Anna in Istanbul

Some days, someone, somewhere is conspiring against you.

Yesterday morning for example. Sick of this Nescafe business, I brought back some wonderful Swedish coffee from Stockholm. I made myself a nice big cup to help shake off the blues of a rainy morning; the stove got extra hot extra quickly just for me, french press worked perfectly, and then enter human error. Turns out the Salt Jar and the Sugar Jar look remarkable similar…

Someone, somewhere…

Last weekend, I took a wonderful trip to Stockholm in order to avoid the wrath of a flawed Turkish visa system. My first flight took me through Vienna where I remembered why I don’t particularly like Austria. Okay before anyone jumps on my back and punches me to the rhythm of Beethoven’s 5th (duh-duh-duh-duhhhhh… duh-duh-duh-duuuuuuuh! How’s that for a visual), we ALL have places that don’t strike our fancy. There’s just something about Mozart being plastered everywhere that makes me slightly sad inside. The city seems to have a more bitter version of the Istanbullu hüzün; that depressed mentality that comes when one lives in a former empire.

Stockholm was cold but beautiful. The cobbled streets, the painfully effective public transportation system, even the air felt like it had been put through committee, cleaned, re-cleaned, made environmentally friendly, given a good healthcare plan, re-approved by committee and then sprayed with a bit of Pine Sol for my breathing pleasure.

Now that I’ve had a taste, I’m excited to go back for a week in October to explore a bit more. So many reasons to love Stockholm. (Plus, that whole “Viking” Empire has been dead and dusty for so long, I think they’ve kind of gotten over themselves unlike SOME other countries I might mention COUGHAUSTRIATURKEYCOUGH).

I recognize that this former-Empire-Blues-hating is complete hubris on my part. Especially being from the current Empire that, thank you SEC, is finally noticing the sand in our foundation. I probably dislike Austria because I see my country’s future; desperately hawking Bob Dylan schwag at airports to haughty tourists from China or Brazil.

On arriving home in Istanbul, I was greeted by a few electrical storms around the city. I’ve never seen so much lightning as I have in the past few days. There is something so theatrical about stormy weather over the Bosphorus especially given the city’s history. Even the contentious name of Mehmet the Conqueror’s taking of Constantinople (“The Sack of Constantinople” or the “Conquest of Constantinople” depending on your side of the Crusades) indicates how the city’s sense of melodrama goes hand in hand with its weather patterns.

The following day, with thunder claps still threatening the city, I made my way over to the Asian side to the house of one of my English students. After spending so long in Southern California, I wasn’t sure if Istanbullu followed the LA approach to weather commonly known as One-Drop-Of-Rain-And-We’re-Calling-FEMA. I sent my student a message asking whether or not the ferries still ran during thunderstorms and she sent me back the adorable, T9-mistake riddled response, “Don’t Worry. Fries are very successful in stormy weather…”

On the bus ride over to the ferry stop in Beşiktaş, I saw an old man standing on the street, surveying his domain. A little boy making his way from school was walking hand-in-hand with his father and I saw the old man smile warmly at the boy, not in a familiar way but like someone appreciating youthful exhuberance. As the boy passed, the old man patted him on the head.

At the ferry stop, my Akbil (metro pass) was out of money. The boat was just about to leave and the man behind me was waiting to use the turnstile as I tried in vain to make my pass work. He looked at me and said, “here you are, sister” and used his Akbil to let me through.

I found myself a spot on the top deck of the ferry. The benches were wet from the rain and as I was about to just deal with wet pants, a middle aged woman came over to me with a newspaper. She said, “Come. Sit here.” and spread out the paper over the bench for the two of us to sit. We rode the rest of the way in silence with wonderfully dry bums.

From the Üsküdar Ferry stop on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, I took a Dolmuş to my student’s house farther inland. The Dolmuş system, essentially a shared cab, is wonderfully personal. You get on the small bus, hand the driver your money depending on where you’re going, and avoid sitting at the front. If you end up in the seat closest to the driver, you are responsible for collecting money from everyone else and getting change. Interaction with strangers is not optional.

