Turkish Viagra

Some people (usually roasted chestnut vendors) claim that "Turkish Viagra" is found in chestnuts. Personally, I believe it is found in Turkish olive oil, maybe Turkish air, or maybe Turkish water. Wherever it comes from, it is plentiful in Istanbul.

Its impact first hit me upon arrival at Ataturk Airport. I approached security at the domestic gate, placing my carry-on bag on the x-ray conveyor-belt. A guard stood facing me, looking me in the eye and taking one step back with every step forward I took. I removed my coat. "Shoes please," he said. I removed my shoes. "Belt please," I removed my belt. "T-shirt."
I stopped.
He repeated, "T-shirt, please."
I looked at him, raising my eyebrows. He stared back, unsmiling.
His friends looked on from the other side of the gate. They remained composed for just a minute, then cracked up, laughing, saying something in Turkish. I walked through the metal-detector with my t-shirt on. Apparently I was not a security threat.

I am a frequent flyer but, I'd never met an airport security guard with such a comic approach to his job. I spent the next week driving along the winding roads of Turkey's South East coast and laughing about the encounter. I thought it was random, but a week on my own in Istanbul changed my mind.

There's not one particular story that serves to exemplify my Istanbul experience. There was a story on every corner, on every half-block.

I appreciate a sense of public life: the idea that people are not tucked away behind desks emailing each other (as my life so often tends to be) or at home in front of televisions. Istanbul has a larger than life public life, but as far as I can tell, it's entirely male-dominated. I was never served by a woman in a restaurant and never encountered a woman sitting outside a carpet shop sipping tea.

Bored young men are everywhere, standing around and looking for distraction. Tourists are perfect for this. They may say they're in the city to see the Hagia Sophia and get rubbed down at a hamam, but really they're without purpose. I'm the worst for this, as I am rarely inclined towards formal sightseeing. I tend towards wandering the streets and drinking coffee until the place feels familiar. So that's what I did in Istanbul, and everywhere I went I was welcomed with the opportunity to work on my meager Turkish vocabulary.

For my few words I barely paid for a meal (although I tried), and I even dodged offers of free hotel rooms. After two days, I was devising circuitous routes so as to avoid bumping into the men who I'd had conversations with the day before (conversations which I'd escaped by saying, "I've got to go but maybe I'll stop by and say hello tomorrow"). The conversations were standardized, and I'm sure, perfected in Italian, French, Spanish, Japanese…
That's not to say I didn't notice the finer points of Turkish sexual-dynamics. I learned to enjoy having doors held open for me, and considering my general clumsy-ness--I appreciated the sense of protection that comes with walking beside a man who's watching my back (or at least the road). Its conjures up an opposite memory: of a boyfriend who left me stranded with a flat tire on my bike in the middle of winter in downtown Toronto. Or for a subtler example: there was the band I interviewed in Istanbul. One of the musicians was American, but had grown up in Canada. The Turkish musician stuck firmly to the ladies-first mentality. The Canadian walked through doors in front of me and let them swing shut. We shared a cab, and before getting out he stopped for a second, looking back and asking, "Hey, you don't need any money for this do you?"

My Turkish adventure began much as it ended. I paid the clerk at my hotel 7 Lira 50 for the airport shuttle. I asked for a cup of tea and he led me to the dining room. There, he did not give me tea but gently brushed the hair out of my eyes, put his arm around me and tried to pull me close. I turned around and went outside to the bench to wait for the shuttle. He followed me and sat down beside me. "Next time you come to Istanbul, we go (hand motion for walking)? You will be my darling?"


NOTES FOR LAURA GREEN: I stained my new green shirt over breakfast on my first day in Kusadasi... you claimed you wanted to know these things. Upon meeting an archaeologist who I'd lined up an interview with, he offered me a glass of water. Can you guess what happened next? Of course you can. Not just spillage, but breakage. Immediate, breakage. When I left Istanbul, I accidentally stole the key to my hotel room. I'd been told there was only one. I also accidentally stole Clive Stafford Smith's scissors, and Billy's toothbrush (but neither of these cases of petty thievery occurred in Istanbul.) Also, I showed up early for my flight from Istanbul back to London. A whole day early, in fact.