Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Karakoy Istanbul and My Cuter Than a Baby Hosts, Utku and Ayse

I am checking into my next #Airbnb home tomorrow in Karakoy, Istanbul and I am so excited that I went around the neighborhood several times already to do some prior investigation. Let me tell you that it is absolutely a must-see. Remember when Williamsburg, Brooklyn was famous for its shady streets and low rents instead of currently popular artists flea markets and oyster menus? Well it's the exact same scenario in Karakoy, except shady streets remain right in between a new, luxury hotel construction and "best bakery in Istanbul" type of cute macaron place. Complicated I know; but as pictured on the famous "Istanbul. They Call It Chaos, We Call It Home" graphic, nothing beautiful here is simple. 

How about my hosts? I don't think they will be any less daring than what Karakoy has become. They are a married couple, who live in a duplex apartment with killer views of the Bosphorus and a cat named Bekir, which rhymes with tekir (tabby cat). Utku, the husband, is a serial entrepreneur, who clearly cannot be chained down by corporate ladder's magnetic hands. Ayse, the wife, is described as friendly, warm and welcoming by previous guests but I can see beyond her smiley face. She texts like an open-minded and strong woman, who knows just what she wants from life. How do I know that from someone's text messages? Hey! I know a thing or two about writing and what it shows about people. 

I cannot wait to tell you more about Karakoy / Galata / Taksim gems and of course the story of Utku and Ayse. 

Also, don't forget to check out the new #mankind video from Airbnb. It reinforces the message I want to give with my #AirbnbBookProject (people are kind and can be trusted) and they did use a cute baby to deliver that same message but it's OK because you know what; my hosts are cuter! 

Monday, July 13, 2015

Walking Around Moda Kadikoy Istanbul

Happy Monday! (yes those exist)

Until my next #Airbnb stay as part of the #AirbnbBookProject, I will be doing a lot of walking around Istanbul to share the best of what this city has to offer visitors. I chose Kadikoy / Moda on the Asian side for my most recent walking tour and what an amazing choice that turned out to be as it revealed so many cool hidden spots around this 3000-year old city. Everything started on a boat.


Imagine you are sitting on the top floor of the Besiktas-Kadikoy Ferry. Wind is blowing just enough to pull your hair away from your face as though it knows it has a mission to make sure you enjoy the view before your eyes and warming sunshine on your face without heating up. Seagulls accompany you on this 15-minute boat ride making magical sounds that are so closely associated with the whole Istanbul experience that when you don't hear them, you don't feel complete. For the next 15 minutes, you rule the world and sky is your limit. 

Then, you arrive at Kadikoy pier and it immediately shows you who really runs the world: Gypsies, who sell flowers and selfie sticks for 10 liras ($4), but of course. Just as you pull your phone out to figure which direction you should be headed towards, an amazing folk dance circle (halay) completely steals your attention. Men and women, old and young, conservatives and reformists seem to be joining the circle one after another without you even noticing where they come from. They are enjoying the hypnotic rhythm together with no reservations. After increasing political instability in the country since Gezi Parki incident, one would think that the relationship among different parts of the society would have become a little tense. Clearly when the Turks start dancing, there isn't one single politician, who can break their circle. Women with shorts next to men with beards next to more women with headscarves all hand in hand. Welcome to Kadikoy, where you will see a true picture of Turkish society right off the boat. 

As I made my way into inner parts of Kadikoy down to Moda, more beautiful surprises found me such as the skateboarding shops right next to Sahaflar (old, mostly second-hand book stores). One, of course attracts customers, who might be born after 1990s and look a little on the edgy side while groups of long-retired men and a married couple looking to find the next hidden treasure of a signed copy of a great Turkish author from the 80s frequent the other. Either way, there is a crystal clear connection between these two shops and their patrons; the joy of doing something they love. Both joy and love must be such strong positivity enforcers because never before have I seen a spiked, pink-haired, 20-year old looking more appropriate shopping for his dream skateboard right next to a 70-year old looking for his next read and talking about how hot the weather has been lately with the bookshop owner while they're both sipping from their Turkish teas. Amazing really how daily life occurs anywhere you go in Istanbul: always in conflict and yet so in peace that anything else would look extraordinary. As a Turkish woman, coming from this heritage, it's not surprising to see why I was so drawn to living in New York: capital of the "melting pot", except we don't melt into each other creating one big single-colored mush but each of us maintaining our own colors, we simply live together as one big colorful salad dish. 

