from asia to europe

Five o'clock. It's pitch black. I slap on the snooze and curl back up under my blanket. Suddenly I realise that I've got to be in Taksim at 7:45 to catch a bus to Asia for the 31st Istanbul Eurasian Marathon Fun-Run. I hop out of bed, shower, and decide today is the day I get over my phobia of wearing workout clothes in public. I eat some olive bread and beyaz peynir, a banana, and drink a few glasses of water. I'm out the door at six.

The streetlamps are still glowing orange on the hill as I walk down it, stray cats and dogs stare at me with sleepy eyes. I pick up a bus at the bottom, and it feels like I'm the only girl up so early— all the passengers are men that stare at me. I figure it must be the workout clothes, and squirm in my seat.

When I get to Taksim, rain started to fall— and I wonder how walking eight kilometres without an umbrella or a slicker will feel. In workout clothes. I shrug my shoulders and accept the inevitable soaking that's coming my way, and wait for M to arrive at the bus stop. It's wet chaos; people are confused. Which bus? The 8k or the 15k bus? Where is it? What does it mean if my number is green? M and I squeeze onto an old halk bus and brace ourselves for the squished standing-room-only ride to the Asian side.

By the time we arrive, it's pouring. A man is selling cheap plastic ponchos for a whopping five lira— but hey, better to give up the cash than to get drenched. We navigate our way through the enormous crowd of singing, dancing and pushing people, and miraculously find a group of people we know. A Turkish flag was thrust into my hand by a man with a wide grin, and I can't help but think this is the coolest thing ever.

And we wait. We wait in the rain, we wait in the noise of thousands of excited people, we wait pressed up against strangers, we wait.

The countdown begins seconds before 9:30, and with an enthusiastic shout from a man on a microphone somewhere in the sea of people, we start to move.


When I was a little girl, I used to stare at the bridge from our balcony and imagine who the little people were in their little cars, zipping back and forth between continents. Never did I imagine I'd be a little person walking across it.


The rain tapers off, and the sun makes several cameo appearances from behind a boiling grey sky. Excited boys scrawl their names in the dust on the bridge pillars.


The feeling of today was enormous. Being among thousands of different people walking or running together for no real reason other than pure enjoyment, was inspiring. M and I passed the finish line ready for a çay and a köfte sandwich. We sat on the steps of the Beşiktaş Stadium with our little plastic cups and meat-stuffed sandwiches and watched the crowd continue to roll in. Oddly, a man with missing teeth tried to chat with us and offered me two amethysts as gifts, which I politely declined. Content with a full stomach and two heel blisters, I headed home with my fun participation medal and over-sized Marathon T-shirt, which I will fold up in a closet and pull out every now and then to look at.


My new medal and haircut. I've never gotten a medal for anything before, and while I didn't win anything, it puts a grin on my face to feel its weight around my neck.

the conker, the slip and the bob

I am not sure how or why I let a man with a pencil moustache cut my hair in an underground vintage store, supply me with beer in a teacup, and give me a conker to hold while he snipped away.

Here I was last night, just showing a friend this funky store I had discovered, when all of a sudden, I hear a voice behind me in the sequin section rattle off something about my hair in Turkish. Somehow, through my pathetic Turkish and his few words of English, I am able to gather that he thinks I need my hair trimmed and shaped into a fabulous bob. I explain very brokenly:

Önce ben bir cok güzel bob var, ama her zaman Istanbul'da kesim yaptim, saçım çok kötü!

He laughs, either at my language or at the expression of dread on my face— every time I have gotten my hair cut in Istanbul, there have been terrible results that have nearly made me cry. I am not a girl who cries easily, mind you. I don't understand what happens— Turkish women have fantastic hairdos. Perhaps it's the texture of my pin-straight volumeless hair; hairdressers think they have all this hair to work with, but a few snips and I might as well shave it off.

He is so persistent, and explains he is not a hairdresser, but an artist. He understands hair, and knows what my hair wants to do. To his aide glides in a delightfully elegant Spanish man dressed head to toe in white— my sudden translator. My horror stories are now conveyed in perfect Turkish, and the moustached artist's assurances of his brilliance are expressed in clear English, with a beautiful Spanish accent. I don't know why, but I agree to be led by the hand to a striped setee. Before I know it, a vintage slip is tied around my neck and a teacup of beer is placed gently in my hand.

Nefes! Nefes!

