (soccer), we hear the calls to prayer throughout the day and night ... life is good here.

Blessings and love to you,
Nancy and Greg