Turkish Delight

This piece was originally written for Baedeker Travel Magazine at NYU. It was completed on November 4th, 2015. I refrained from publishing it until I heard back from Baedeker on whether or not they would publish it. However, at this point I don’t really know what is going on with them so I decided to just publish it on my own blog. Enjoy.

 

When I first set out to write this piece I envisioned it going a different way. I wanted to write a story that talked about the Turkish people and how welcoming they are, in an attempt to dispel the notion that it is unsafe to travel to non-white European countries, Muslim countries in particular. I wanted to write about the Istanbul that I experienced, a bright city propelled by its aims at modernism but still holding on to the age old traditions that distinguish its rich culture. I wanted to share my appreciation for architectural wonders like Aya Sophia and the Blue Mosque and my admiration for the thought provoking and well-curated works at Istanbul Modern. I wanted to write about the people I encountered and the small interactions I had that reaffirmed my belief that Turkey and its people were worth getting to know.

And then, someone broke into my Airbnb in the middle of the night and stole my precious phone, camera, and money.

I would be lying if I said getting my stuff stolen didn’t sour my opinion of the country. In fact, for a brief moment it made me hate Turkey and it made me feel guilty for not listening to the many warnings of friends and family who implored me not to go. I felt cheated by this city that I had wanted to love but that left me with little more than a broken heart and several boxes of Turkish delight. But Turkey was not done with me.

On my flight back to Paris almost as if by divine intervention, I sat next to Ilhan, a Turkish man who sensing my sadness, did everything in his power to make cheer me up. He listened to my unfortunate tale with sad understanding eyes, nodding his head along in sympathy and giving me advice on how to get some sort of justice. He pulled out a fragrant bag filled with home made Turkish pastries and gave me half of them, refusing to take no for an answer. When the airhostess came by with a cart of drinks for sale, he insisted on buying me “something to ease my troubles”. Ilhan asked me about my family and told me about his and treated me as if I were of his own flesh and blood. His kindness made me forget about the electronics that were no longer in my possession and focused my attention on the trip itself. My thoughts began to flashback to some of the more pleasantly memorable pieces of our trip and the people that made them important in the simplest ways.

Our days always began with a traditional sesame pretzel from a quaint little red cart in Taksim square. The pretzels themselves were nothing out of this world, but they were cheap, and the man who sold them to us was taken with our politeness and our attempts to communicate with him despite the fact that we didn’t speak Turkish and he didn’t speak a single drop of English. Given that we were continually thanking him in place of having an actual conversation, he attempted to teach us how to say teşekkür ederim, thank you, in Turkish. We continually failed, and he continued patiently teaching us, smirking every time we butchered it and smiling triumphantly when we finally got it right.

Then I remembered the day we attempted to get into Topkapi Palace for a second time using our museum card. We weren’t aware of the fact that you could only use your card once to get in and the guard apologetically said there was nothing he could do. However, upon explaining to him that we hadn’t had the chance to see the Harem, his demeanor instantly became charged with the desire to share with us the treasures of his country. He asked us to stand to one side while he talked to his superiors about what he could do to let us in. His superiors simply said that we were out of luck. But the guard waited until they weren’t looking and asked one of his tour guide buddies to scan his own pass, which deactivates the doors so people on a tour can go through. The guard simply winked at us as he ushered us through, clearly proud that he had helped us out but not making a big show of it or expecting any sort of compensation. He was seemed simply glad to share his patrimony.

Finally, I thought of the day when we were exploring Iztiklal Caddesi, a popular shopping street in the modern part of the city. As we were waiting to cross the street, a group of young guys came up to my friends and I and asked in English if we were from Istanbul because they needed help getting somewhere. We simply responded that we were also dumbfounded tourists and any attempt at helping them with directions would probably end up getting them more lost. Upon hearing our inability to help, a Turkish man who was just standing by quickly turned around and offered his help. He gave the guys some directions and even outlined the path on the map they had. I was astonished at the fact that this random person had no hesitation to help even when they didn’t directly ask him. This however, seems to be very common in Istanbul. I myself had many random people intervene on my behalf while trying to buy something or trying to negotiate cab fare. To me these were great acts of altruism, but all the people who advocated for me simply brushed it off, replying that since they had the ability to help, they should.