More variations on the Turkish salad soon to come as I walk around new neighborhoods in Istanbul and other cities around Turkey until end of August 2015. Grateful for the #AirbnbBookProject for such an amazing summer!

Meanwhile, here are few shots from Moda/Kadikoy walking tour.



Kadikoy dances in circles, where everyone is welcome to join.
Moda skateboards.

"Sahaf" or Bookseller Mr. Erfuz's Place
Moda welcomes you into old, local bakeries.
Moda has little vintage stores called "Zeynep Yenge" or "Aunty Zeynep."
Moda accepts. Moda welcomes.


Moda likes vintage cars and motorcycles.

People chill at the Moda Park because parks, music and people are inseparable.
No matter what.
Men read.
Cats chill, of course because this is Istanbul and anything else is not.
People drink and laugh at Kadikoy Barlar Sokagi (Streets with lots of bars)
because that's what people do in Istanbul, just like anywhere else.

 

Saturday, July 11, 2015

Tarabya - Istanbul's Richest Hearts Not Wallets

"Travel becomes a strategy for accumulating photographs"

famous American writer Susan Sontag once said. I must agree. Not because we share the same birthday but I, too, cannot help going out of my way when traveling if it means there is a good photo in the end. 

That is why after I left my first Airbnb home in Cihangir that I stayed as part of the #AirbnbBookProject , I went all the way to Tarabya. When I say "all the way" I know some of you might expect a 2-hour trip; it only took me 20 minutes on the subway to reach there but for an Istanbulite, anywhere other than the very next neighborhood will seem far far away. It's kind of limiting for the locals and Tarabya was gorgeous!

Yes, there were lots of good opportunities to take amazing photos by the sea but what I did instead was take photos of the local treasures hidden in the back alleys. This neighborhood is famous for being posh, high-end, luxurious. I didn't buy that and set out to discover what really makes Tarabya the beautiful neighborhood it is today. Turned out to be the people, but of course: real locals, who lived there since the beginning of time for Istanbul.

Being a single, female traveler, I sometimes look like an alien on old, curvy streets around Istanbul, where men seem to be dominant only allowing a few female cats to run as freely as they want. They are conservative but also welcoming. I said hi to a few local shop owners: men who run places like a shoe repair shop that they inherited from their father's father. In a world where not even their neighbors up on the hills (rich guys, who discovered much later than them how beautiful Tarabya is) wouldn't come out of their fancy cars to say hi, always maintaining glass walls between their world and others', when a funny-looking woman approaches and throws a "Hi" , all they do is say hi back and smile. They look at you but not because they might hurt you but because they're curious; they want to understand better what their eyes cannot interpret well.

That has to be the best part of traveling: such human connections. That is the main reason I decided to take on the #AirbnbBookProject . Humans around the world are simply good and we need to trust each other more. 

Good photos turned out to be cherry on top for my short, little trip to Tarabya, meaning of which used to mean therapy. Being so close to the water, it indeed was therapeutic. But I don't think calming sea air is the main reason oldest inhabitants of this place live in harmony with their newer, more gentrifying "guests" (because they tend to leave if the place looses its hip factor). It's because they are tolerant, welcoming and peaceful people. 

They say hi back no matter how different you are. 

Tarabya seaside view with the historical The Grand Tarabya Hotel in the background. It completely burned down in the 50s (like any other large hotel at the time because they were all made of wooden materials) and was rebuilt from ground up and renovated recently. It seems to represent the rich and famous face of Tarabya.

