“People are strange when you’re a stranger....” I’ve had this song in the background of my mind quite a bit in the last couple of weeks. Now before I scare my mother or any other readers out there, I should say that I have yet to have any dramatic culture shocks which have threatened either my safety of my existential being. What I have had are a series of, for the most part, delightful and hilarious realizations of cultural distinction. That, and a lot of people staring at me.
First and foremost. I walk around speaking English. Lots of people here speak some English and there are many tourists at specific places within the city, but the majority of my time is not spent in these areas, which means....I stick out. This however is far from the only aspect of my existence that seems to turn heads.
Apparently it is quite strange for Turkish women to have short hair. I’ve actually taken to counting them. I’ve been here for 16 days and I’ve counted around 9. This cultural distinction admittedly makes me a bit self conscious. I should be careful to point out that this is not because I don’t like my hair or find it unstylish. In fact, the women I’ve seen here with short hair appear to be some of the most trendy in the city. Rather, as most travelers would understand, I don’t want to automatically be taken for a tourist and having a drastically different hairstyle lends itself to such assumptions.
You might be thinking that I am simply paranoid and that people probably don’t notice my hair at all. When I am walking down the street in a crowd, I would imagine that you are correct, but when I comes to one on one communication, many Turkish individuals I encounter have had no qualms in pointing out the oddity. “What happened to your hair?”, “Why don’t you grow your hair?”, “Your hair would look good longer.”, and “You’re beautiful, but you should grow your hair.” are just a few of the responses I’ve received. If only I still had dreadlocks.
Next, cooking. Oh Goddess, cooking. Now here is a serious one. Those of you who read ‘Turk Gobegi’ have already heard me express my intimidation with food in Turkey. This is exponentially exacerbated when I comes to preparing food myself.
If you know me in the states, you probably don’t know me as an extravagant cook, but hopefully as a competent one. Ok, yes, I verge on the realm of hippie, whole food junky who emphasizes nutrition over taste, but all in all I can usually be trusted not to disgust or harm you when I’m in the kitchen. Apparently this is not necessarily always the case here.
Even when I think that I am preparing perfectly normal meals, I’ve had Turks recoil in fear and literally mutter, “That’s just not right.” Now if you’re wondering what I could have made, which brought about such a reaction, don’t worry. I wasn’t subjecting the poor folk to my famous spinach smoothies, as I understand that would be too much too soon. It was spaghetti. Plain old spaghetti noodles with sauce from a jar. Naturally I’d added my own spices, but for the most part it was pretty much what you’d expect other than one slightly unusual adaptation. I had added sauteed cubed chicken, eggplant and a variety of other vegetables in substitution for ground beef. You be the judge. I won’t even mention the reaction when I made potato soup.
Sometimes its not even a specific thing that draws attention--at least as far as I can tell. Last week the cleaning lady came to the house. This was the third time that I have seen the woman so I would think that perhaps the novelty would have worn off, but instead it only got worse. No matter where I went in the flat, her eyes followed. I would greet her when I passed--in Turkish--and she would simply stare blankly without a smile. It wasn’t as though she was being mean. I don’t think this was the case at all. Rather, it was just, well, awkward. At one point, she literally tripped over a stool in the hall way because she refused to tear her gaze away from me as she turned a corner. Don’t worry, I didn’t laugh. At times like this, I’m slightly relieved that I don’t speak more Turkish as I would have even less of an idea what to say, but feel obligated nonetheless.
Now all in all I should point out that I have found people overwhelmingly welcoming and receptive, but these few instances always leave me feeling a bit off kilter. I guess when I’m faced with such situations I’ll just keep going back to what Akin’s cousin, Sezai, said last July when I visited his family, “We have an American. That’s more precious than an alien.”
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