Unbreak my cat

 It’s Miraç Kandili time- the particular Kandil when Mr Prophet M. ascended to heaven and we all get little plates of hot, sticky un helvas brought to our desks by the café staff downstairs.  Traditionally, un helvas is served when people die but I think I’ve been served it at least 4 times since new year and once just before Ramazan last autumn (it was wrapped around a big ball of vanilla ice cream! Damn!).  My empty plate still has remnants of the syruppy melted butter pooling a little at the tilted end on my stack of books. Nom nom nom.

Still deaf, still chomping away at my foul little anti-smallpox antibiotics, hoping the Wahwah will ease up and I won’t have to squint to hear people much longer. I had to ask Banu to cancel my class last night because I can’t teach in utero. It just doesn’t work. 

It poured rain last night, and this morning going to work I was soaked through and our hill was a river I had to wade up in sockless MaryJanes. Wet feet, wet shoes, wet trouser legs.  I wore my autumn long coat and a turtleneck shirt and a long undershirt and was freezing. Now it’s all dry and hot and all traces of last night and this morning have evaporated. 

I bought (out of curiosity) a can of Cola Turka cappuccino- which states on the side of the narrow little can that it is a ‘cappuccino aromal kola, gazl içecek’.   In other words, a cappuccino flavoured carbonated cola beverage. I’m actually afraid to try it.

Huh?

At work, with 5 of the 6 fishbowl office window blinds down to maintain my quiet bubble and to minimize the Peanuts cartoon adult-babbling sounds coming from the teachers’ room next door. The skin around the little cartiledge flap at the entrance to my right ear, where my jaw hinge is, is rubbed raw from tugging at it whilst trying to open just a hint of ear canal. We watched several movies and the last few episodes of  X Files season 7 over the weekend, much of which was a lot of hummy thrummy wah wah wah ness. Looking forward to next Monday when the doc says he can syringe me (must do a week of antibiotics and drops first due to inflammation and suchlike). The antibiotics he prescribed me are, according to Larry the Prof from St Louis,  the ones used in the States for smallpox outbreaks.  Cipro 500 mg.  I know they overuse and over dose antibiotics here but this is ridiculous. Maybe this is why I am so wobbly and nauseous (aside from the whole inner ear stuff).  At least won’t get small pox.

D. and I have been considering a year or two in Oman after travelling/working in Central and South America for a year or so, just to save some money and to be somewhere calm. I love Oman. I remember feeling so at peace there.  I think this is a good idea. I hope Lola doesn’t mind the heat.

hum

Still deaf. I feel like I am floating in water, in utero, all sonogrammy , with perhaps misplaced sympathetic symptoms for my pregnant cousin.  I feel like I am shouting but everyone leans forward asking me to repeat. My shouts are apparently whispers.  

Huh?

Bubbled up in my head, with the world sounding much like a womb, all muffled heartbeat, wet, distant. I somehow went for lemonade at Kahvedan with long-lost Thom, followed up by tea at the seafoam mosque in Cihangir and dinner a trois with D. at Hala (oh lovely karisik gozleme and impeccable yaprak sarma nestled in garlic yogurt!). I managed to carry on conversations somehow, annoying people with my near whisper that resonated like a shout inside my head. Yesterday in the daytime, I left the DOS meeting halfway through because the Marketing Dept’s unrestrained shout-fests were sounding like an angry, unmoderated debate between all the adults in a Peanuts cartoon, all wahwahwah incmprehensible lilting noise.  It made me feel nauseous and unbalanced.  I’m tired.

Say what?

I slept terribly again last night. This time not because of invisible itches or overwhelming humidity, but rather because my lingering deafness from Romania exploded into a full force inner-ear fuck up, with a total bubble-head, dizziness and nausea. Everytime I lay my head back on the pillow I got vertigo.  I sat crouched forward, massaging my temples half the night, trying to open up my ear canals, at least temporarily.  I finally passed out from exhaustion and woke up deaf, something I last did in Goa, I believe. I missed several phone calls in the morning because I was sleeping on my not-totally deaf ear. Poor Irish Dave may never find his new Vodafone student now, since I ignored all his pleas for information about her surname (cranky reception people weren’t letting him in with just the name Nurdan scrawled on a printout. ).  I hauled myself to the Baykent hospital next to the school, the one with the big golden furred dog living permanently on its tiny front lawn.  After watching Doctor Dinç televise my inner ear with a pokey thing, I learned that my left ear is indeed quite infected, hence my deafness and imbalance and nausea. He tried to vacuum out some of the crap but stopped early, declaring that I did indeed have the world’s narrowest ear canals (doctors never believe me when I warn them).  At the moment, none of his ear-probey tools fit in my ear with all the hard buildup and swelling so I must go off for 10 days and take drops and glycerine and antibiotics and he will try to find a super-skinny syringe in the meantime.

 Fun.

On 4 hours of sleep

Meagan and Suat came by last night to check out the flat and the furniture. Lola flirted with both, and D. and Suat bonded over D’s Incubus shirt. Meagan admired the million windows and the fig-laden Zen garden out back and the minimalist-but-lovely furnishings. They will take the flat and the furniture. Could I throw in the cat as well?