When I the Dolmuş got stuck in traffic, I got out to make my own way. Stupidly relying on my directional skills in this new neighborhood, I quickly became hopelessly turned around. I grabbed a cab to take me over to where I needed to be. On our way, the driver and I started talking. He asked me all the normal questions; where are you from? what do you do? which futbol team do you support? I said–and I know there are a few people who are going to be very smug when I say this–that I support Beşiktaş. He was ecstatic, threw his hand into the backseat to shake my hand, saying “Yes! Beşiktaş!” He then went on to tell me about all the mascots of the big teams here in Istanbul. The Galatasaray Lions, the Beşiktaş Black Eagles, and the Fenerbahçe Yellow Canaries. It’s the last one that always gets me in trouble. I learned, early on, a very offensive name for the Fenerbahçe Canaries that essentially translates to “submissive canary”. Forgetting that I was in a cab with a stranger, albeit a Beşiktaş supporter, I said in my ridiculous Turkish “Yes! yes! I know the mascots! They call Fenerbahçe…” The cabbie almost crashed he started laughing so hard that this small, foreign girl who was going to give an English lesson had just said something ridiculously offensive. When we got to where I needed to be, he didn’t charge me. He just laughed and sent me on my way.

After the lesson, I made my way back by double decker bus to Taksim. Sitting in the front seat on the top deck, I had a panoramic view of the road stretching out before us. We made our way over the colorfully lit Bosphorus Bridge (as Rufus Wainwright said, a gay bridge which was followed by a collective indignant sigh of Turkish pundits). I could see the lightning still striking behind Sultanahamet, flashing the outline of the iconic skyline every few seconds.

I like this city in the rain. There is something so communal about it. Each mode of transportation forces you to interact to the point that you can’t help but feel responsible to a greater community.

I’m not sure about Fries but Istanbul is, indeed, very successful in stormy weather…

I’m escaping like Steve McQueen!

…except not running to Switzerland but another Northern Europe, “S” country with an overwhelming number of blondes. Oh and not while running from the Nazis, on a motorbike, after digging myself out of an internment camp. And hopefully, I’ll succeed without getting shot as I try to navigate a barbed wire border wall…unlike Mr. McQueen.

But otherwise, JUST like Steve McQueen!

So it looks like I will be taking a quick jaunt out of Turkey to renew my turkish visa. The debacle unfolded thusly.

Bogazici University, being the beautiful institution it is, failed to give me the paperwork I needed before I left the US that would allow me to obtain a student visa. Instead, I entered turkey on a tourist visa which allows me to stay for 3 months but no longer on risk of 6 month expulsion and a hefty fine. Currently only 9 days stands between me and the wrath of the Turkish bureaucracy with whom I have spent so many precious hours of my life with recently (I want them back by the way! I’m looking at YOU, Ataturk!)

The final answer from the Yabanci Polis Ofis, the American Embassy, and Bogazici University was that I could not get a visa now that I am in the country. I was informed, so nicely, that I should have done that before I left the United States whichiwouldhavedoneifyourturkishuniversityhadgivenmethestupidpaperwork!

So after a long, happy haitus I am back from my writing vacation. I’m going to try to tell a few stories from the last month–the shotgun storytelling effect.

Ahmadine-what?

My dear Catherine came to visit me in Istanbul in mid-August. After a few days of the required Nevizade/Cihangir/Taksim wandering, I realized that she really had to see the touristy sites in Sultanahmet. So on one beautiful summer day, we made our way over to the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofya. It was nearly time for the afternoon call to prayer so I decided that we should head over to the Blue Mosque first to see Sedefkar Mehmet Aga’s masterpiece (I know Michael disagrees with this; he loves the smaller Yeni Camii which was designed by the same architect. If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it, Snyder!).

As we approached the entrance to the mosque, it became clear that there was something going on. Loads of police were lined up along the main road wearing the most serious faces they could muster-an unnerving change of demeanor to someone who is used to seeing young cops swaggering around, hand on gun, yelling at transvestites on Istiklal. We walked up to one of the police barriers where people were gathered and it dawned on me that Iranian President (and in Columbia’s PrezBo’s words “petty and cruel dictator”) Ahmadinejad was in Istanbul on a diplomatic mission. As it turns out, he had just given a press conference at a nearby hotel and would soon be arriving at the Blue Mosque to pray.

We had barely figured out what was going on when the security personnel started forcing all non-press from the area. Not wanting to miss the show, I thought of what my mum would tell me when I was little; “When in doubt, ask. The worst someone can say is ‘No’.” So with that little tidbit of i’m-telling-you-this-advice-now-my-child-but-please-don’t-use-it-to-justify-your-getting-into-a-potentially-dangerous-situation-later-on-in-life motivation in my head, I went up to the main security guy and said in very very very broken turkish “I am with the press. Can I stay?” He looked at me and said, “Do you have a press card?” I broke back into english (clearly identifying myself as a foreigner) and, thinking he just needed a business card not an actual “Press Badge”, began to rummage through my wallet for my old Women’s Media Center card. I didn’t actually have one, or a press badge, or a real job as a reporter but I managed to take long enough and throw out words he recognized like “New York City” “Jane Fonda” “Reporter” that he waved me inside, saying “fine. fine. fine. go.” Catherine started to walk away and I called after her. I told the security man (can I call him my friend at this point? We were so close) that she was my photographer and I saw his eyes flicker to the small digital and obviously touristy camera Catherine was clutching. Resigned or intrigued by these out of place but pushy yabanci girls, he indicated for us to go stand with the other reporters.