But this little window with its tomatoes, red peppers and vivid colors is the real window Tarabya looks out to the world from and I must say it's one good view. 





Wednesday, July 8, 2015

First Stay - Cihangir, Istanbul

Hello from a gorgeous Istanbul afternoon!

My #AirbnbBookProject is off to an amazing start at my first home located in Cihangir, Istanbul. My host, Lina, is a cute Italian lady, who moved to Istanbul 8 years ago as a linguist and English teacher at Liceo Italiano (Italian High School in Istanbul). In addition to teaching and having translated books from Italian into English, she is now pursuing her PhD degree at a university.

As a native Sicilian, her move across Europe hasn't separated her from two things: her Italian wines (the fridge is filled with exquisite reds and whites from top to bottom) and her family. She still Skypes every night with her 90-year old mother, who continues to live at her childhood home (now at historical value) back in Sicily. 

It was the most amazing experience to fall into sleep listening to her laughter filled with love and life as she was speaking with her mom. For some curious reason, I had the best sleep since my Istanbul adventure started. It may be that Italian is one of the most melodic European languages and I love the sound of it or that as a foreigner myself living in New York, I know very well that thousands of miles are sometimes not enough to separate mothers from their daughters.

More to come soon on Lina and her sweet story. 


Tuesday, July 7, 2015

What is #AirbnbBookProject ?

It was about two months ago. I was sitting at my dark, little office doing very important finance stuff very important finance people do (Meaning automated excel calculations, which we don't even do. Excel does.) I suddenly felt overcome by a feeling that was all too familiar yet too scary for me to act upon ever since I launched my hospitality career in New York.

I don't know exactly why I had felt scared of, but only that I was in my dream career of hotels and that I needed to feel satisfied and grateful for having achieved what I did. Except...I couldn't.

Two months ago, on that day, I finally felt less scared to take a break from finance and just do what gives me pleasure: write about traveling. 

Being a host on Airbnb for many years, I decided that it was time to become a guest and just travel a little bit. With that came the

#AirbnbBookProject. 

I will be traveling all over Turkey during July and August, staying at different Airbnb homes, sharing my experiences on Instagram and Twitter under @duyguaktan with the hashtag #AirbnbBookProject. At the end of this travel period, I will write a book about my journey and my hosts' stories in life. Being a strong believer in human connections, especially through travel, my focus will be to reflect the essence of what makes each of my hosts' stories unique and interesting.

I finally know that what attracted me to hospitality was never finance but always the people, places and cultures. It is with this revelation and such excitement that I am embarking on my journey, which is beginning in Istanbul on a wonderful, sunny Tuesday. 

My first host is an Italian lady named Lina; she is an antique collector and has moved to Istanbul 8 years ago with a passion to travel and live in different places around the world.  I can't wait to hear what brought her to Cihangir, the most bohemian and artistic neighborhood in Istanbul.


#AirbnbBookProject.

Saturday, May 23, 2015

DUENDE - When Flamenco Works

If you're following DeeCaf Writing regularly (If not, we need to have a word. Meet me outside), you know that I have been to a flamenco show recently, which later became the tipping point of my love for this music and dance. It's like I find myself in the intensity of the whole experience: the clapping, the dancing, the guitars, the powerful stomping that makes a unique statement each time the heal and ball of the feet hit the ground. The fact that flamenco encourages one to process all feelings from sad to happy; grieving to playful simultaneously is enough to evoke such a strong connection between the performance and the audience. A few weeks ago on that night, I decided that I could no longer be just a part of the audience; I had to be on the other side of the experience and even more so become the experience itself.

So I took up classes; beginner level of course, thinking even the best needs practice. We spent most of our first class just talking about flamenco and why we were there. There were six of us, all women though flamenco welcomes everyone. At first, we all seemed to have showed up for the feeling of feminine empowerment, the passion, the strength but the more we talked about flamenco the more unique, underlying reasons surfaced.