So, yes, one lingering panic of the last few months has been eased in one half-hour house-call. No more thoughts of trying to convince the antique boys in Çukurcuma to buy back the multitudes of wardrobes they have sold me over the past few years, no need to keep asking my landlady if her friends want to buy my washer or fridge or stove.  I can stop now, and just work and eat and sleep.  I’ve stopped sleeping this week, which is not easy on my mind. No thoughts of Moon Over Water like the previous insomnia but rather just a deep sense of melancholy and indescribable loss. The money I asked for everything I own is piddly- covered maybe 1/3 of what I paid less than a year ago. The money isn’t important. I have money. An extra 100ytl here or there doesn’t make much of a difference to me, especially since I’ll be working an extra 2 weeks in September that will earn me more than the furniture will bring in, and I will continue my Turkish Daily News part time editing job for an extra 150ytl/month after I go until they get sick of me. So money isn’t on my mind. I am relieved that my time will not be spent trying to pawn off my life to people who aren’t interested. I like Meagan and I like Suat and I know that the flat and furnishings will be treated with respect and I know they haven’t much money so I am also helping out a friend in a time when I would have loved to have been helped out over the past decade or so.  This is cool. But I feel very sad nevertheless.  I suppose that is inevitable when one leaves a place after 6 years of mixed feelings and underfulfilled expectations. I feel a bit like I’m giving everything away but have yet to figure out what I will take in next.

The Simit man outside the Levent metro- the one with the phone glued to his ear- wrapped my simit in pastel-shaded tiger-print tissue paper this morning. Very ’80s retro.

Simit wars! (Boy Wonder wrote this!)

Palaces versus cottages in simit wars

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

 

 

ZACK BARNETT-HOWELL
ISTANBUL – Turkish Daily News

  The popularity of “simit ve çay” (simit and tea) among Turkish people has begun to manifest itself in fast food chains. A phenomenon called “Simit Saray” (Simit Palace) and copycats have popped up all over Istanbul within the last five years.

  

  Simit, a baked ring of bread covered in sesame seeds, is famous throughout the Middle East. The pastry, whose popularity has grown due to its low cost, is bought and sold in practically every town and even on the highways in Turkey. Ferhat Korkmaz has been selling simit in the Mecidiyeköy neighborhood of Istanbul for the past six years. At the end of a 12-hour workday, he sells approximately 150 simits. Korkmaz buys simits from local bakeries for Ykr 50 and sells them to the public for Ykr 75. Right behind Korkmaz stands Istanbul’s first “Simit Saray,” – a palace indeed, compared to what the humble vendors operate. The store sells 500 plain simits a day and up to 2,000 of their cheese and sausage varieties. But Simit Saray sells plain simits for Ykr 50, undercutting pushcart vendors.

Palaces versus cottages in simit wars

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

 

 

ZACK BARNETT-HOWELL
ISTANBUL – Turkish Daily News

  Pushing the position of Turkey’s favorite and cheap fast-food, simit, to another level, a phenomenon called “simit saray” (Simit Palace) and copycats have popped up all over Istanbul within the last five years. The popularity of “simit ve çay” (“simit and tea”) among Turkish people manifests itself with fast food chains and the whole episode can be seen as a revolution in the way business is done in Turkey.

  Simit, a baked ring of bread covered in sesame seeds, is famous throughout the Middle East. Simit, whose popularity has grown due to its low cost, is bought and sold in practically every town, neighborhood, and even on the highways in Turkey.

  Traditionally, simits are mass produced in local bakeries and distributed by unlicensed and untaxed vendors throughout the neighborhood. However, in Istanbul, as in other cities, the individual municipalities have provided licensing to the salesmen at busy intersections.

Street simit vs store simit:

  Ferhat Korkmaz has been selling simits in the Mecidiyeköy neighborhood of Istanbul for the past six years. He works 12 hours a day and sells approximately 150 simits. Korkmaz buys simits from local bakeries for Ykr 50 and in turn, sells them to the public for Ykr 75. His daily earning, thus, is YTL 37.5 on average, which makes $31.

  Right behind Korkmaz stands Istanbul’s first “Simit Saray,” – a palace indeed, compared to what humble vendors got. It was built nearly five years ago. The shop employs 15 people and pays each at around the minimum wage: Approximately YTL 450 ($375) a month. The store sells 500 plain simits a day and up to 2,000 of their cheese and sausage varieties.

  But Simit Saray sells plain simits for Ykr 50, undercutting pushcart vendors.

  The chain has transformed a street food into a “meal” that has become popular with middle class citizens and students, said Süleyman Tarakç, manager of the Mecidiyeköy Simit Saray.

  Although plain simits are still in demand, the store sells a variety of sandwich simits and drinks. These changes have led to pushcart vendors offering similar amenities at their own stands.

  Veli Altun is another street vendor, but an entrepreneurial one. He has sold simits along Badat Caddesi for more than 28 years, expanding his simple simit stand into a profitable family business. With family support, the stand is open all day and nearly all night.

