Ripped Off

Dear readers: Sorry my blogs have been few and far between these days. I seem to be experiencing some kind of “blog block.”  And apologies to the Professional American Women of Turkey, who have already read a version of the story below.

“Try to remember that you are a guest in their country. Try to be respectful.” University study abroad brochure.

As many of you know, it was quite a challenge for me to get used to living in a Turkish mega-city. But now, after two years in Istanbul, I generally feel competent as I run errands, head to my volunteer job, meet friends for tea and lunch, and guide visitors. When I encounter a situation that gets the better of me, I hesitate to share it because it represents failure. But it’s all part of the expatriate experience.

I went to Istanbul’s enormous Grand Bazaar yesterday to look for Ottoman cloth for some pillows I wanted to make. A friend recommended a shop called Deregozu. When I arrived there, I noticed it was smaller than most Grand Bazaar shops, many of which are the size of walk-in closets. I told the proprietor, a man named Hassan, what I was looking for, and he insisted on walking me to the Deregozu warehouse, a few blocks outside the bazaar, to view a larger selection.  

At the warehouse, it was quickly evident that Deregozu did not have the elegant, thick cloth with slender tulip designs that I sought, but instead lots of suzani embroidery work and colorfully-dyed silk ikat.  Hassan offered me a cup of tea and, along with several other customers, I looked around.

I noticed a piece of fabric covered with attractive needlework called kaitag, from Daghestan in southern Russia. When I asked the price, Hassan quoted me $200 (400 Turkish Lira -- TL).  While I pondered whether to offer a lower price, he said goodbye and I was left with his friendly brother, Hamza, and Ayse, a sweet, young headscarfed woman.

I looked around some more, and then asked Hamza for the prices of a suzani table runner and the Russian piece. He replied that they were 250 TL (about $125) each.

Pleased, I picked up the Russian piece to buy and offered a debit card, which Hamza told me the shop did not accept. Opening my wallet, I noticed I had just 250 TL inside. Hamza told me I could pay later, but I told him no, I would pay now, but would then need to be directed to a cash machine so I would have some cash for lunch and the trip home.

I completed the transaction and said goodbye and thanked Hamza. He offered me a stack of business cards to give to friends. Then Ayse took me down the street to the cash machine. As we walked, we chatted about her English studies, and she asked where in Istanbul I lived. When we reached Garanti Bank, I said goodbye to her and got in line.

A few minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there was Ayse again. She held out an IPhone and, surprised, I took it. “Hello?”

“Hello,” said Hamza. “Were you going to bring back the 100 lira you owe me, or pay me later?”

“100 more lira? I thought the price of the cloth was 250 lira.”

“No, it was 350.”

“Hmm . . .  okay,” I replied. I had repeated the lira price to Hamza several times in both English and Turkish to make sure I understood it. He had nodded in agreement. Had I mixed up two hundred and three hundred in both Turkish and English? That didn’t seem likely, but now I felt confused.

The Garanti machine thrust out my cash and Ayse was standing there with her hand open. I gave her 100 TL and she turned and was gone.

I quickly realized I had been scammed: deceived, or at the very least, mistreated. I was angry at the Deregozu shopkeepers but also at myself.  There were other ways I could have handled the situation. I could have marched back to the store and asked for my money back, apologizing for “my error” and telling them 350 TL was simply too much. But I didn’t.

Although I’m proud of my progress with Turkish, it is easy to knock me off balance, language-wise. On top of that, I carry with me the firm belief that I am a guest here in Turkey and should avoid unpleasantness. Most of the time that works well for me, preventing an impatient comment or roll of the eyes, and causing me to observe the people around me and act as they do (for example, remaining quiet on public transportation). But wise as that sentiment is, how can I turn it off when an unpleasant situation suddenly arises? 

In my case, I simply cannot.

Oh well. My positive interactions here outnumber the negative by at least 50 to 1. Yesterday’s incident was simply part of the (low) price I pay for living here.

Mosques: An Outsider View

Ever wondered what's inside a mosque? I’m here to take you into some of Turkey's finest places of Muslim worship and explain the basic features they all contain. First, a few exterior shots. 

The Blue Mosque in Istanbul, photographed from the Bosphorus

The tiny Yavasci Sahin Mosque, Istanbul

Some mosques are grand and stand apart from everything else. Others are nestled  among other buildings or built on uneven remnants of land. The Rustem Pasha Mosque in Istanbul is built over the top of several commercial establishments.