The hair artist gestures the movement of a diaphragm with his hands as he exhales and inhales deeply— I understand he is telling me to relax and breathe. As if a light bulb switched on in his mind, he disappears for a moment and returns with a shiny conker and folds it in my palm, whispering, "this, very special."

Two hours later, I do indeed, have a fabulous bob. I thank my new hairdresser— hair artist— and he offers to take me fishing. I politely decline, and thank him for giving me back my bob.

They even have lederhosen!

By Retro is in the Rus Konsolosluğu karşısı, Suriye Pasajı off Istiklal Caddesi.
There is usually a guy in a gold lamé sultan Ottoman costume out front trying to entice you to come in.

istanbul sketchers in sultanahmet

Istanbul Sketchers met for the second time today in Sultanahmet, the area of Istanbul best known for the Aya Sofya and the Blue Mosque. Rain had been in the forecast, but fortunately it never fell. I've been busy running around with this and that, and haven't had a chance to get to working on the official Istanbul Sketchers blog, but when I do, I'll be sure to add a link so you can check out some of the work of our fabulous sketchers. In the meantime, here are a few of my drawings— above is a sketch of Sultanahmet Camii, famously known as the Blue Mosque.

Click on the images to see them larger.

night

in the city

by the sea

sketchy girl

84342

I have always fantasised about participating in a city marathon, but I have no illusions about my athleticism. I may be able to swing by my ankles from a trapeze, but I only run if my life depends on it. In fact, I absolutely abhor running, and the idea of putting myself through collective self-inflicted torture is not appealing to me in the slightest.

However, I greatly admire marathon runners, and I love the idea of thousands of people coming together harmoniously to test the boundaries of their minds and bodies. It's a marvellous thing, when you consider the sheer mass of different people moving in the same space. I truly wish I had the cardiovascular system and the passion for the extreme physical duress 42.195 kilometres puts on the body, but fortunately for people like me, there is an 8k Fun Run that can be walked!

And I am one hell of a walker.

So this Sunday, I will be joining street-fulls of people in crossing the Bosphorus Bridge from Asia to Europe in the 31st Istanbul Avrasya Maratonu. I'm so excited— I can't wait to see all the people. If only I could sketch and walk...

istanbul sketchers

I began an Istanbul sketching group yesterday, creatively called "Istanbul Sketchers." We are a group of people from all sorts of places who live in Istanbul and feel the urge to draw this gorgeous and unique city. We'll meet every week at a different predetermined location, armed with sketchbooks, pens, pencils and various other artsy tools.

On our first outing, we chose to draw some of the vibrant café life in Cihangir, known for its Bohemian flair and interesting characters. While I was working on the sketch below, the guy in the sunglasses surprised me by coming up and asking to see the drawing of him he knew I was doing. I handed over my sketchpad with shaky fingers and a slight pink in my cheeks, hoping I'd get a positive reaction. He showed his friends, who all seemed to approve, and as he handed back the drawing, he confided with a smile that he wished he could have it.


I thought I'd include some sketches I did yesterday while out with my friend E, also in Cihangir. The last drawing was on the metro.


Once we get some more work behind us, I'll set us up with a blog and link us to Urban Sketchers, the international group of sketch artists that I am proud to be a member of. I hope to eventually turn Istanbul Sketchers into something with gallery shows and maybe a published book. Hopefully it'll catch on and more people will join us for an afternoon of drawing and endless glasses of çay.

If you are in the Istanbul area and would like to sketch with us, post a comment and let me know. All skill levels are welcome.

The lovely and skilled hands in the photograph belong to illustrator Jo Hodgkinson.

around and about

danger! art! thai!

There's nothing like a little tear gas with your pad-thai. I had just arrived in Cihangir with some friends after a massive riot roared through the streets of Taksim. ATMs were smashed, bank windows shot up and shattered, Molotov cocktails hurled— all in protest of the meeting between the World Bank and International Monetary Fund in our fair city.

Glass crunched under our feet as we made our way to the restaurant we planned to have dinner at, and we soon joined our fellow pedestrians in blinking, sneezing and coughing. I've never had the pleasure of being teargassed or of being in the presence of tear gas— it's awful stuff. It seems to linger in the air for quite a long time; we hadn't witnessed any of the gassing or violence, but our throats still burned.