As I remembered all of these selfless people, I began to smile widely, attracting the attention of Ilhan who nudged me and said, “I’m glad to see you’re not so sad anymore.”

Ilhan was right, I wasn’t sad anymore. The anger at having lost my personal possessions dissipated with my remembrance of all the good times I had in Turkey. I realized I still loved my trip to Istanbul. I still thought it was worthwhile and I was definitely glad I had gone. Having my things stolen made me take a step back and really analyze my entire trip. But after all I realized that that really terrible moment couldn’t overshadow my whole memory of Istanbul. I couldn’t judge the entire country on the actions of one individual.

This realization really emphasized the idea that I originally wanted to explore in this piece. As westerners, and especially as part of the population affected by 9/11 and its aftermath, it seems we have become hardened to Muslim nations. Sometimes subconsciously, other times more overtly, a lot of us try distance ourselves from Arab nations and people out of fear. As a society we often generalize the acts of this or that radical group to a whole people or a whole body of believers. I myself am guilty of thinking in this way after being personally wronged but after analyzing my reaction I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t being fair.

I was hesitant to go to Istanbul, I was told explicitly not to go by people I trust. I personally had a bad experience there. But I also had a lot of good experiences. The people I met, the food I enjoyed, and the beautiful art I saw made me fall in love with Turkey. I have a good reason to not go back and to dismiss the country as dangerous. But the truth is, I still want to go back. There is danger everywhere, there is crime everywhere, but ultimately, crimes are rare instances committed by bad people.

So forget your hesitations. Go to Istanbul or Bogota, or Mexico City or whatever place you’re missing out on because you’ve been scared away. I for one will not stop recommending Istanbul as a travel destination. The peace that befalls the city after a long prayer call and the succulent baklava on every corner are more than enough incentive for me to make the long trek back to Turkey as soon as possible. Besides, as Ilhan pointed out, I have to go back and recapture all those photos I lost.

Istanbul, Turkey/ Paris, France

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La Douleur de Paris

Unlike a lot of my fellow Millenials I am not one to post about politics or show my solidarity with this or that cause on Facebook (except for Kony 2012 of course, but I was like 15 and stupid so I think I deserve a pass on that one). I do this for 3 reasons. 1. Facebook for me is a place to talk to family, post photos and occasionally rant about exciting things in my life. 2. I am not a fan of shoving my political/social/religious opinions in everyone’s faces. 3. As someone who eventually wants to be a journalist, I believe in keeping a bias-free image (of course, no one is truly bias-free, but I do my best). All that being said, I have been on Facebook, Twitter and other forms of social media basically non stop since Friday to see what is being said about the attacks in Paris and this time I felt compelled to join in and show my support for Paris. That’s right, I changed my profile photo to look like the French flag.

Of course, to me it made sense to change my picture. I live in Paris; this tragedy affected the place I am calling home at the moment and my personal sense of safety. It affected my friends, some of which live right by Le Bataclan and Le Petit Cambodge and had to stay in a hotel that night because they were too afraid to go home. Some of which were sitting at restaurants close to the cafes that were attacked and had to watch as people ran away from the chaos and tried to hide in these establishments. Some of which are flying back to the states early because they can’t stop thinking “what if I get shot today?” So yes, I changed my picture as did my fellow NYU students and people from New York, Austin, and all over the world to show our support of France. It felt nice, really, to see so many people’s pictures changed to the beautiful red white an blue stripes of the French flag. It felt nice that people cared and wanted to show they cared. But of course, people can’t let a good deed go unpunished.

