By Aubree Galvin Caunter
Postcards should be abolished. Those glossy photos of city attractions are the equivalent of fashion models posing in magazines as regular women: false advertising.
Travel magazines, guide books and calendars can all take a hike, too. None of them do you a favor when it comes to preparing you for a move to a new city. It’s all highlights and hotels, five-star restaurants and boat cruises.
The year before I moved to Turkey I began collecting the requisite travel books. I would spend hours cruising the Barnes and Noble, flipping through the chapter indexes, fingering the glossy spines. I bought anything with the word Istanbul in the title.
Browsing them at home, I daydreamt myself into those sleek images: I would be an international correspondent for CNN who played rousing backgammon games with famous Turkish writers like Orhan Pamuk. I would be constantly surrounded by belly dancers and hooka pipes, and take my meals in a smoky meze bars nestled between mosques. My life, I imagined, would be just like at home – a working journalist among respected colleagues – only more exotic.
I remember the first time it happened. It was our second day in Istanbul and we were at the Consulate making our introductions. The people were all Americans whose families were tied to the diplomatic mission in Turkey. I was shaking hands and giving my name, over and over again.
Through the cloud of sleep – I’d had only four hours in the previous 48 – a pattern emerged among the pleasantries. In every exchange, no matter the sex or status of the person, I fielded the same question: “So, who’s your husband?” In order to save time and be more helpful, I innocently added the appositive tag of “David’s wife” to my next introduction.
Little did I know that the baptism of this new woman, Mrs. David’s Wife, would mark the beginning of a yearlong struggle between my official and unofficial selves. Filing out our arrival documents only underscored the problem: his name appeared on every page, boldfaced in the top right corner. Mine was supplied only once, in a subparagraph labeled “dependents” just above the section that listed our dog. My passport, Turkish ID and tax-free card all described my job as “government worker’s wife.”
My husband laughed. He knew this would send me, his corporate-ladder-climbing spouse, over the edge. He joked that I would be cleaning his clothes and cooking his food, that I would become a tea-party hostess akin to the days of the Raj. And, for a while, he was right. Between consulate get-to-know-you affairs, I spent many of my first days flipping channels on our hotel television, hoping that the Turkish soap operas would somehow spontaneously generate an episode of “Survivor.”
The following week, steeled against the prospect of turning into the Middle Eastern version of the fat lady on Geraldo who had to be removed from her house via bulldozer, I set off for my first real Turkish experience, the Tuesday neighborhood bazaar in Levent. My new friend, a diplomatic spouse who’d lived in Istanbul for five years, seemed nonplussed as she negotiated the tiny cobblestone streets in her massive American station wagon. The cars flanking us were parked every which way, some facing in, some out, others seemed to have been abandoned askew in the middle of the road. The oncoming traffic didn’t heed any of the usual signals – red, I thought, is the universal color for stop, right? – and the drivers seemed entirely comfortable with traveling backwards down a one-way road.
Arriving at the market, nauseated from the drive, I hunched up to the makeshift tents. My stomach, encouraged by Istanbul’s summer dry wind and bleaching white sun, threatened to make good on its inclination to shift into reverse. I took a deep breath to clear my throat. But instead of fresh air, it was the scent of a nearby food stall that filled my lungs: soft white cheese and chubby green olives baking in the heat. I turned to steady myself and tried to focus on one spot in the distance. But the entire scene was moving: women in colorful headscarves swirled in eddies around the jutting display tables. Fruit vendors waved their arms and called out their ripe wares. Carts screeched, canvas tents flapped, children weaved in and out.
To my left, I heard a simitci calling, “Sicak, sicak simit.” I turned to see him. His wheeled red cart, like an old-time popcorn stand, was stacked high with neat rows of simit, traditional Turkish sesame-crusted bread. A wave of recognition passed through me. Here is a real simitci, I thought suddenly feeling more grounded, a real part of Turkey that I’d been learning about for months as we scoured books about local culture. I slowly, steadily looked around. I felt as though I’d been reading a book for the past year and all of a sudden the characters had come to life.
Before the move, I had imagined my life in Turkey surrounded by belly dancers and hooka pipes, in a smoky meze bar nestled between mosques. I knew, standing at that street market, that I’d been looking at too many postcards. But, as the days passed, the reality of Turkey was both more exotic and more mundane than the tourist poster. Even the strangest things would become normal and routine, like Frasier dubbed in Turkish, or the rumpled laundry hanging on the balconies, even those of the richest residents.