I, for one said I was there to silence the voices in my head. I said I wanted nothing but flamenco on my mind and in my heart when the time comes for me to become it. Our instructor, Dionisia, took my reasoning very seriously, as she did with everyone, and said that she would observe my progress throughout the class not from a technical point of view but from a mental one to see if I get better at being in the moment.

Another woman said a Spaniard broke her heart and this was her way of letting him go. This came as a surprise to Dionisia, who said with big eyes "J'ure in the wrong place, no?" "This is where we remember Spaniards!" she added with laughing eyes.

Most interesting and mysterious reason came from the woman sitting next to me. She was the first to go in fact and she opened the sharing circle with one word: duende, which was followed by silence. I could tell she was a cool person. Not only because she knew a cool word, meaning of which none of us understood but also because she had several tattoos on her arms and hands. For me, chicks don't get cooler than that easily. But why Dionisia remained silent, I couldn't understand. She was looking directly into my cool, new friend's eyes with an expression on her face that showed disappointment rather than excitement.

She said "What j'uyu mean by that word? Do you even know what that word means? J'u can't use it like saying, I do'knoo, chair or window or somethin'. You have to feel it to understand it".

We were shocked. No wonder she was described as "the whiplash of flamenco". Clearly, we hit a home run because she was getting all worked up; unable to stop herself from explaining that duende was a concept way above us amateurs and we weren't showing it the respect it requires by bringing it up on our very first flamenco class. It was almost forbidden to use the letters that became the word to describe the feeling, the experience, the precious moment within oneself before we actually met with it.

I could see my cool friend regretting to have brought it up and Dionisia trying to let it go. It was an intense moment for all of us but that was exactly what we were there for: intensity. So of course, when my turn came right after the cool girl with tattoos and big words, I didn't let it go. I was very curious now and besides I've always liked to poke hidden holes with my curiosity stick whenever I got a chance. This was my stick and duende the hole. I said " Yeah but what does it mean? Now you have to explain it, no?" She said "No." "That's the whole point. We cannot explain it. Duende has to be experienced."

It was an amazing first class and from the very first second as a flamenco student, I knew I was going to keep coming back to that studio and many more perhaps until I mastered the art of it and silenced the voices in my head.


Two weeks after my first class, I've already been to a new show in Brooklyn. Pretty crowded team: five dancers (two men, three women), one percussionist, two guitars, two singers, one flute/harmonica. I had a front row seat and it was a small room. Though I've been to many flamenco shows in the past, this one easily wiped out all past experiences, possibly because I could literally feel every single heart beat of each dancer. Being physically so close to them allowed to me peek into their insides. I could see their duende. They were there in the room with us, with each other and within themselves but it was also easy to observe that simultaneously, they were not. They took a trip dancing to their past life, future and their very selves right there in the moment. I went with them. Whatever they sent through the floor with each stamp was delivered to me through my seat.


It was at this point that flamenco was no longer a dance for me; it became an instigator. It touched something; pressed a button; turned on the lights after years of pitch black. It kissed me, and I sure kissed it back.


As I was watching the professional dancers stepping their feet ever so strongly and at lightning speed, I realized how much work it would require me to get to that level if I were to keep at flamenco. I had a flashback of myself from a few days ago, confusing simple steps of a 10 second sequence. Compared to what was happening right in front of me, my flamenco attempt was like Queen Elizabeth doing a belly dance show for the King of Saudi Arabia. In fact, my attempt should look twice as ridiculous.



In other words, normal me, the girl I've lived inside of for 30 years would have two options: either move to Seville, study flamenco until she's 50 and completely dedicate her entire self to flamenco until she became the best or give it up entirely.

Obsess much? Me either.

Watching these beautiful dancers would have been too intimidating for me to even try to learn the dance. Since moving to Seville is not an option (at least for now), I would have said "Why even bother?"; just finish the beginner level class and call it a day.