  Altun sells a total of 400 simits a day, up to 1,000 during fall and winter. He even “imports” delicious cheese from his hometown of Ardahan, a city in northeastern Turkey on the Georgian border, to improve his sales. “My income is excellent,” a proud Altun said.

  Despite their good sales volume, simit sellers on streets are in danger of being wiped out of the market by the emerging “simit palaces” and similar “simit cafes.” A pushcart vendor buys simits and sells them at his own risk. This enterprise is more profitable than being employed at a Simit Saray and offers the opportunity for expansion that sellers such as Altun have taken full advantage of. But there are no simit cafes on Badat Caddesi where Altun works – not yet.

  A fair share?: When asked about the effect Simit Saray has had on street sellers, Tarakç merely smiled. “God gives everyone their fair share,” he said, echoing the general belief in all Turkish tradesmen. But Korkmaz does not agree. Since the opening of the Simit Saray, his daily sales have been halved. He worries about the future of his business and whether he can afford his annual cart license fee that he has to pay to the municipality.

  Bilal Çilente runs another simit stand just down the street from Korkmaz. He sees no conflict of interest between his business and simit cafes lined up behind him. “Our simits are more expensive,” Çilente said. “People don’t buy them for the taste, but as part of their lifestyle. Here there is no waiting, no lines. Just get your simit and go.”

  Simit Saray follows health and safety regulations. It represents a transition in Turkey from informal, small-scale businesses into corporations that pay taxes to the government and employ a larger workforce.

  However, with the business revolution that is taking place in these cafes there also comes the decline of the pushcart street vendors. These vendors pay only marginal taxes and do not follow any health or labor laws. On the other hand they offer a higher potential salary and room for entrepreneurship.

  While the two modes of business – corporate and individual – currently live side by side, it is uncertain whether they will be able to continue to do so harmoniously in the future.

© 2005 Dogan Daily News Inc. www.turkishdailynews.com.tr

Teachers here are just bears with furniture

 I was up til about 3 or 4 am, scratching phantom itches with no discernable source and wracking my brain trying to remember the Turkish word for ‘moon over the water’ (yakamoz- d’oh!). I am foggy and underslept now, with a hot tea at my desk and a simit torn up into little simitlets to be dredged in soft white cheese. The simit-cart man with the mobile phone glued to his ear gift wrapped my simit is a lovely sheet of purple-yellow-white striped tissue paper.  Steph just handed me two little plastic domes of Eti Puf- one is renkli (rainbow sprinkles) and the other is chocomel (chocolately caramel sprinkles). Quite a breakfast for an underslept person.

Watched Anthony Bourdain’s latest episode on Colombia. I want want want to move to Cartegena or Medellin. I want to eat fried plantain.

39 degrees

My old, old geocities sites from my mid-2000 post-South Africa venture into website building have vanished into the interweb ether, leaving a particular section of my documented life disappeared.  I’m trying to decide whether I am disappointed, indifferent or slightly lighter.  New starts, catharsis, resolution, and all that.  I’m in a very very unsettled brainspace these days- aware of impending change but not quite fully grasping it. I’ll be out of Turkey in less than two months, which is rather hard to wrap my brain around at times. Sometimes I feel as though I could just pick up and go now, leaving everything behind, not thinking twice about how much money and work and time put into the flat and into my life here in general. A wholly clean beginning.  I look around at the people, the streets, the flat, the light, the air, the energy, the smells, the shadows, the everything, and I cannot grasp their impending absence. I’ve left many places in my adulthood (Eire, UK, South Africa, Dubai, for starters) and I am fine with leaving. I am sentimental only to a certain degree.  I am good at leaving. I have left every flat I have lived in after a maximum of one year. I have traded jobs every year.  I have left clothes and books and trinkets behind. I have left people behind. I have an army of multitudes scattered around the globe, kindly long-unseen detritus from my previous existences. I’m cool with that.  I’m just feeling very very mixed about my current upheaval. Lola’s catsitter, Meagan, just came by to my office to ask about my flat and my furniture and my rent and my leaving date (as have Janine, Matt and Dixie) and yet again I laid out the details and prices and listed off my earthly possessions that I have clustered together into one absurdly  Low Low Price (if you act now, I’ll throw in the dvd player and the wireless modem!) and now I feel like my head is going to explode.

It was 39 degrees (100F) on our balcony yesterday. I put the fridge Bambi Kebapç magnet thermometer out on the railing at noon at watched it climb steadily as I read my Guardian and fried my skin and passed time waiting for D. to take a break from his marathon writing sessions (the solitude was much enjoyed, in spite of the unrelenting heat). For anyone who says that 40 degrees is nothing, kindly remember that we have no AC here, nor a fan.  Just the heat. Inside it was a lovely, cool 32 degrees C. In Dubai it was easily 45 degrees but everywhere was air conditioned and you went to those Everywheres in an air conditioned car. Even Egypt had more climate control.

Bird

I can hear a chicken clucking quite vociferously out my back balcony. I had no idea there were any chickens in Osmanbey. Cats, yes. Doves, yes. Chickens, no.

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