I guess it’s at this point that I should describe the scene. There were only about 15 other reporters there from “not made-up” news outlets like CNN Turk, BBC, and Al-Jazeera replete with notebooks, huge cameras, microphones, and so-called “necessary press credentials”. On the roofs of the surrounding buildings, I noticed the unmistakable sign of snipers and there were city mayors shifting uncomfortably on their feet, hands clasped behind their backs. Catherine and I took out our moleskine notebooks and wrote inane things like “Ahmadinejad” and the date over and over again so as to seem remotely legitimate.

As we were waiting for Ahmadinejad to arrive, a hijab-clad girl came over to us. She was an intern for the Moderate-Right Islamic news outlet, Kanel 7. Sitting in the shade of a tree, we talked for a while about politics in Turkey and how ridiculous this entire event was turning out to be.

After over an hour, a stream of police cars and large unmarked Suburbans drove up, lights flashing. One limo with the Iranian flags above the headlights came to a stop right in front of the entrance and a slew of security officers jumped out to surround the car. The door opened and a remarkably short Ahmadinejad climbed out, waved to the reporters only 10 feet away, and walked inside. My intrepid photographer snapped a few pictures of that actually cuddly-looking fundamentalist.

We decided that this was too good a story to leave at the first appearance so we waiting on the grass as the sermon inside was blasted out through speakers. At this point the other reporters were starting to give us weird looks as if to say “who let these two in?”

Eventually, Ahmadinejad and his security reemerged from the Blue Mosque and he walked over to the reporters to give a statement. There was madness. Cameramen climbing over reporters climbing over fences and polis to get a clear shot of this man. Catherine and I alternated trying to climb on top of a fence to get a good shot with our tiny camera. It was complete chaos and all the while my grandfathers voice was running through my head “Jesuschrist! Jeeeeeesuschrist, Anna!”. At one point, we were so close that we could have reached out and touched his scraggly beard (and then been promptly shot or taken down by huge Turkish guards but hey!)

After a few minutes of wandering around and waving his tiny little hands, Ahmadinejad and his cohorts climbed back into the black limo and sped away.

We wandered away, shaking our heads at how ridiculous the entire scene was.

Day to Day Changes

I have officially left my lovely Kebap at James’ apartment and am now relatively settled in my new place with Tümey and our 5 cats (1 mama cat, 4 kittens). Although I’m only a street over from my old apartment, there is a bit of a different feel. My room is right on the first floor overlooking the street and there are always the calls of the street vendors or kids playing coming in through my window. I don’t really mind the noise; it reminds me of home plus a language I struggle to understand.

Tümey is wonderful. 25 and younger at heart, she wanders around the house most days in a unitard. She’s a student and dabbles in making costumes and makeup for drag queens. The day after I moved in, I decided I needed to get her something of a “Hi! I’m your roommate!” type thing. I knew we would be fast friends when she actually squealed at the gift; a 3-lira, naked mannequin torso. I think we’re going to paint it but right now it just sits in our hallway. I was asking what she should name her and referred to the mannequin as “Yarim Kadin” or “Half Woman” because I didn’t know the word for mannequin. Tümey loved it and now that’s her name; Half Woman.

This month is also Ramazan, Islam’s holy month of fasting and goodwill towards humans. Unfortunately, this goodwill wears a bit thin between 2 pm and sundown when all the taksi and bus drivers get markedly more irritable. Although I really do like the general atmosphere here in Istanbul during Ramazan, I will not get used to annoying wake up calls. At 3 am every morning, a guy walks through the streets banging loudly away at a drum to mark the time for the first prayer. I am convinced that he lingers outside my window every morning and, if it weren’t heretical, I would consider laying out a trip wire for him. The early bird may get the worm but he might also “accidentally” fall on his face.

Visa, Schmisa or Why Turkey is NOT Sweden

So I finally got all of my necessary documents together to go get my student visa. Needless to say, I had a bit of a panic attack when I dragged myself up to Istinye where the American consulate is only to be told that the website was wrong and that I would have to navigate the Turkish bureaucracy to get my student visa now that I am already in the country. For a moment I thought that I might have to actually FLY to Athens, apply at the Turkish consulate there, wait for a student visa, and then fly back to Istanbul. I might add that I nearly had a heart attack, considered dropping out of school and moving to Sweden where things are organized, and then reconsidered when I imagined being the shortest person in the entire country.