During the performance though, something happened. I suddenly felt free of perfectionism. Like it was OK to not become the world's best flamenco dancer and just keep doing it because it gives me joy. Like I suddenly had a loving, warm blanket of patience around me. It dawned on me like a blinding flash of light that I had spent too many years being patient for things I didn't enjoy that when the time came to being patient for things that I like, there is none left. For years, I used my patience reserves so aggressively that they're all dried up.

Now that I am slowly but surely finding my sources of joy and excitement, I can't wait around to get good at them. I am as patient as an 8-year old kid in a toy store; I want them all and I want them now. But flamenco seems to be teaching me the right ways of toy shopping. I am learning to respect the toys and the precious moments I will spend with them. Love is an internal reaction to having the luxury of showing patience for things that are good to my soul.

Yeah, I am pretty sure that's what duende is. I saw it in dancers eyes and in my brief, flash lighting moment. I can't wait to go back to class next Wednesday and tell Dionisia what I added to my reasons for wanting to learn flamenco: to be patient not because of obligations but love and respect.

Friday, May 22, 2015

Think It Over (and Over)


Some people are courageous enough to immediately act upon whatever is on their mind while some are just not. Like myself. I think and think and think about things, for years. I evaluate, asses, analyze. Really think things over, and through and eventually I think myself out of doing anything. I end up convinced that I should think a little more before I move forward with a decision. Every time, I start to think things through, I make sure to bring along a dear friend to my heart: hope. One with no courage harbors an endless well of hope within.

If you're not crazy - a word often used to replace fearless by those who wish to undermine state of being fearless; if you cannot see what the crazy sees, you're part of an anonymous collective, silently adding up to create "no one".

You are nobody.

But in order to survive in nobody's world, to keep breathing, take a shower, I don't know, buy milk from the supermarket, you can't suddenly break your commitment to dry nothingness and take action to become somebody.

Can you?

BIRAZ DAHA DUSUN

Bazilari cesaretli oluyor icinden en cok geceni dusunmeden yapacak kadar. Bazilari da, bendeniz gibi mesela, dusunuyor dusunuyor dusunuyor yillarca. Eviriyor ceviriyor kafasinda; oldu olmadi derken begenmiyor bastan dusunmeye karar veriyor. Her sil bastan oturup yeniden dusunmeye basladigindaysa tek bir dostu oluyor yaninda, umut. Umuttan besleniyor cesareti olmayan kimse.

Deli degilseniz eger, hic kimsenin goremedigini gorebilenlerden degilseniz, siz hickimseyi olusturanlardan birisiniz.

Yani bir hicsiniz.

Ama eger hiclerin dunyasinda nefes almaya, dusa girmeye, ne bileyim bakkaldan sut, yogurt bir tane de ekmek almaya devam etmek icin aniden hicleri birakip biri haline gelemezsiniz.

Gelebilir misiniz?

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Upper West Side'da Herkes Gibi

Oturmus hic isik almayan evinin arka odasinda, camdan disari bakarken bir adam gordu karsi apartmanda. Odanin icini secemiyordu ama adami gorebiliyordu. Sakalliydi, galiba hafif de kumraldi. Saclari da uzunla kisa arasiydi. Hani denize dalsa kafasini disari cikardigi an tek hareketle saga ya da sola dogru atabilecegi kadardi tam. Saga mi atardi acaba yoksa sola mi diye dusunmeden edemedi. Kimdi acaba bu adam?  Niye Upper West Side'i secmisti yasamak icin? New York'ta onun gibi sakalli, hafif uzun sacli adamlarin tercih edebilecegi bir suru baska mahalle vardi. Mesela evli miydi? Evliyse biraz daha kabul edilebilirdi burda yasamasi ama yok bekarsa o zaman derhal Brooklyn'e gitsindi. Orada da her yerde degil, bir tek Williamsburg'de yasayabilirdi. Ya da belki Dumbo. Her ikisi icin de esek yukuyle para kazansaydi iyi olurdu cunku evler cok pahaliydi. Bastan asagi burjuvalastirilmis mahallelerin kurşun askerleriydi orada yasayanlar. Kendi elleriyle pahalilastirip, sonra orda yasamanin onlari daha basarili gosterdigine inanip, hergun ise gelip giden ve aslinda orda yasayacak vakti bulamayan insanlarla doluydu buralar.