Almost as soon as people started changing their profile pictures and writing a few words of support a whole other group of people started bashing their actions. Without missing a beat, Social Justice Warriors felt the need to demonize support for Paris given that so many other places were also being tormented by violence. You couldn’t even finish typing out the word Paris before statuses of people admonishing the lack of support for Beirut, Japan, and Mexico flooded your newsfeed. At one point people even started posting an article about a massacre in Kenya claiming that Paris was stealing the spotlight from this horrific event, which actually happened to take place in April (but you know, we should stop focusing on Paris). Perhaps the worst part is that people made this about race (because of course everything is about race) and started saying that people who showed solidarity with France were actually racist because they only cared about white pain. Give me a break.

I was embarrassed for humanity. Not only are we screwed because we keep killing each other left and right (that’s right Social Justice Warriors, I’m acknowledging death of all colors) but you know there is something disturbingly wrong when we can’t even let someone mourn without feeling the need to one up them on their misery. It’s honestly fucking ridiculous that in the world we live in, a country and its allies aren’t even allowed to mourn for one day, or even a few hours before someone feels the need to point out all the other death that is being “ignored”. In this day and age you’re a monster if you have an actual connection to just one place. That won’t do. You have to be constantly supporting every death of every country of every day-or you’re an insensitive racist fuck.

I wasn’t shocked by this reaction from the general Facebook populace. This happens all the time, every tragedy is automatically turned into a commodity or thwarted to fit the rhetoric of every political movement on the face of the planet. It’s not new, but it doesn’t make it right. I don’t understand what people get from hijacking a tragedy to fit their agenda, it generally doesn’t do anything to help their cause and it just makes them look like jerks. The whole “my horrible suicide bombing is worse than your horrible suicide bombing” argument is unproductive, idiotic, and such a slap in the face to the people that actually die in these events and their families. All terrorism is horrible and tragic and it doesn’t need to be made worse by people trying to fit it onto some imaginary scale to get their point across.

What’s more, all this arguing over what country has it worse and how racist white people are for “not caring” about death in other countries is distracting from the one thing people should be able to do without judgment-mourn the loss of life.   People should be allowed to mourn or simply to respond to something that shocks them without fearing that by doing so they’ll be insensitive to someone else. Everyone has their own tragedies and their own ways to deal with them and having someone yelling over their Facebook loudspeaker “but do you cry over the children in Africa?!” is robbing people of their freedom to feel their grief. There is nothing more disgusting to me than someone forbidding someone their own emotions.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Beirut, Japan or Kenya (and I definitely don’t have anything against Mexico). I don’t think that the deaths that happened there are deserved. I don’t think that any death is deserved, especially deaths caused by ignorance and hatred. When I pray at night I pray for everyone in this world because we’re all living in an awful place. But I don’t live in Beirut, I live in Paris. I’ve always wanted to live in Paris, I have French host parents, I have been struggling to learn French for years-I have a relationship with Paris. I can’t say the same thing about Beirut. So when a terrorist attack happens in Beirut around the same time that one happens in Paris, I’m going to be sadder about Paris, not even sadder, just more attentive, because I have a connection with Paris. And you know what? That’s ok. Or at least, it should be. I should be able to write poems and cry and pray and do whatever it is that is comforting to me and be sad about whomever I am sad about because these are all natural responses to loss. I shouldn’t have to apologize for the way I grieve or who I grieve for.

I know that changing my profile picture on an online social network does nothing to end terrorism or return the killed to their families or end all wars but reminding people of this fact also does nothing to better the world. It gives me comfort to go on Facebook and scroll through a sea of tri-colored photos and if that doesn’t give someone else comfort that’s fine too. You don’t have to care about the attacks on Paris, you can be racist yourself and not care about the loss of white lives, you can think what I am doing to grieve for something that is important to me is stupid-that’s ok too. But don’t you dare make me feel bad for doing what gives me comfort. Don’t you dare qualify my own grief against the grief of others. Most of all, don’t you dare make me apologize for mourning over something that is dear to me.

