Witty witticisms and other rarities.

Quiet please, I'm thinking.

Tag Archives: Istanbul

The Big Blue

As one moseys around any city one sees many interesting, weird and sometimes upsetting sights. On Istiklal Avenue there are ice cream vendors whose trick it is to play with the portion placed in your cone; it’s there, it’s gone, it’s back – that kind of thing. Quite amusing unless you’re parched or starving and in dire need of sugar. On the Bosphorus, which can be seen from any semi-elevated part of the city and constitutes Istanbul’s heart, there is no end of impressive and inspiring vessels, coming in all shapes and sizes as they do. What’s hard to cope with from time to time is the hardship one witnesses so often, though it’s only fair to say that all may not be as it seems.

En route to my place of work is a pedestrian bridge connecting one side of the main Metrobus route to the platform for the Metrobus, the other side of the road and the Metro if necessary. Most days there is a little old chap selling packets of tissues for half a lira at the base of the staircase, these come in handy when pouring with sweat. He seems happy enough plying his ‘trade’ however off-putting his lack of legs may be. Further on there are additional traders selling cigarettes, perfumes, phone cases and all sorts, all of whom seem fairly content eking out their respective livings. After a little while one stops paying much attention to this relentless offering of knickknacks.

And then there are the (I don’t like to use the term but the alternatives aren’t much better) panhandlers. Every city and country has them poverty being universal and non-discriminatory, an equal opportunities employer if you will. For me it’s never easy to pass by and not give something, an unsustainable investment if ever there was one and not one ever likely to achieve much. Whenever I don’t give it’s not because I think their plight a product of their own design, nor do I consider them all drug users, alcoholics or deadbeats. I suppose the sheer weight of numbers is the real deciding factor. How much money would one really need to even make the slightest difference?

Last week I passed a woman on my pedestrian crossing, she had a child in her lap and he was obviously sick. I don’t know what the illness was but polio popped into my mind. He had what seemed to be clubfoot, an arm that I highly doubt he could do much with and he lay back in his mother’s lap, staring into the sky with big empty eyes and a confused expression.  He couldn’t have been more than six years old, if that. It was another scorching Turkish day with a deep blue sky and only the occasional cloud. I found myself hoping that whatever he was looking at or thinking about was soothing.

Life is cruel.

E

Advertisements

Shiny as a new penny.

In the heat of the Istanbul summer it is  important to do all one can to remain cool, so yesterday I had my hair cut short again. This may sound like a normal, run-of-the-mill task: pop down the local Barnett-chopper; snip, snip and Bob’s your auntie, then off home with you.  But this is Turkey, baby. When you get your hair cut here, like so many things, it’s quite the experience.

Last time I was stitched up like a kipper (fifty notes for a thirty minute job) so I figured I’d try something a little different this time. Someone I know, who’s lived here a while, recommended a guy (Ahmet, I think was the chap’s name).  Twenty notes, not including tip, and he’ll sort you out good and proper. At least this was the understanding I had going in. In his defense, the fact that it cost quite a bit more (fifty notes again) is mostly my own fault, but this is not a tale of woe or high-priced shenanigans. No, this is a tale of fear and stupidity, and perhaps a study of how easy it is to lose the run of one’s own mind from time to time.

Ahmet, for that is what we shall call the fellow, had nary a a word of English. I believe I have touched on this in a previous post, the fact that English is not the lingua franca, as it were, which is good news for any aspiring English teacher.  Nor do I possess the required Turkish language skills, that will no doubt be necessary as time unfolds. But my buddy who recommended this fellow brought me there and, one can only assume, explained the situation. Into a battered old barber’s chair I jumped, grinning like an idiot, as I used my three Turkish phrases to appease the Master; ‘hello’, ‘how are you’, ‘I am good’. Happy days!

The haircut passed off without a hitch, there’s really only so much that can happen to the top of one’s head. Ahmet offered me tea, I politely declined, unintelligibly I’m sure. He went on to offer water, milk, coffee and some other things that I also insisted I could live without. Then it happened, he asked me if I wanted a shave. Of course, still grinning like an idiot, I said ‘lutfen’.