Uzuldu sakalli adam icin. Yanlis mahalleye dustu heralde diye dusundu. Yazik, arkadaslari onun tam bir basarisizlik ornegi oldugunu da dusunuyordur simdi. Aynada ustunu basini duzelten adama bakarken aklindan onun hikayesini yaziyor ve su nokta da bu adama uzuluyor olduguna inanamadi bir an. Tam delirdigine kanaat getiriyordu ki adam ustune bir yelek gecirdi. Kendi gibi gorunen diger adamlarin da surekli giydigi onu koton, arkasi ipekli, 17. yuzyil Ingiliz maden ocagi calisanlarinin favorisi yeleklerden. Bu sahneyi gordugu an hakli olduguna karar verdi. Bu sefer aklinda hic kusku da kalmamisti. Yolunu kaybetmis bir klişe sandigiydi bu adam. Insallah bu mahallede yasadigi icin yakinda ölüp gitmez diye dusundu. Cunku hicbir şeyden degil de, klişelerden ölürdu insan. Pek cok şeysiz yaşabiliyorduk sanki. Cocuksuz gayet de guzel yapabilenler vardi mesela. Ya da işsiz, gucsuz. Sagliksiz da gunler birbirini kovalayabiliyordu. Ve hatta parasiz. Bir tek kliseleri olmadan rahat nefes alip veremiyordu insanlar.

Sac sakal modeli ve yelek kliseleri tam olan adamin olumune sebep de adres klisesinin yoklugu olabilirdi. Ne kadar da cok calismisti halbuki her seyi icin yillarca. Heyhat, her sey yetmemisti iste hayatta kalmak icin. Herkes icin oldugu gibi onun icin de gerekli olan aslinda tek bir seydi;  benzemek. Herkes gibi olmak.

Saturday, May 9, 2015

Starbucks Had To Be Sacrificed

Let's be honest here for a second; I sometimes don't have any clue what to write about. New Yorker staff writer Susan Orlean once said " If you’ve got writer’s block, you don’t have writer’s block. You have reporter’s block. You only are having trouble writing because you don’t actually yet know what you’re trying to say, and that usually means you don’t have enough information. That’s the signal to walk away from the keyboard, think about what it is that you don’t really know yet, and go do that reporting".

On the strong end, isn't it Susan? When I first read this paragraph, I said to myself "YES! This has to be it!" All those years, I've clearly been not writing but simply reporting. But if reporting is the reason for my frequent blocks then why do I occasionally experience the exact opposite of writer's block? A momentary phenomenon that could only be described as writer's abundance attack! My bags fill up with pieces of random, paper-like materials: chewing gum wrappings, newspaper pages, financial reports from the office, once even a plastic bag: all glorious alternatives to my notebook, which save the day on notebook's behalf. The urge to write my thoughts down comes so suddenly and so strongly that whatever wants to come out of my system cannot withstand waiting for a regular piece of paper or a freaking laptop. It's an outpour of words linked through punctuation and frustration with a pinch of love on top.

And how about that thing with pens!? My home is filled with pens of different shapes and colors, not because I hoard them but because I barrow and never give back, which some have the audacity to call theft but so be it. In fact here's one of my evil plans: STARBUCKS! Bring them down by grand theft pens. They shall never again misspell another coffee drinker's name. Nameless cups of over-personalized coffee drinks shall never find their drinkers. Chaos will rule the waiting zones at all Starbucks stores across the world. Extra hot, non-fat, caramel machiatto with added, chemical, chocolate bomb shit will get ice cold sitting next to a melting , light ice, extra sweetened, tiramisu frappachino with 3 pumps of pumpkin spice on a single pump base of raspberry syrup.  All because I very sneakily will have hacked into their universal, cup naming game with my excessive borrowing of barista pens.