Rustem Pasha Mosque, Istanbul

Many of the mosques pictured here were built by Turkey's Michelangelo, Mimar Sinan, who worked for the Ottoman sultans in the 1500s. Believed to be an Armenian Christian, he designed nearly one hundred mosques and hundreds of other important buildings.

Three essential features can be seen in every mosque. The first is the mihrab, a niche carved into the wall of the mosque. It is cut so that worshippers face the direction of the Muslim holy city, Mecca.  Here are some examples of mihrabs in Istanbul:  

Colorful mihrab in Firuz Aga Mosque, Istanbul

Wooden mihrab in mosque, Eskisehir

Rustem Pasha mosque mihrab (bottom center)

The next mosque element is the minbar, the pulpit from which the imam speaks. It is actually a staircase that sits, as you face the mihrab, to its to right. A door closes the bottom of the staircase, and the top is usually decorated with a turret. Because the turret represents heaven, the imam only stands halfway up the stairs. I find minbars both fanciful and evocative.

Marble minbar, Selimiye mosque, Edirne

Top of minbar, Selimiye Mosque, Edirne

Tiled minbar top, Sokkulu Ahmet Pasha Mosque, Istanbul

The final feature that a mosque needs is carpeting. This is because worshippers kneel on the floor  to say their prayers. In older times, mosque floors were covered with layers of kilim rugs that overlapped each other and became quite worn. Now special mosque carpeting is used, with designs indicating rows. Mosques arrange worshippers horizontally, in contrast to the more vertical way churches are often set up. This is because Islam seeks to avoid the concept of some worshippers feeling "better" than others.

New carpeting in 13th century mosque in Divrigi, central Turkey

Carpeting matching the arches in one of Istanbul's Grandest Mosques, the Suleimaniye

Yavasca Sahin Mosque, Istanbul

A father and young son couldn't resist a bit of wrestling on the lush carpet in Edirne's Selimiye mosque

Those are the three essentials, but mosques often contain other common design features. The first is arches. Doorways and other openings are often expressed by soaring, curved arches.

Arches and more arches in the Suleimaniye mosque

My favorite, Istanbul's New Mosque (completed in 1663)

Most mosques also have domed ceilings.

Dome at Sehzade Mosque, Istanbul, built by Sultan Suleiman I in memory of his son, who died of smallpox at age 21.

Dome of Edirne's Selimiye Mosque

Dome, The New Mosque, Istanbul

Most mosques have windows, and often these are made of stained glass.

Yavasca Sahin Mosque

Blue Mosque, Istanbul

And all mosques need some form of lighting, even though many are designed to let in a lot of sunlight . The larger mosques in Turkey have huge circular chandeliers (see photos above and below) that hang low over the worship area.

Selimiye Mosque, Edirne

The mosques I’ve showed you thus far are all centuries old. There is an interesting new mosque in Istanbul called the Shakirin Mosque, that was designed by a woman, Zeynep Fadillioglu. Here are some photos of it that I took a couple of weeks ago. What do you think?

About Food

 I was never one of those folks who tried to grow her own fruits and vegetables or decided to eat only foods that were organic or vegetal. The natural foods movement came along at nearly the same time as the women’s movement, and the message I plucked from all that was in the air in those days was to get busy and develop myself professionally. That dictum didn’t mix well with putting a great deal of extra effort into my diet. A nutritionist by training, I ate widely and moderately, and reasoned that normal digestive acids would neutralize any additives, preservatives or irradiated matter in my diet.

In my twenties I did, however, set out to make fresh daily meals. That was mainly because I enjoyed didn’t like the taste of most ready-made food. In graduate school I had eaten most dinners out, and I decided it was ultimately too expensive and fattening.  

In the past few years, perhaps out of increasing awareness of my mortality, I’ve been pleased to see more pesticide- and additive-free food in American supermarkets. I am happy to buy these, convinced they are beneficial—and fortunate to be able to pay the higher prices they almost always command. I think I eat pretty well these days. My most egregious food offense is the ingestion of about a half can of Diet Coke a day. When my kids are around, they chide me about this.

I moved to Turkey in 2010 during the height of the Great Recession—and the height of a U.S. obesity epidemic. I began sampling Turkish foods, sticking mainly with familiar categories: salads, kebabs, rice dishes, soups. I noticed that Turks eat a wide range of cooked vegetables, but preferring my veggies raw, I hesitated to try them—or really any new vegetable. But sometimes circumstances forced me to be more open-minded.