There are few things in this world scarier than a well-built fellow standing over you with an open straight razor, even if he seems the cordial sort. From the moment I agreed to have my face relieved of its grubby stubble and accumulated detritus I regretted my choice. But one can’t simply up and run like a bat out of hell, one must see it through. So there I sat, Ahmet lathering me up with the greatest of care. He set up the straight razor, must have seen the crazed fear in my eyes, then got cracking.

Every time I swallowed I imagined that blade slicing through my Adam’s apple. I recalled that scene from Dumb and Dumber, the one where Jim Carrey uses the open ketchup pack to freak out the barber, and I stifled a laugh. ‘Don’t laugh’, I thought. ‘You’ll anger him and he has the blade, and the upper hand.’ I’m not sure if it was the heat but I sure was perspiring.

The feel of a really, razor-sharp blade is something special. It is unique. Some blades are sharp, others are pretty sharp; I don’t know what Ahmet’s deal is but that blade felt about as sharp and fine as any edge I’ve had against my skin. Hardly a rasp as it moved over my face, chopping all those little hairs it met with and felling them like tiny trees. When he finally finished, after delicately shaving my upper lip and contorting my visage into all kinds of shapes, he was done. With the shave at least. In Turkey your barber thinks nothing of manhandling your head, as though for the time he’s in charge of it he can do what he likes. In truth, were one to contest his right to do so, frictions would likely ensue.

Without so much as a by your leave Ahmet placed me head first in the sink, face down of course. Running water over my freshly shaved jowls he washed me like a baby. I hardly had time to take a breath before he enthusiastically freed me from any stray hairs. I won’t go into all the details but my head has never been cleaner. In fact, he was so thorough, I was half expecting him to brush my teeth.

E2013-07-27 13.38.03 (2)

New York was once called New Amsterdam

At some point or another we all must have wondered how things got their names. Even Billy Shakespeare was asking the question centuries ago, in the oft misquoted Romeo and Juliet. Truly a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, Bill, but would we think of it as fondly if ’twere called a Manure Blossom for example? Unlikely.

Travelling to and from different locales in Istanbul I have come across a few doozies; Olive Nose (Zeytinburnu) is one, Houses with Gardens (Bahçelievler) is another, but my own personal favourite is Well with Chains (Zincirlikuyu). When I found out the name of that place recently I was more than a little tempted to wander around looking for a Well with Chains, perhaps holding up a wooden bucket, maybe even with one of those rotating arms at the top like you see in all the old westerns. Alas, the area being as built-up and developed as it is, even if there was a well, the chances of finding such a gem are somewhere between slim and none. Two hopes in other words, Bob Hope and No Hope. Awesome name for a place though, in my humble opinion.

With this in mind I began to think of some of the more interesting places I have been to/lived. Dublin, obviously, sprang to mind. You can take the boy out of the country, as they say, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. Dublin, in Gaelic ‘Baile Atha Cliath or ‘town of the hurdled ford’, is the Anglicization of Dubh Linn, ‘black pool’. Istanbul on the other hand was Constantinople, Byzantium, and now, in English, means ‘to the city’ apparently. I once lived in an area of London’s Docklands called Mudchute but that just resulted in a lot of anal passage jokes.

I still wonder what the guy who named ‘Olive Nose’ was thinking.

Eamon

Another world.

I’ve been thinking about Belgium again, now that I’ve left that country, to try and figure out what it was about living there that I really didn’t like. There were many things that bugged me – excessive car horn usage for one, high taxes being another – but there was, more specifically, a feeling of being downtrodden that I have not experienced anywhere else. Most people are aware that Belgium has a reputation for being boring, and there was certainly an element of that, but I think it was/is the general acceptance, nay inclination, for the general populace to play victim. Many countries have had it bad, suffered famine, war, pestilence, and gotten on with it. There is something about the Belgian psyche that seems to revel in malaise.

