Stan arrived yesterday. I cannot believe almost three weeks have passed since I arrived in Istanbul. It’s really amazing how fast time can fly, when you are spending your days doing yoga, sitting in cafes drinking coffee and wandering around.
I was scheduled to be teaching when Stan was to arrive, so we had to work out a way to allow him access to the apartment in my absence. There’s a corner market, Kismet Pazari, near the apartment, where they know Tatjana, the German woman from whom we are subletting the apartment. We get our big bottles of water from them and they carry them up the steps and place them on the counter for us. They sell vegetables and fruits, and a few basic groceries. I try and buy some tomatoes from them every once in a while, but I think they might get their produce from the clearance bin, if you get my drift.
So the guys at Kismet, which means fate in Turkish, are pretty nice and they know the drill. We stay at Tatjana’s and we are whiteys who don’t speak their language. I figured I could leave a key there, Stan could cab directly to the market, pick up the key, let himself in and I’d meet him after class. Sounds really simple, doesn’t it?
Well would you believe it was that simple? I was prepared for a bazillion things to go wrong, given the language barrier and the general chaotic way of life in this city. But I took the key in an envelope to the boys, as we affectionately refer to them, and set it down on the counter. “So,” I said, pretty much to myself, “here’s the deal. My husband…” (At this point I made reference to my wedding ring and also rubbed my head, as if to simulate baldness) “Ah,” says the young Turk, “your friend.” Well, ya, I guess. So I made all of these miming motions about my big tall bald husband who was going to come get the key. I made turning the key hand signals, mentioned Tatjana’s name several times, nodded and hand gestured some more. The kid continued to talk to me in Turkish, and the deal was done. I left the key to the apartment, where they know I am staying, where all of my local possessions are housed, the computer, my passport, everything. The kid put the envelope down with a reassuring nod, next to the Marlboros and I’m off.
Three hours later, after class, I phoned the number to Tatjana’s flat. Stan answered! It was a miracle! Apparently, he had absolutely no problems with his flights, his taxi, and certainly not with our friends at the Kismet market. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The Kismet guys live and work in that alley. Their headscarf-wearing wives hang their laundry on the lines out of their windows every few days, and wave to me in the process. Their children play in the alley. Basically, this small little microcosm where we are visitors, is nothing but a village, with everyone aware of everyone else. I’m sure I could have left my wallet with a million liras in it, on that shelf with the smokes. Every kurus would have been there when I returned.
In this city of anywhere from 15-20 million people, depending on who you believe, there are thousands of these little microcosms. And that’s how everyone survives
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