how to buy a turkish carpet

The last three days have been an uncharacteristic flurry of socializing. I blame the weather. After over a month of empty threats, the heat and humidity have finally arrived in Istanbul and seem likely to stick around until I leave - and beyond. Sweating it out in my apartment (which has neither fans nor air conditioning, by the by) isn't really a palatable option.

It started on Wednesday night when one of my coworkers asked me why I looked so bummed. (Un?)surprisingly, this is a question I receive often from both him and another teacher. But unlike my usual technique of the gentle blow-off, I decided it was time for some truth. I told Daniel that I was planning on giving my notice in a few days (i.e. today, Friday), and was having very mixed feelings about it. He looked stunned, and promptly told me we needed to get a drink. Immediately. I couldn't really make an excuse to get out of it, and for possibly the first time in a long time, didn't really want to. As a result, I spent Wednesday night guzzling beer with Daniel and another coworker, Brenden, who is both awesome and from the O.C. After standard talk of "Game of Thrones," and the fascinating story of how Brenden "investigated" Mormonism for three years in high school, the boys wanted to get down to brass tacks and hear what was going on with me. I told them a condensed version, and they both looked stunned. Seeing the shock on their faces felt pretty good - I'm not going to lie. I often feel like I'm taking crazy pills in this city for thinking that this "incident" is a heaping mess of bullshit, and it was nice to hear that at least two other people are taking those same crazy pills. They both did the kind and predictable "don't leave because of some douchebag," but seemed to understand anyway. We ended our evening with ciğ köfte, (lentil meatballs) and their promise that they were going to spend the next two weeks charming me into staying. I told them to bring it on.

Yesterday was just as surprising and enjoyable, if not completely different. About two weeks before I moved to Istanbul in September, I happened to meet and talk to a customer at work who had just written a book about Turkey. We exchanged info, and bizarrely, kept in touch. Her book debuted in March and she's just finished taking a tour group around the country in support of her memoir. She and I met up for lunch yesterday to "catch up" (which seems strange to say, since we've only met once), and poke around a few bookstores so she could do some PR. I think it's fair to say that Angie is a 64 year old version of me, except nicer, friendlier, and tinier. Talking to her about her many travels throughout the country and the friends she's made along the way, was fabulous and almost intoxicating. I know from reading an advance copy of her book that not all of her experiences here have been rosy. But they seem so much more universally positive than mine. The people she knows here seem happy, optimistic, untrodden, even. So unlike the Turkish people I know. It took me an encounter with the friend whom she's staying with, and an evening spent with my former student Ömer to put the pieces together and I think they're worth writing about.

Angie's friend, a woman who used to own a successful café in Istanbul's artist neighborhood, and who now rents apartments, seemed nice enough. But she definitely rubbed me the wrong way. (How unpredictable, right?) It might've been the continual name-dropping or the ease with which she made reference to this fabulous restaurant or that charming street... Sorting through it now, I think I understand that the subtle, simmering vibe was her ample bank account shining through. She mentioned to me and Hasan, Angie's carpet-dealing friend we met, that she finds life here very easy as a female expat. I kind of wanted to punch her in the face. Granted, she is at least twenty years older than I am, but if I've learned anything from my time here, it's that life isn't easy here. I can't count how many times my students have told me how exhausted they are. How soul-crushing their schedules. How disappointing their salaries. Most Turks work six days a week and can expect, if they're lucky and educated, about 2,000 TL/month. (At the time of writing, that's $1,087.) Many of them are expected to support their extended families, spend their free time hanging out with said families, and accept their lot with a smile and a promise to perpetuate the whole dream-crippling cycle.

While Angie's experience of Turkey is certainly not "wrong" and is, in fact, very beautiful, I think it's probably one of a passionate and smitten guest. As I noted myself after my life-altering spring break here last year, Turkish people love making a good impression on tourists. They love going the extra mile for foreigners, assuring a great vacation and a positive image of their culture.

But that shit ain't real. That shit ends when you unpack your bags and don't spend your days going from one cup of tea to another. My non-date with Ömer (yep, that one,) last night confirmed my feelings. I should start by saying I haven't seen Ömer for at least two months, and I should continue by saying that our dynamic has always been a little... complicated. I know I'm unlike everyone else in his life - especially his soon to be fiancée - and I think that both fascinates him and makes him super uncomfortable. He is without question one of the most attractive men I've ever met, and that in turn fascinates me and makes me beyond super uncomfortable. Anyway. Ömer and I met not far from my apartment, and I heard myself say "oh, shit" when I saw him from a distance as I walked towards our meeting point. He just got laser eye surgery (eep!) so was without his glasses, and because he'd just come from work at bank headquarters, was wearing his work clothes, i.e. a charcoal suit with a white shirt and... wait for it... a white tie. He looked like an Ermenegildo Zegna model. No joke.

Sometimes I have to mentally pinch myself and clarify that this really is my life I'm inhabiting. Ömer being Ömer, he suggested we go to the garden café at Dolmabahçe Palace. D.P. is this crazy insane palace the last Ottoman Emperor built and it's full of things like several ton Bohemian crystal chandeliers, taxidermied bears, gold everything etc. Like Versailles's snobby older sister. The café in its garden is right on the Bosphorus and is famous for its beautiful view. I'd heard about it many times, but had never been. Now that I have, I can say it is probably the second most romantic place in the city. (The first? Galata Bridge at sunset.) I think Ömer selected it as much for himself as he did for me, because one of our biggest topics of conversation was how emotionally fatigued he felt from work, life, and family. As an investment banker, he's well aware of the global economy and its many iniquities. Especially jading is how hard he works for how little pay, recognition, and time off he receives. When we were talking about his long-time time dream of becoming a film maker, he brought up the fact that not only does no one outside of Turkey speak Turkish, but that even Turkish people don't spend money on going to the movie theater. The words, "I know that if I was born in a different country, my life would be better" definitely slipped out of his mouth. Followed by "Turkey takes advantage of its people." And I can't disagree, from what I've seen and heard. It's not uncomplicated advice, but I told him he should probably make his life elsewhere while he's still young and ambitious enough to do it. It's heartbreaking to watch the people I care about here feel so bound by very real limitations. I saw it with Aydın, I hear about it with my roommates, I talk about it with nearly all of my students. Life isn't easy.

With Ömer's impending engagement and steady income at the bank, emigration seems unlikely. He's taking his first trip abroad in a week to visit his brother in England, and I think - without exaggerating - that it might change his life. Not only because he's obsessed with Britain, but because he'll see with his own eyes that things can be so different. Both for better and worse.

to be continued.