It was in those wide-eyes days that I found our grocery store and spent hours drifting up the aisles starring at the exotic offerings: ostrich eggs, shrink-wrapped cow’s brain and. shelf-stable milk. I’d found where to buy food and detergent, so I could cook dinner and clean clothes. When I got home, I felt very smug and satisfied with myself, having leaped such a huge hurdle, such an honorable accomplishment.
At the next consulate function, I gleefully recounted my triumph at the grocery store to one of the other wives. Sharing our stories of the difficulties of living overseas will probably help us bond, I thought, seeing as we both probably are struggling with the adjustment of living abroad. Oh, but how wrong could I be? Apparently, she had just come off a three-year posting in Sierra Leone, where fresh water and sanitary conditions were of top importance, not sleuthing for a recognizable brand of tampons.
Cleary, I needed to work on my cultural attaché skills, but how could I liaise when all I could think about is where to buy vacuum cleaner bags? I was fighting a battle on two fronts. So, I set about making some changes. One of my first acts was to print business cards. I wanted something tangible that said my name and an occupation, something that wasn’t followed by, Wife of David. So, I printed up cards and, underneath my contact information, I put “writer.”
I’d been a newspaper journalist for four years in the States, and a celebrity publicist for another four. I’d freelanced for regional magazines and I guessed this qualified me to broadstroke my profession as writer.
I handed these cards out to everyone who asked for the time of day. Always, I would make a point to acknowledge the line that called me a writer, as if it were a review by a literary critic.
The only problem with the copious distribution of this new Turkish identity was that people then asked me what I was writing. This was a problem, since I was at the time, writing nothing. Unpacking and watching decades-old movies on DigiTurk, yes. Writing, no. I had to back up my credentials.
Cruising the local English-Turkish bookstore, I came upon a of a local imprint of Time Out magazine, which in its various incarnations in major cities throughout the world, is known for smart writing and review of entertainment, fashion, dining and drinks. So, it was one of the things that made me feel instantly better about Turkey when I found that copy of Time Out Istanbul. It made the city feel somehow more navigable and accessible, than I’d thought.
If I was going to make a name for myself here, other than Mrs. David Wife, this was the place to start.
The Time Out offices are in Bebek, only a few minutes from my house via car, but straight downhill, literally. The road to Bebek is a mountain road in the truest sense – with barely two lanes, hardly any sidewalk and jaw-droppingly steep cliffs, it could just as easily be in the former Yugoslavia instead of in my upwardly mobile expat neighborhood.
It would have made more sense to take a cab, since I needed to look and smell fairly fresh to meet new people and make not a horrible first impression, but once again I was foiled by Istanbul’s jarring lack of accurate maps and street signs and the proliferation of street names which appear in several areas at once in disparate parts of the city. Roads often have one name in a certain neighborhood and a completely different one in another.
A funny thing happened though when I walked back through the gate of our complex. I looked at the guards and the groundskeepers, all people that I’d been intimidated by before because I didn’t speak the language that well and I was a foreigner in their country. Now, though, I felt like I belonged to something greater than myself, something intrinsically linked to Istanbul, where I’d become an instant expert and other would be relying on my words for advice. I left for the meeting feeling like a visitor, and returned feeling like a resident. I was different, aware of my shifted perspective. I was no longer a tourist, a watcher, an observer. I was part of the machinery now. I was on the team.
But, when I proudly announced to my husband the acceptance of my first story, I discovered I had been invited to this country as an observer only. According to something called a bilateral work agreement, both the U.S. and Turkey had agreed that spouses of diplomats should not work on the local economy. Without a work permit, I thought, I’d be stuck at the endless ladies luncheon where everyone nibbles the ubiquitous cucumber sandwiches and asks boilerplate questions like, “So, are you enjoying Istanbul?”
Fortunately, I had overestimated the vigor with which the agreement is enforced. Working for under-the-table cash, I quietly churned out a couple of stories a month and the Gestapo never turned up.
As it turned out, the magazine also became my ticket, a reason for discovering the real Istanbul. Every four weeks, as my deadline for story submissions neared, I was forced out of my comfortable house – with my American magazines and VCR tapes of Must See TV – onto the streets of the city. It gave me purpose beyond title. But here’s the reality of my situation with Time Out. It is produced in English, yes, and I will write my articles in English, no problem. But, the thing is, in order to research those articles I have to interview people who, inconveniently enough, don’t speak English.
