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!