Paris, France

The Eyes of Paris Are Upon You

When I first came to Paris I expected it to be much like New York, except maybe prettier. I’ve always seen the two cities compared to each other. They’re both large, they both have world-renowned museums, they’ve both been breeding grounds for great artists and revolutionary art movements, they both have incredible shopping, they both have great public transportation… the list goes on and on. In my mind Paris was the prim and proper cosmopolitan city while New York was its gritty boho counterpart. But the longer I’ve been in Paris, the more I’ve realized how different the two cities are.

One of the biggest and perhaps most striking differences is the way people treat each other in Paris. New York has a reputation for being touchy and not entirely friendly, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that people in New York are rude, but they certainly do appreciate their personal space and anonymity. Before I came to Paris I was told that I shouldn’t expect much better from Parisians. Most people said Parisians are snobs and just as unkind to strangers as New Yorkers. But I’ve actually found that this is not true. People in Paris have largely been friendly and welcoming. As soon as they hear me struggle with my French they instantly try to respond in English in an attempt to help me out all the while praising my shitty French and bashing their own shitty English-often justifying it by saying they “speak English like a true Parisian,” (i.e. very poorly).

But what’s even more striking is that people actually acknowledge other people here. My little southern heart glowed the first time I walked into a Parisian café and was instantly greeted with a warm bonjour (in Texas smiling at and greeting strangers is just a sign of good ole’ southern hospitality). It still flutters a little every time this happens, and it does a whole backflip when someone wishes me a good day on my way out. When I run into my neighbors as I’m walking out of my apartment, they always smile kindly at me, even though I’m the weird American girl who always wears too much makeup (by Parisian standards at least). People smile at you on the streets just because and I have to admit, it’s very refreshing.

Even the way people act on the metro is worlds away from the behavior you see on the subway in NYC. Here people actually wait for people to get off the metro before they try to hop on (a concept that is lost on New Yorkers). If you’re trying to get off the subway, good friggin’ luck not getting crushed by the mob of people crowding in that doesn’t give a damn if you have the right of way. And you can fuhgeddabout people caring if they bump into you (even if they actually knock you down, they’re not taking the time out of their day to say something). In the Parisian metro however, if the metro comes to a sudden halt and someone lightly taps you because physics do not cease to apply in Paris, they will turn, look at you, and actually apologize. What’s more, people are courteous; they give up their seats without having to be told (in New York, much to my amusement, there are stickers on the subway describing the situations in which you should give up a seat-because the MTA feels the need to imbue some manners on the lost lambs that are New Yorkers). Men give up their seats to women, young give up their seats to old, friend groups give up their seats to family groups, it’s a big old game of musical chairs-and its fantastic.

The most astonishing thing about Paris is that here, you can look at people. People watching is normal, in fact it seems almost encouraged. There are so many places to do it, parks, wide streets, etc. Parisian cafes seem built for people watching with their sidewalk seating outfitted with strictly street facing chairs. In fact, the waiters always get perplexed if you turn the chairs to look at whomever you’re sitting with. You don’t get attacked with a hostile “whaddayewlookinat?!” when you watch someone go about his or her daily life like you would in New York. You don’t look like a deranged person when your mind wanders off as you look at someone. People don’t mind if you look at them because they’re most likely looking at you-especially if you look particularly touristy. What’s more, people make eye contact in Paris. I never thought I would write about people making eye contact, but the comparison with the little eye contact in New York is so striking, I had to mention it. If you’re looking at someone in the metro, they’ll eventually look at you until you both look at each other’s eyes, and guess what? It’s not awkward. They don’t look at you brows furrowed, lips frowning, wondering what the hell you want from them. They just go on doing their thing.

Sometimes I do find myself reverting to my New York ways and cursing all the friendliness and hellos and watching of me. But as a little short girl who sometimes gets bounced around the metro like a pinball, it’s nice for people to apologize when they’ve almost just elbowed me in the face for a change.