I was actually treated really badly by the American consulate (especially the woman at the visa counter who, after informing me that I was essentially an idiot, switched off the intercom as if to say “See this glass? This glass is here for a reason. So I don’t have to hear you run your mouth. Lalala can’t hear you!”) Eventually I got it out of them that I needed to go to the Yabanci Polis Mudurlugu (the foreign police office) where I can apply for a student visa from within the country. I got the address in Aksaray and set out back down the entire length of Istanbul to Taksim where I planned to grab a taksi to take me the rest of the way.

I got out in Taksim, hailed a cab to whom I THOUGHT I was able to communicate where I needed to go, and was promptly taken to a place that was not where I needed to be. It was, in his defense, A polis station. Unfortunately, not the one I needed. I went up to the guards at this place, ask them if there was a visa office in the building, and then, as with most days in Turkey, attracted a small group of onlookers as I tried to communicate my needs and desires. Eventually I got everything across and it turned out that two of the guys waiting outside the station ALSO had the wrong office. So two Azerbaijani men and I set out to the real Yabanci Polis office.

These guys were very nice and, after walking almost two miles together, I felt like we were friends. Well. That was until they asked me if I had a husband and if not if I would like one. At that point, I switched into “Pepper Spray In the Eyes” mode and told them about my fake bodybuilding fiancee with a fierce temper, an addiction to anabolic steroids, and a pit-bull. I need to work on that.

The fake fiancee was actually unnecessary–they were quite nice guys and one of them took me all the way to where I needed to be and negotiated with the guy at the counter once we actually got to the office. If you haven’t seen a bureaucratic office in Eastern Europe, count yourself lucky. It’s… let me just put it this way; if the Mormons, Christians, or essentially any religion that believes that people can go to hell are right, I will spend an eternity in one of these offices. Endlessly waiting in line, overheated, arguing with apathetic shells of human beings who used to have dreams and aspirations but lost them somewhere between college and the copy machine.

As I was trying to figure out whether or not I had all the paperwork I needed, a skinny guy about my height walked up to me and asked in English if I needed help. He had a very young face and I assumed he was probably a high school student. He helped me through the paperwork and then told me that I would have to come back tomorrow because I needed a few more things. He then took me to the bank to get a statement (this is the stupidest part of the whole process. You don’t NEED money. You just need to show something that says you could, theoretically, get money here). Zakir and I sat in the garden of a mosque during the call to prayer and talked. He told me that he had had his passport stolen which is why he was at the foreign polis office. It turns out that he is a 21 year old Uzbeki immigrant attending university in Istanbul for economics. I tried to fake that I knew anything at all about Uzbekistan but really faltered.

I cannot say it enough times; people here are have the capacity to be so wonderful. Time and time again I get help and hospitality from the most unlikely places (e.g. Turkish bureaucracy hell).

Other Thoughts

Please please please go watch “Anlat Istanbul”. I watched it the other night and it made me cry. The last scene is SO encapsulates my idealist view of Istanbul; a bunch of misfits following a lone folk musician across the Galata Bridge. I don’t want to discourage anyone from renting the actual movie but here is the scene I’m talking about. Oh! It gives me shivers.

And finally, Sarah Palin.

The only expression I can think of to use with her is the one most commonly heard by Turkish speakers when they are feeling incredulous; ALLAHALLAH!

I am so sick about hearing these Fox News pundits play the sexism card when less than a month ago they were saying the most misogynistic things possible about Hillary Clinton. It’s all on record! I think liberals have been rather good about Palin. They don’t question her ability to lead because she is a woman; rather they react to the statements made by McCain in which HE says that Palin’s role as a mother makes her a good candidate for VP (oh and her horrible record as Alaska’s governor). OH god, the hypocrisy. Please if you are in the United States; pay attention. Speak up! Go vote! Get your friends and family to vote! I am so disgusted by all of this-liberals don’t dislike Palin because she’s a woman (it may, in fact, be her one redeeming quality). I dislike her because she is an ineffective, inexperienced, inconsistent, backwards, GOP lackey who has the potential to put civil rights back decades. I hope the progressive people in the US stand up to this conservative media backlash and keep on her records! Put her under the same spotlight they put on Bill and Hillary.

If we are going to have semi-celebrities in office, I would rather have someone use that star power for good.

That’s it for now.