Armed with some halting Turkish and a pocket dictionary, I set out for far-flung areas of the city:
In Ataköy, in a modern mall near Atatürk International Airport, I sipped tea with two members of the incongruous Turkish national ice hockey team. Coach Amil Akbulut, who skated in Holland and Russia for five years, now rallied weekend-warrior Turks to skate on the tiny ice rink in the mall’s food court. Despite speaking no English, he very clearly indicated to me that he was interested in my Canadian husband’s skating pedigree: did he want to scrimmage with the national team?
In Sultanahmet, amid the stacked carpets of a third-generation Grand Bazaar rug dealer, I was caught unaware by the traditional lunch offerings and speedily consumed a dish of tomatoes, chicken, spicy peppers and Turkish sausage called guveç. I fought through three hours of carpet talk – the size of knots, the near-blind village women who weave them – fighting the urge to unleash an indigestive burp, a rude gesture in Turkey.
In Ulus, I fought through a throng of women to introduce myself to a local university student who, it turned out, designed and sold her own handbags. Overcome by the interest her creations had sparked, she accepted my offer to help her tend her stall. We worked side-by-side for 30 minutes as I helped rummage through the pile of beaded wool bags. I tossed the colored bags the shoppers were looking for while she collected the cash. When the tide receded, she’d sold a dozen more bags and I had a first-person story for the magazine.
I’d resented Istanbul when we’d first arrived – it’d stolen my job, my family, my identity. When I’d arrived, I saw myself as the expat version of a soccer mom: my husband was on the team and I was to be his cheerleader. But somewhere between the stinky cheese markets, rug shops and consulate affairs, I’d made peace with my dual roles.
We used this small success, my friends and me. During the previous year, I had befriended other diplomatic spouses – young, career-minded, as yet childless – who also resented their new supporting roles. But, where I had been able to shift my occupation overseas, they had not been so lucky. In their previous lives, they were lawyers, police officers, nurses. Here, they were first-time housewives, who cleaned toilets, washed laundry and cooked dinner.
Perhaps not ironically, we weren’t actually any good at these things. We’d spent our 20s making a name for ourselves in our respective fields. We’d been well-paid managers, with staffs, administrative assistants and expense accounts. We didn’t have time for domesticity. When I got home from my job at 8:30 p.m., I ordered food from the Italian restaurant down the street. Most of these ladies did the same.
It was with a sense of adventure that we undertook the challenge of living abroad, tempted, too, by the idea of a little time off from our stressed-out lives. But, what we found when we got to Istanbul was that living in this city is quite different from vacationing in it. Our “little time off” got old quickly – the Blue Mosque is not a workaday destination – and we yearned for our former selves who had a place in the world.
So, we devised new titles for ourselves, little tidbits about our selves that would help us answer the inevitable diplomatic cocktail party question, “How are you keeping busy?” I kept Writer, thanks to the magazine, and added Chef, producing a golden-brown 12-pound turkey for Thanksgiving and enrolling in weekly courses to learn the finer points of Indian cuisine. One friend, a former government aide who now spends most of her days ironing, grocery shopping and orchestrating potable-water deliveries, was dubbed a Household Manager. Another friend, a nurse practitioner who specialized in neo-natal intensive care, became Martha Stewart Inc., indulging her green thumb, painting with oils and volunteering with African refugees.
I found that by owning my new non-working self – and, perhaps more so, by defining the work that I was doing – I was able to let go of the stigma of the “Mrs.” And, all of a sudden, I appreciated the time to cultivate interests that had long since laid latent. What I’d thought were my weaknesses became my strengths: at a recent party, Lady Sierra Leone asked me where to find the best copper in Istanbul.
I knew all kinds of things other people didn’t, especially my husband, who spent many of his days locked away in the consulate. I had been the one to discover Istanbul’s secret seasonal foods – what, no broccoli in winter? – and figure out the once-a-month water-delivery process. I am the one who still negotiates the best prices for chicken sandwiches at the corner kepap hut, and I am the one who maintains our connections with the gold, rug and leather vendors at the Grand Bazaar. I am also the one who gives directions to the cab driver in formal Turkish and I am the one who tells our electrician friend, in informal Turkish, that the right-front burner is broken on the stove. My husband is the diplomat, but when it comes to Istanbul, I am this family’s ambassador.