Paris, France

The Town Best Organized For A Writer to Write In

Paris is iconic. As an icon it has many smaller icons, petites images that the mind automatically gravitates towards when you think of the famous city. Many people hear Paris and bring to mind the Eiffel tower, berets, croissants and macarons and the Mona Lisa (which I find ironic given that the lady hails from Italy). But for more literary minds, Paris may just conjure up chic little cafés filled with posh wine-drinking-cigarette-smoking people.

To the people who were lucky enough to be exposed to the equally iconic characters of The Lost Generation, Paris is a symbolic space for creation and one of the most important places where this creation takes place is in cafés. No author makes the case for cafés as beacons of creativity as much as Hemingway. His books are packed with vivid scenes of cafés; his memoirs make clear that these are the places where some his most memorable works took their first breath.

It should come as no surprise then that as a lover of words, I expected Paris to become for me that creative space that was so coveted by Hemingway and company. I expected to be driven almost as if by some otherworldly force to the perfect café that would let the pen from my ink flow and deliver line after line of pure, brilliant writing. This of course, is asking too much of a city and its rather mundane cafés but I did at least expect to find a café that would provide an adequate space to work and so far no café has provided what I need. Hemingway set the bar high for cafés and Paris has not backed up his claims. Maybe Paris has stopped catering to creativity and begun catering to tourists instead (seems reasonable given the overpriced menu that no Parisian in their right mind would dare to waste money on). Regardless, cafés and creativity are two things that do not seem to exist in harmony in this city.

If cafés were ever the places for the free flow of ideas, that is no longer the case. Cafés are much too social here. Even if you sit inside to stay away from the temptation of people watching that is so natural on a sidewalk table, you cannot work. Cafés have become meeting points where people get together, have a cup of coffee or a glass of wine accompanied by some mediocre food (which is really the same in just about any café you walk into) and exchange a few words to catch each other up on every day topics. Of course, Hemingway never described his cafés, as being devoid of food and conversation but this all seemed to be more an afterthought in his cafés, secondary to work and drinks. I don’t have a problem with food in cafés-even starving artists have to eat- but it is so hard to actually get any work done when everyone around you is having such an effortless time. Which brings me to my next point, doing work in cafés is the perfect way to ostracize yourself.

People don’t work in Parisian cafés, they just don’t. The person sitting off in a corner scribbling away on a little notebook is the focal point of everyone’s stares. They are not friendly stares either; people watch you contemptuously, they whisper about you, they purse their lips at you, probably in an attempt to hold back some bitter comments. And don’t even think about whipping out a laptop, you might as well just walk yourself to a guillotine because computers in café s are the ultimate act of heresy. Not only that but wifi in a Parisian café is a luxury, not a given. If you need to type anything or research anything, you might as well just stay home. Computers and wifi of course were not concerns for Hemingway but given the way our world works, to writers they are almost on the same level of importance as a pen and paper and barred access to these necessities is really stifling.

At first I thought I was just not finding the right cafés. I thought by some sad tourist intuition I kept wandering into cafés aimed to please passerby whose loftiest goal is to have a croque monsieur to get the full “Parisian experience.” But I have searched far and wide. I’ve toured the 5^th and the 6^th and the 9^th and the 13^th and even the 17^th and every café has been the same, its only distinguishing feature being the color of its awning. I’ve even wandered into Hemingway’s old haunts but of course they’re nothing but commodities now. The Closerie des Lilas is a bourgeois bore and Les Deux Magots is nothing more than an overpriced restaurant where the cheapest dish is 14 €. Now a day you can’t even count on Hemingway’s personal recommendations.