One such occasion occurred this past Christmas season at the home of Turkish friends. A tasty-looking bowl of yogurt was on the table, and I helped myself. (Turkish yogurt is a richer version of the yogurt we Americans typically buy. In the States it is sold as Greek yogurt.) I realized there was more to the dish than yogurt, and when I inquired, I was told that it contained grated celery root, walnuts and fresh garlic.  Grated celery root? Hmm.  I had tried to buy celery for soup here, but could only find dirty, grapefruit-sized bulbs, generally with only a few small strands of celery attached at the top.

I’d had no idea that celery root could be used. (But Turks, it appears, have no idea how to use the stalks. At a dinner party yesterday, a Turkish friend expressed surprise they are edible!) When I replicated the yogurt dish at home, my family loved it.

On a recent trip to an Anatolian village, our small tour group stopped to eat at a local home, and was served, for starters, good-sized bowls of a cooked, green vegetable.

I was told it was ciris, the stem of the foxtail lily, and that it is found in central and southern Turkey for only three weeks each spring. I had to applaud the Turks for their thrift and ingenuity. Below it is pictured raw.

As nothing else was in front of me, I had no choice but to eat. Mildly spiced and combined with lentils and bulgur, it turned out to be quite tasty. 

Slowly I am beginning to open my eyes to other Turkish foods. A popular appetizer here called semizotu  involves yogurt and purslane, a plant with small, round leaves that is considered a weed in the U.S.

The stem of the glasswort plant is a treat here. Called borulcesi, it is typically cooked and then served cold with lemon.

It’s worth repeating that I have been astonished to see teenage boys here enthusiastically digging in to large plates of semizotu, borulcesi and other kinds of cooked vegetables. This is something I have never seen in the U.S.—and do not expect to see any time soon.  

Turks also eat roots in a variety of ways. Crocus roots are stewed and fried, and also made into a milky dessert. Orchid roots are dried and grated, then combined with milk and sugar and cinnamon for a scrumptious winter drink called sahlep.

Today at the greengrocer, I took a photo of some of the more common roots here, among them parsnips and kohlrabi. Aren’t the colors lovely?

I know that parsnips and turnips used to be more commonly eaten in America. It occurred to me that, especially during times of economic crisis, we should revive some of the thrifty, sustaining recipes of our ancestors. Eating this way would provide a fiber and nutrient boost and help take the place of junk food.

I have now mastered four all-natural Turkish recipes, and have my eye on a couple of others. I chuckle to think that in my old age, I am becoming either my grandmother or a hippie.

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In a previous blog, I promised to mention sheep's intestines and dove-shaped sandwiches, so here goes. Apopular, inexpensive sandwich here is called kokorec, and involves the small and large intestines of lamb,layered on a spit and slowly roasted.  

It is then pulled off the spit, chopped and grilled with tomatoes and red peppers, dusted with dried oregano and served in a sandwich. I found kokorec tasty, but a little chewy, kind of like calamari.  

Kumru is another sandwich. Its name derives from the Turkish word for “dove,” which it is said to resemble in shape. 

This item is pretty conventional, consisting of layers of spicy Turkish beef sausage and salami, and topped with mild, melted cheese. It is both salty and tasty. I think kumru would go over very well in the States!

Tulips!

Dear readers,


I find it difficult to put the beauty of Istanbul's tulip gardens into words. The following three paragraphs are adapted from the April 17, 2012 Turkish Daily Hurriyet newspaper. The photos are my own.

No passage to spring in Istanbul would be complete without the color offered by Turkey’s most famous flower, the tulip. In parks, squares, and simply along the roadside, the flower is blooming throughout the city right now as part of the Seventh Istanbul Tulip Festival.

This year, work crews have arranged the flowers in a number of geometrical shapes and produced figures such as amulets, waterfalls, the Turkish flag and various human figures. As Istanbul is also the 2012 European Capital of Sports, there are also tulip figures relating to sports.    

The tulip, or lale, was first commercialized by the Ottomans and then exported to the rest of the world. Ninety percent of the tulip bulbs planted this year come from Turkey.  In addition to parks and gardens, crossroads, rest areas and walking areas in the city have been decorated with 11.6 million tulips at a cost of 2.68 million Turkish Liras.