Kahvedan is a delightful street-side restaurant with the best pad-thai I have found in Istanbul— so far. Everything tasted so fresh and peanuty, with heavenly notes of cilantro and a hell of a kick of chili. The next time I go, I'll take some pictures to accompany a sketch or two. The guy drawn above was such an interesting character, I whipped out my pen and sketchbook immediately upon seeing him— he was also enjoying some of the pad-thai.

cocoa butter protest

I was planning on spending a lazy afternoon on Istiklal, lingering in the street's two English book stores, Pandora and Robinson Crusoe, maybe buying a book, then sitting down with a coffee and reading that book. As luck would have it, Robinson Crusoe had a copy of The Master and Margarita— a book I have been searching every book store with an English section in Istanbul for. Looking around to make sure no one saw its blue spine on the shelf, I grabbed the book and rushed over to the cashier, still in disbelief that I actually had it in my hands. I was so happy, I practically skipped my way down the street to Starbucks. I sat down with my soy latte ("Sabanta" scrawled on the cup), opened the book and breathed in that wonderful new book smell.

After reaching page 72, I decided to wander around in search of a cocoa butter moisturiser, and remembered there was a Body Shop on the street somewhere. As I came around the bend I noticed a crowd of policemen, some with machine guns, waiting for something to happen.


Well it is Istiklal after all, there are protests on this street practically every other day! I thought.

I snapped a couple of pictures of the bored cops and carried on, still dreamily lost in the world Bulgakov built out of words. Suddenly, it seemed, a noise like thunder was boiling up ahead. The thunder became voices, shouting "Allahu Akbar" in unison. Men with Palestinian flags, signs and fists in the air, were flooding down the street. I squeezed myself against shop windows, slowly making my way in the opposite direction, like a fish swimming upstream. I ducked into a clothing store to watch the peaceful protest march on. An older tourist couple with expressions somewhere between fear and concern were standing nearby, unsure of what to do. I guessed they were either American or British.


"Come inside this store!" I beckoned with a wave of my arm. The expressions turned to relief, and they joined me in the doorway. They were British. "Don't worry, this is a perfectly natural occurrence on this particular street." I explained. I told them about Istiklal's notorious reputation for protests and riots, and how most of them are totally peaceful. We watched the crowd eventually taper off, followed slowly by scores of police in full riot gear, and parted ways. I continued on my cocoa butter mission. Not only was I lucky enough to find a great book that I had long been searching for, I found my cocoa butter— two large tubs for the price of one.

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.

the drawings

How it was possible that I had forgotten all about my A3 Moleskine sketchbook, is beyond me. It's an A3-sized Moleskine! Well I remembered it for my trip to Büyükada the other day, and soon discovered that sketching large is an entirely different kettle of fish— there's all this paper to fill. I brought along an Ebony pencil to work with, and while it was fun, I found it challenging. Of course I didn't make things any easier on myself by attempting to draw Kız Kulesi, the Maiden's Tower, from out the window of a moving ferry.

After that sumptuous feast at Çiya I more than mentioned in the previous post, I pulled out the A3 and worked on drawing an old man fiddling with something I never saw. I'm not too happy with the way it came out; the table's perspective is off, his elbow is weird-looking, and I neglected the background. I need to carry this book and some Ebony pencils with me more often so I can get some practice in.

The previous two sketches were drawn in my old familiar little Moleskine with some Faber-Castell PITT pens. I don't know how obvious it is to an objective eye, but I believe the comfort I feel with a pen and a smaller sketchbook is apparent. The first sketch is of a man eating a simit on one of the day's three ferries, and the last one is of a man who was nodding off on the 25E bus from Kabataş. An old lady had spied me sketching, and began to say all sorts of things to me in Turkish that I didn't understand. She asked if I knew German, since she didn't know any English.

"Ich habe nicht Deutsch gesprochen für über fünfzehn Jahren." I slowly explained, trying to remember exactly when the last time I had spoken German was. She got very excited and started scolding me in German about how I should be learning Turkish if I wanted to live here. I tried to explain in a bad blend of Turkish and German that I was really trying to learn, and that I am hoping to start classes again soon.

"Sehr gut."

This seemed to satisfy her. She then took my sketchbook out of my hands, with a grin from ear to ear. She flipped through the pages with a stern look of approval.

"Oh, sehr schön— çok güzel, canım. Maşallah!"

Much to my horror, she suddenly jabbed the sleeping man, my unaware subject, in the elbow with my book. I could feel my face starting to flood with red. The whole front of the bus was watching with chuckles and smiles, and this poor man was being woken up to see a drawing of him sleeping. What on earth would he think? I sometimes fear that the people I draw will be offended by how I have drawn them— after all, it has happened, but only a couple of times. He blinked in confusion, took my book in his hands, rubbed his eyes, and smiled.