Istanbul Deja Vu a la Astoria
On every trip to Turkey I have come home with some derelicted tale of men making offers, a stack of phone numbers, scarves given to me because my eyes and smile are so charming, and the list goes on. One lamp shop owner, in Istanbul, proclaimed that when I spoke it was "like honey to [his] ears." Though, when I went and gave an invited talk at Dogus Uni in Istanbul, in December 2008, there I was offered Turk cigarettes, raki, and there may or may not have been a few offers for dates. Oiy. Anyone ever noticed that I am something of a magnet for the oddities of life, or that my adventures turn into borderline criminally insane escapes? Yea. Today's run-of-the-mill errands turned into . . . well, they became an adventure of borderline criminally insane activity.
I trotted my happy little self up to Steinway Street this afternoon, not for glitzy reduced priced plastic goods and new sweaters. Instead, I was headed to have one ring setting resottered, have my favorite pair of earrings--dainty little evil eyes that hang just below the ear (a New Year's gift from Tanfer in 2007)--and get a watch battery. In the first store, where I have been more than once for watch batteries and band repair, I got one Anne Klein watch restored (my tiny, dainty one at that) and the flower is being reglued to the base on ring. The earrings, they swore could not be done. No fear. I left my ring with them, and I walked across the street, on a whim, to see if the other one could possibly repair my earring holding more sentimental value than monetary.
Short, end the second jeweler is repairing my earring with a laser as he has to remove the eye and put it back in the setting. Twenty-five dollars later, I got a receipt Yes, I know. The repair is probably close to what the conversion rate of the lira was when they were purchased, but I love those those earrings. While conversing about my earring, as these things go, I once again got asked where I am from. The jeweler is convinced I'm of Muslim, and that my name is of Arabic decent. Nope. The first jeweler is convinced I'm Greek. Both places hold men who shamelessly flirt, and make outright obvious and borderline sleazy passes. My blue eyes were the center of discussion, and of course marvels that I am single abounded. I am willing to bet when I go to pick up my earrings and ring there will be more tangos, of the awkward kind, on my relationship status and heritage. Exiting the shop, I slipped and thanked the jewler in Turkish. He exclaimed that he "knew it." Oiy. I forsee a conversation about me being Turkish, which I am not, in the near future.
Don't forget, yesterday at the Deli the clerk asked if my sandwich was bacon, egg, and cheese. I chuckled and said "Ya'll know I don't eat pork." I should've just said "I don't eat meat." He, too, is certain that I am Muslim. He even told me that I must be one of those American Muslims who hides it. Thankfully, he did not hit on me and attempt to make me his covered lady and/or mistress.
Along the street, clicks of the tongue bounced through the air, and some of them I could understand. Most I could not. At least I wasn't called a Nataşa, or had açık kapı thrown my way. I guess I should tell you that Natasha in Turkish has come to refer to a prostitute/loose woman of Russian or Eastern European decent. Even better açık kapı means (roughly) a loose woman. Literally, I think, it means open door. Instead, a seemingly benign errand of watch and jewelry repair turned into veritable dating ground similar to the hilarious exploits I've seen five thousand miles away. Or something along those lines.
I trotted my happy little self up to Steinway Street this afternoon, not for glitzy reduced priced plastic goods and new sweaters. Instead, I was headed to have one ring setting resottered, have my favorite pair of earrings--dainty little evil eyes that hang just below the ear (a New Year's gift from Tanfer in 2007)--and get a watch battery. In the first store, where I have been more than once for watch batteries and band repair, I got one Anne Klein watch restored (my tiny, dainty one at that) and the flower is being reglued to the base on ring. The earrings, they swore could not be done. No fear. I left my ring with them, and I walked across the street, on a whim, to see if the other one could possibly repair my earring holding more sentimental value than monetary.
Short, end the second jeweler is repairing my earring with a laser as he has to remove the eye and put it back in the setting. Twenty-five dollars later, I got a receipt Yes, I know. The repair is probably close to what the conversion rate of the lira was when they were purchased, but I love those those earrings. While conversing about my earring, as these things go, I once again got asked where I am from. The jeweler is convinced I'm of Muslim, and that my name is of Arabic decent. Nope. The first jeweler is convinced I'm Greek. Both places hold men who shamelessly flirt, and make outright obvious and borderline sleazy passes. My blue eyes were the center of discussion, and of course marvels that I am single abounded. I am willing to bet when I go to pick up my earrings and ring there will be more tangos, of the awkward kind, on my relationship status and heritage. Exiting the shop, I slipped and thanked the jewler in Turkish. He exclaimed that he "knew it." Oiy. I forsee a conversation about me being Turkish, which I am not, in the near future.
Don't forget, yesterday at the Deli the clerk asked if my sandwich was bacon, egg, and cheese. I chuckled and said "Ya'll know I don't eat pork." I should've just said "I don't eat meat." He, too, is certain that I am Muslim. He even told me that I must be one of those American Muslims who hides it. Thankfully, he did not hit on me and attempt to make me his covered lady and/or mistress.
Along the street, clicks of the tongue bounced through the air, and some of them I could understand. Most I could not. At least I wasn't called a Nataşa, or had açık kapı thrown my way. I guess I should tell you that Natasha in Turkish has come to refer to a prostitute/loose woman of Russian or Eastern European decent. Even better açık kapı means (roughly) a loose woman. Literally, I think, it means open door. Instead, a seemingly benign errand of watch and jewelry repair turned into veritable dating ground similar to the hilarious exploits I've seen five thousand miles away. Or something along those lines.
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