the fishmonger challenge

Beneath a bowing blue tarpaulin, silver scales shine under bare bulbs, arranged in eye-pleasing patterns that tempt. Flashes of red gills, pinkish crustacean shells, a row of patient cats. Seagulls stalk from lamp posts across the street. Men in blue aprons and Wellies sing out the names of fish and necessary numbers— how much the levrek is today, how many kilos of karides for how many lira.

I whole-heartedly believe that if I can muster up the courage to ask one of the fishmongers for a fish, have him clean and fillet it, I will have accomplished something great. I've bought fruit from the manav, and bread from the fırıncı, but so far, no fish from the balıkçı. I ask myself why, every time I squish past the puddles of seawater on the pavement, why I don't just do it. I think it has something to do with the fact that my minibus stand is right next to the balıkçı, and if I do something unbearably yabancı— foreign— I'll be faced with the grins and yabancı-related comments every day. And some days you just want to blend in.

But who cares, right? I am a yabancı, and I want to buy a fish. Why should I worry if I reveal my spotty Turkish to a bunch of fishmongers? I have no fear of blurting out the wrong words anywhere else. So I've decided, by the end of this week, I will march up to the balıkçı and buy some fish. I will take my fish on the minibus with pride. I will walk it home, all clean and filleted, and I will cook it up deliciously.

Yes.

what's in a name?

The only place I can generally get a soy latte in Istanbul is at a Starbucks. I'm not a fan of Starbucks for several reasons, but mainly I just don't like the way the coffee tastes. Now, I know I am in a veritable coffee wonderland— and yes, there is nothing like a tiny, sweetened silty cup of Türk kahvesi, but sometimes I just want a paper cup of creamy soy and espresso.

The funny thing about ordering a drink at a Turkish Starbucks is that you can order it in Turkish, but the baristas call the drinks to each other in English; a "grande buzlu soya latte," as it is on the menu board, is yelled out as an "iced grande soya latte." If you order the drink in English to start with, the baristas will think you are a foreigner and speak only English to you.

Then they ask you for your name.

This has become a rather interesting experience, as there is no "Samantha" in Turkish. I have learned that the first two "a"s in my name sound more like the Turkish "e"— and there is no "th"— so I have seen my name attempted in a variety of ways:

Sementa
Semanta
Samenta
Cementa

To make things easier for everyone (and for a bit of fun), I've been trying out popular Turkish names: Lale, Sema, Deniz, Leyla, Hande— but today I was caught up in some daydream. Samantha slipped out, and I soon discovered "Sabanta" was scrawled in Sharpie on my paper cup.

Sabanta.

victory in a sandwich

The weather has been miserable in Istanbul, and having been spoiled by San Francisco's glorious climate, I am having a tough time adjusting. I desperately want to go out for a walk, but the biting wind and icy rain is not exactly enticing. To avoid cabin fever, I went out to walk around Istinye Park mall and have a quiet lunch.

I am at the point where I can read and understand 90% of a menu in Turkish, so when I saw the words for "fig" and "cheese"— two of my favourite things on this planet— I knew I would be happy. I learned from the tartine I ordered that the word for goat is keçi, as the cheese was of course, goat cheese. Discovering a new word in a language is a victory, I get so excited that I want to use it immediately and tell everyone I know about my new word. Which is of course, what I am doing now. Oddly enough I learned the word for water buffalo yesterday: manda. There are these yoghurt vendors on the side of the road by the forest that sell terracotta and plastic jars of manda yoğurdu, yoghurt made from the milk of water buffalo. I cannot wait to try it— I've been told the yoghurt is so thick, you can scape it with a knife! It seems the key to my learning a language is through my stomach.

Please click on the images to see them larger.

a little of this and that

I haven't spoken Turkish since I was ten. It's amazing how languages can just slip away if they aren't used. I've got some basic vocabulary down but I'm a little shaky at stringing words into sentences. The other day, I wanted to tell a cab driver to drop me off at the fish stand, instead I told him emphatically that "Fish is ok." We had a good laugh, then I tried to say "good evening" and ended up telling him "good night," which is only used intimately. We laughed even harder. That's the wonderful thing about Turkish people— I've never felt ridiculed or afraid to try and speak their language. People here are quite patient, kind and willing to help you learn— just today I was given a friendly pronunciation lesson at a frozen yoghurt stand. Apparently I've got my "ü" sound down!

Turkish is a very musical language with everything built on vowel harmony; words that begin with vowels that are sounded in the front of the mouth will end with front-sounding vowels. Likewise, words with throaty vowels will end with throaty vowels. Turkish is what's called an agglutinating language— "attachments" or suffixes are stuck onto words to create a sentence or part of a sentence. It sounds complicated, but once you've got the rhythm down, it comes easier than most languages. There are also very few grammatical irregularities, and everything is phonetic!



After the yoghurt and the language lesson I worked on some pigeons, a drawing of a migraine I had recently and an entry for Moleskine Exchange 48.
I also drew a guy I saw in a café this afternoon, but I don't like how it came out. If he grows on me, he'll be scanned and posted.