As an abroad columnist in Turkey, I’d better get this out of the way:
Istanbul is a vibrant metropolis, old as time itself, rich in history and yet modern. It’s a place where East meets West — because that phrase can totally encompass a nation’s entirety. Where else could one enjoy exciting new experiences like smoking hookah, drinking tea or buying rugs? Where, I ask you? And all this against a backdrop of towering minarets and a glittering postcard-quality sea accentuated by the wafting strands of the call to prayer.
Lastly, for your reading pleasure, I shall now give this intro a suitably punny conclusion, thereby providing a swift ‘n’ tidy understanding of my adorable adventures abroad: Once “Orient”-ed, I found Istanbul to be a magical city; a true Turkish Delight!
Well, now that’s taken care of. Moving on …
Before beginning my semester abroad in London, I impulsively shoved into my itinerary a two-week jaunt to Istanbul. I set out with an unshakable belief that, with my superior cultural sensitivity, Turkish society would immediately accept me with open arms. I would be praised as the one tourist who truly understood this exotic land. In no time local mothers would beg me to wed their strapping sons. Goats would be slaughtered in my honor. Merry feasts would ensue.
Somehow this did not occur.
Within minutes of arriving, my glorified self-image as Cultural Ambassador Extraordinaire was stamped into a bloody pulp by a place not resembling my guidebook’s cover whatsoever. Istanbul seemed a monstrous, noisy, clustermuck-of-a-city. It felt an insurmountable foe.
As I wandered the streets aimlessly that first day, my face resembled the kid in the “Home Alone” movies. I searched my brain for any comparable experiences and, finding my mind blank, felt isolated in ways I never knew possible.
By nightfall I did what seemed only logical: I began drinking at the base of Galata Tower (a watchtower built by the Genoese in 1455) among hoards of Turks and tourists. A foolproof remedy for culture shock, right? Well, it wasn’t long before the police’s attempt to break up the open-air rager prompted a riot. The scene soon became a frenzy of journalists, police officers and enraged and inebriated youths. Luckily, around this time I met my friend, and ex-Eagle writer, Will Zeman, who calmly removed me from the mayhem.
Will, my former Mission Improvable mate, had been living in Turkey, improving his Turkish and working in Istanbul. He had graciously offered to show me around and house me. More importantly, he provided familiarity and ushered me into life here.
It’s been a week now and my fear of Istanbul has turned to love. I’ve seen the must-see sights, eaten the must-eat eats and petted the must-pet street cats. More importantly, I’ve learned to embrace being an outsider, separated by language and appearance. I’ve given up trying to analyze my surroundings, and I’ve accepted my lack of control. This realization has made Istanbul beautiful to me. I don’t have to understand or conquer this place. I can just exist.
The most unexpected and infinitely rewarding aspect has been meeting the many people who have made a home here. I spend days wandering neighborhoods, afternoons talking with Turkish, German and Albanian flat mates, and nights dancing with French students, Iranian couch surfers and American ex-pats — all of whom have shown me nothing but hospitality.
I’ve gone from experiencing loneliness in a way I never knew I could feel to an equally as foreign state of pure contentment.
And yeah — I smoked a damned hookah. It was lovely.
mwolfson@theeagleonline.com