Ironically the only café’s that I’ve found which are conducive to producing actual work have been cafés that seem ripped straight out of a SoHo or Williamsburg street. These cafés are so American that they generally come equipped with a full English speaking staff and even serve such New York delicacies as bagels and gluten free/vegan snacks. Of course, I’ll take whatever I can get as far as a good workspace where I don’t look like a freak with my laptop out. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel cheated. I figured that café culture would exist here just as much as it does in New York but in a more romantic Parisian fashion. I imagined myself sitting on a sidewalk table, the warm sun on my face, beautiful Parisian people passing by with baguettes in their bags, the sound of clinking cups in the background-but the reality does not include sun and baguettes and clinking cups. My reality does include writing, but in a place far less reminiscent of the romantic Parisian café Hemingway created for me.

*Title taken from A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

Paris, France

La Joconde, Much Coveted

Today I saw the Mona Lisa. But I didn’t actually see her. What I really mean to say is, today I was in the presence of the Mona Lisa. That’s all you can do really, be in the presence of it. There’s no such thing as actually seeing the Mona Lisa, not when there’s tourists involved-and in this city there always are. Let me describe what a trip to see that famous gal really entails.

I walked into the room where she is housed, by chance really, thank God I didn’t set aside time specifically to see her. It was a stunning room, not as lavish as some of the showstoppers in the Louvre but stunningly dressed with luxurious paintings by this and that famous painter (not that anyone in the room actually cared). I walked slowly around the room, stopping every now and then to admire the works that really caught my eye. I read a few plaques here and there while mentally preparing to dive into the obnoxious glob of tourists crowding Mona. After seeing basically everything else there was to see, I decided to finally play tourist.

One: good thing about going to see the Mona Lisa, you literally cannot miss her. Mona, she’s a petite little beauty, but the huge swarm of buzzing tourists crowding around her like a hoard of famished animals ready to pounce is kinda hard to miss. People are squeezed into this small roped off section, which just exacerbates the whole animalistic feel of the visit and makes you wonder if you’re at a world-renowned museum or a zoo. Tourists push, shove, and fight to make their way to the front as if Lisa could at any point materialize into a real person, grow some legs, and walk off somewhere less hellish. I honestly wouldn’t blame her.

Anyway, after being bumped, bruised and elbowed in the boobs a few times (being 5’3” has many disadvantages), I finally made my way up to the front. And for what?

Once I made my way up to “the front” -the front being the little crevice between the heads of two different Asian tourists taking various peace-signed selfies- I wasn’t anywhere near enough to actually appreciate this thing that everyone calls a masterpiece. Even if I had been at the front there would have been no way to appreciate the painting. Mona was barricaded behind a wooden barrier protecting her from peasant paws by keeping them a safe three feet away. A sad and murky sheet of bulletproof glass veiled the painting itself. This massive protective shield ironically made Mona seem insignificant. To tell you the truth, Mona looked like nothing but a blur, a little hiccup of history overshadowed by camera happy tourists, screaming unamused kids, and general chaos

After about two minutes, I had to get out.

I wondered how long it had actually been since someone had actually looked at the Mona Lisa, not snapped a selfie, not glanced for five seconds, not fought other people to get to the front of the line and claim the empty honor of having seen the Mona Lisa but actually looked at her and appreciated her for what she really is. I wondered when the last time was that someone had stood in front of her and had a thought other than “my friends will be so jealous” or “can’t wait to put this on Instagram.”

This inability to actually look at famous works of art is not new to me; it’s one of the struggles of living in a city with a lot of tourists and really important works. The inability to see the Mona Lisa in Paris is the same as the inability to see Van Gogh’s Starry night in New York. It’s sad that these works have such a celerity status that people who actually value art can’t look at what is considered to be some of the best art. I would like to go to The Louvre and have a good look at the Mona Lisa. I would like to have the ability to scrutinize her and decide for myself if I actually think this is a masterpiece rather than just believe it because people say it is so and because of all her groupies. I’m sure it’s been too long since any one could look at her and wonder about her ambiguous face and what she was thinking. But I think this is the sad fate that these bright stars have been condemned to, a superficial level of admiration. I doubt the barricades and bulletproof glass will ever disappear.

Paris, France