I say this because, living in Turkey for the best part of a month now, I see again how helpful and considerate people generally are, and want to be. The Irish in my experience will, as a rule, often go out of their way to help you, if they can. They will also go out of their way to mess you up if you cross them, but that’s another story and not a theory I suggest testing. The English, for all their faults (and they have many), are a fairly considerate bunch, unusually good humoured as well as being disinclined to upset your day if it can be avoided. For the ten years I lived in London I found them motivated, hard-working and optimistic, if somewhat racist, opinionated and overly self-assured. Yes they had an Empire, yes it spanned the globe, but more importantly that day has long since passed. Deal with it.

Now back to the Turks. First of all, in case anyone may be in any doubt, the Turks do smoke more than anyone else alive, in my honest opinion. They smoke like it’s going out of fashion. I have been known to spark up quite regularly and I have had my dalliances with quitting too, but even I draw the line these days at chain smoking and early morning cigarettes. The Turks have no such foibles. They will spark up first thing in the morning, last thing at night, straight after they have extinguished the preceding cigarette, all that good stuff. But when it comes to helping or being friendly they certainly take the biscuit. Having come here straight from Belgium and the 5 years of my life I spent there, I had gotten more than used to bad service, limited choice of providers, poor excuses for shoddiness or tardiness, and a general lack of respect for basics of exchange, ‘I pay you for the services/goods you provide and in turn you treat me with professionalism’. I could tell you stories about this that would make your hair curl but maybe another time. When we called for an electrician recently, in Istanbul, we were told the guy would be with us in 10 minutes! I’m sorry, what was that? 10 minutes? Holy crap. I shit you not, the guy was here in 5, and he was helpful, polite, considerate etc. The corner shop down our street will deliver water to your house (drinking water generally being delivered in plastic containers from a trusted source), as well as bread, cigarettes and other assorted goodies. This takes some getting used to after my Belgian experience.

Another thing I quite like in Turkey is how individuals will refer to any female older than themselves as abla (big sister) or abi (big brother), in the case of an older male. I really think this contributes to a culture of respect, which is evident in the way one is treated in stores, cafes, bars or restaurants. I am well aware that the Turks don’t have the best reputation in many parts of Europe, though my wife would argue that this is because these are the descendants of families who moved there and never integrated whilst also not progressing with the rest of Turkey, They are now stuck somewhere between being European and Turkish, some dark and uncharted cultural no man’s land. Suffice it to say I am finding the adherence here to old world manners quite charming, and I don’t even mind being a yabangee (foreigner). Let’s see if this continues.

For the love of Christ, man, spit it out.

On the advice of a good friend, who was also my best man (should that be capitalized?) at my recent nuptials, I have finally succumbed to the modern day narcissism that is a blog. Everyone is at it, so I have decided to add my voice to the endless babble and banter of which the inter-squirt is composed. Sorry inter-squirt, but you know it’s true.

As the many that precede me adequately demonstrate one does not actually need to have anything useful or remotely interesting to say in order to produce a blog, so here you will find all manner of non-useful and uninteresting bits. Use them as you will. Being something of a would-be wordsmith I have always toyed with this inherited language (had history been written differently you would be reading this in Gaelic) as the Irish language was, long ago, practically stamped out. That being said, I do love the English language. With its twists and turns, inflections and borrowed words, it surely is the belle of the language ball.

But I digress. The reason, should anyone actually care, for my change of heart is simply that I now live further from my place of origin than I did previously. Istanbul, Turkey, to be exact. It’s been two weeks since I arrived here from the unpleasant experience that was Brussels, Belgium, for the last 5 years, so it seemed a good time to inflict my warblings upon the world. Oh, you lucky devils! With an enviable climate, more history than you can shake a stick at, and lashings (Did I really just use that word! Thanks, Enid Blyton.) of fine cuisine, I’m sure to have no end of inspiring experiences with which to sully your fine, refined, and hitherto unspoiled (yeah, right) noggins. So sit back, strap yourself in, and prepare to be amazed at the ridonculous volumes of verbosity and verbiage one  Irishman, with spare time on his hands, can produce.

You have been warned, you lily-livered landlubbers,

Peace out.

E

%d bloggers like this: