We sank a jar in a glitzy overpriced watering hole along the marina promenade and observed the rich-kids at play. The children of the Turkish urban elite are a strange breed. Many of the boys wouldn’t look out of place in Soho and the girls drape themselves in expensive tarty-chic virtually indistinguishable from the Russian ladies of the night who ply their trade discretely around them. It all conveys an emancipated image that I suspect is illusory given the deeply conservative nature of society even at the highest echelons.
Category: Turkish Women
The Dawn Chorus
The battles between our neighbours are becoming louder, longer and more frequent. They seem completely uninhibited by our close proximity. It is all the more frustrating since we don’t know what the rows are about. Late night fights inevitably end with Vadim sleeping al fresco on their balcony to escape the heat. His cacophonous snoring adds to the dawn chorus of canines, cocks, cars and the call to prayer.
Hot and Steamy in Old Bodrum Town
Yankee vetpat Barbara Isenberg dishes out a delicious mix of daily essays, photos and advice on living and travelling in Turkey in her colourful blog Turkish Muse. Barbara is currently celebrating her wedding anniversary with hubby Jeff in gay Paree. To avoid any distractions from their romantic indulgence in the city of lovers she asked me and a number of others to guest post while she’s being swept off her feet. I was delighted to be asked and happy to oblige. It’s an inspired idea and one I might try on our next sojourn to Blighty in August.
My piece describes a naughty night out on the tiles before we migrated to the sun. Picture it – a hot and steamy summer night in old Bodrum Town…
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Our neighbours, Beril and Vadim row a lot in a very Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? kind of way. Evidently, she is highly strung and screams at him at full volume. He rarely responds in kind. I think he knows that she is the kind of girl who might wield a carving knife if provoked. She’s always very sweet and giggly with us though and pops across the courtyard with plates of delicious home made morsels from her kitchen.
Drums and Drugs
We now have neighbours. Our house is one of two on a single plot with a shared gated entrance and garden. We’d rather hoped the other house would stay vacant. It was not to be. We dreaded being saddled with a couple of old reactionaries; all head scarves, clashing florals and disapproving looks. We’re mightily relieved that Vadim and Beril are delightful arty types from Ankara. Vadim plays the bongos (or whatever the Turkish equivalent is) with talented gusto and Beril looks like she dropped too much acid in the Sixties. We engage in lots of pointing and demented waving of hands. They hardly speak a word of English and, of course, our grasp of Turkish remains lamentably poor. We’ve agreed to have a dictionary do over a bottle or three to exchange random words just for the hell of it. The ruder the better, I hope.
Islamic Chic
Our second day in Istanbul was spent meandering through the piazzas and pavilions of the splendid Topkapı Palace, epicentre of the imperial Ottoman court for 400 years. The unheralded highlight was chancing upon relics of the Prophet (yes, The Prophet). We gazed incredulously upon bits of His beard, tooth, sword, bow, a heap of soil used for ritual ablution and a clay impression of His foot – all allegedly genuine. Slightly less credible are the rod of Moses (of the plagues of Egypt fame), King David’s skull, Abraham’s cookware, and Joseph’s turban (though sadly not his coat of many colours). We were most disappointed not to see the Ark of the Covenant and a charred twig from the Burning Bush. Naturally we remained suitably deferential to avoid stoning by the Faithful. I suppose it’s no less fantastic than the implausible holy artefacts revered by the old ladies of Christendom.
In the extensive grounds we encountered the phenomenon known as ‘Islamic Chic’. Gaggles of giggling girls wandering about their Ottoman heritage adorned in exquisitely tailored dark hued, figure-hugging maxi coats garnished with sumptuous silk scarves of vivid primary colours. The head coverings, moulded at the forehead into a shallow peek as if hiding a baseball cap beneath, framed their painted faces. Modest and modern, I suspect the look is more a sign of wealth and status than of piety. We finished the day with a flourish by ambling around the excellent archeological museum.
Ol’ Constantinople is simply sublime and just gets better each time I visit. We travelled home that evening wanting more and vowing to return.
Educating Rashida
Tariq has acquired a brand new set of dashing, shiny dentures so Tariq is toothless no longer. He proudly grins all over the site flashing his novel knashers at random passers by. Tariq and the missus are archetypal village types; she in a head scarf and clashing floral baggy pantaloons and he in a tatty vest with a fag permanently jammed in his gob – honest people with simple needs. It is to their credit that they are raising their two daughters as thoroughly modern types.
Tariq’s eldest daughter came by the house waving a piece of paper which she handed to me with much excitement. I thought it was yet another bill but it was her last school report. I called Liam out to the patio and we examined it together. She had received tip top marks in virtually every subject (except English, unfortunately) and beamed with pride. Quite right too. We were chuffed that she thought to show us, and the next day bought her a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. My eternal hope is that her parents resist the pressure to marry her off at 16 to some country cousin.
We mentioned her glowing report to Clement, but he simply doesn’t approve of educating Turkish girls “lest they get above their station.” Honestly!
Let the Children Play
I’m touched and heart-warmed to see that children are still children in Turkey, retaining innocence and a simple wonder long since lost in Blighty. I rarely witness a temper tantrum or any kind of brattish behaviour in public. They have less but enjoy more. Turks of both sexes adore their young, lavishing affection and gentle correction in equal measure. Turkish society has yet to become tormented by rampant paranoia about child snatching paedophiles or obsessed with risk, both of which have turned some western children into selfish, cotton-wool covered social misfits, old, but not wise before their time.
Tequila Slammers for the Last Hurrah
Bodrum was the venue for our inaugural Turkish New Year revelry. The pretty town has been draped in festive adornments and Harbour Square next to the Crusader castle is graced with a chic snow-white Christmas tree in the shape of a multi-layered hooped skirt. We jostled with the cheery crowd of many generations to catch the act performing at the free concert. An energetic Turkish diva pumped up the volume with catchy Turkopop tunes and the animated audience swayed in happy recognition.
As 2011 dawned, the midnight sky was set alight by a cacophonous pyrotechnic bonanza that dissonantly clashed with the rhythmic Turkic beat. Liam and I embraced and no one minded. With gunpowder spent and smoke hanging in the air, we looked about to observe the assorted assembly; the mobs of mischievous young men, the pantaloon’d grannies with their infant charges, the courting pairs of trendy young things and the gaggles of covered girls variously sporting elaborate head-scarves or Santa hats. We were the only yabancılar in view and we loved it.
We waded through the throng in search of a watering hole and happened upon Meyhane Sokak, a narrow lane off the bazaar and home to a cluster of small crush bars exclusively frequented by Turks. We delicately forced our passage through the rowdy horde, inching past a pretty thing in a sparkly, silver sequined ra ra skirt shaking her booty in wild abandon on top of a table and snaked around a busking band of moustached minstrels. Finally, we squeezed onto one of the tall bench tables lining the lane to enjoy the drunken scene being played out around us. I’m told that alcohol consumption, particularly by women, is generally frowned upon in wider Turkish society. However, there was little evidence of this among the tequila swiggers.
We sent and received various festive texts. I received a message from London life friends, Ian and Matt, who were enjoying their New Year in a bear bar in Brussels. What a tired old twink like Ian was doing in a Brussels bear bar is anyone’s guess.
Defeated by the cold night air and in need of bladder relief we ventured inside one of the bars to be pinned up against the wall by the maelstrom. We were much taken with a group of grungy fellows who wore their hair up in a bun – in the style of Japanese sumo wrestlers and Katherine Hepburn. Turkish appreciation of music is refreshingly unsophisticated and the melee whirled just as enthusiastically to dirgy Depeche Mode as to the Weather Girls’ infamous gay anthem “It’s Raining Men”. Forgive them Father. They know not what they do.
This was the clearly the last hurrah before a short, sharp winter.
Fancy a Jump?
Many Turkish men think western women are ‘easy’ and compared to Turkish women I suppose that they are. Meaningful female sexual liberation is a distant dream and girls must remain virgins (or at least pretend) until they marry. Of course, this applies to boys as well but this inconvenient fact is conveniently ignored by most. It’s a man’s world after all. So, rapacious men besiege unsuspecting solo female foreigners of any age or size in the hope of a jump. The unsuccessful may turn to each other for hand relief.
To be fair, we’ve met one or two young men whose sole driving ambition is to wed, rather than just bed, western girls. Perhaps this is the only way to break the unceasing cycle of seasonal servitude. And, from what I’ve seen of some demanding, sulky, petulant Turkish women, I’m not surprised they’re driven into the arms of willing westerners.