Brilliant? Why yes, thank you.

With that being said, I don't think I am ready just yet to accept that I report instead of write. Susan! I might occasionally find it excruciatingly painful to transcend what lies within the realms of my pink, little brain onto a big, blue piece of paper (if you're really, really smart, you'll see the analogy here). But that doesn't mean I am a reporter! I am a storyteller. If a block occurs that means stories haven't been lived yet.  To fix this problem, one simply steps away from one's laptop - or trash bag in my case- and goes out to live the story -not research it-, come back and tell it. I'm on the same page as Susan, just a different book. 

Monday, April 27, 2015

Flamenko Ole Oleee


1 Nisan'la 2 Nisan arasinda
1 trenin icinde bir yerde

Bu gece flamenko dinledim. Dans da izleyecegimi dusunmustum davete evet demeden once ama mekana vardigimda sadece muzik oldugunu anladim. Mekan dedigim de Nublu. Bilenler bilir; burasi hala Manhattan mi diyerek supheye dusmenize sebep olan, uzaaak bir diyarin en uzak kosesi. Ayagimda da ilk defa giydigim, altin sarisi pabuclarim vardi.

Yeni aldiginiz ayakkabilar icin ne denir bilirsiniz: Evde giy once, ac. Giydim ben de ama evde acmaya degil, maratonda kosmaya giymisim istemeden. Metroyla Financial District'ten once East Village'a, hatta East Village otesi; Alphabet City'ye, ordan da yine metroyla West Village ve son olarak Upper West'e gitme curretini nereden buldum trenin icinde eve donmekte oldugum su saniyelerde bile hala emin degilim. Zaten F veya J metro hatlarinin dahil oldugu herhangi bir planin mutlu sonla bitemeyecegini artik uzman bir New Yorklu olarak cok iyi biliyorum. Ama yine de yeni aldigim ayakkabilarim ayagimda butun bunlari yaptim. Flamenko seviyor olmaliyim.

Hakkinda yazacak cok tip var suan trende. Geceyle gunduz arasinda binilen trenlerde esine sik rastlanan bir durum. Ilginc karakterler gunduz ozellikle evden cikmiyor sanki. Gunduz kural seven insanlarin zamani. O yuzden Flamenko konseri geceye konmustur belki de. Iyi ki de oyle cunku obur turlu ben kacirirdim.

Gunduz ben isinde gucunde, evli barkli  ve benzeri tanidik ikilemelerle sifatlandirilabilecek bir kadinim cunku. Sabah kalkip ise falan gidiyorum. Onemli degil. Daha sadece 30 yasindayim ne de olsa. Biraz daha hayati ertelemeyi goze alabilirim falan...

Yeter ki geceleri bana biraksinlar. Gece ikilemelerle tanimlamasinlar beni. Mumkunse tek bir kelimeyle anlatilabilecek kadar carpici olayim bir anda. Ama hemen gelmesin akla o kelime. Beni bir sindirmesi gereksin once tanimlayanin. Soyle br dursun. Iciyorsa bir sigara yaksin, icmiyorsa da ic ceksin biraz. Sonra gulsun hafif buruk. "O"...desin...kurallari sevmez.

Bu gece kural istemedim hayatimda. O yuzden isten gec ciktim. Flamenko dinlemek istedim. Fazla fazla yollar yurudum. J diye bir metroya bindim. Az biraz dans ettim, once saga sola sallandim daha dogrusu. Sonra baktim muzisyen kaybetti kendini; elleri gitar calarken ayagi dans etmeye, gozleri koklamaya ve kulaklari dusunmeye basladi, ben de biraktim onu bunu. Ispanyolca sarkilar soyledim. Simdi beraber Madrid'e gitsek bir kotu sandvic alacak kadar anlatamam derdimi. (Sunu yapabilirim o ayri: Una cerveza por favor)

Yetmedi Olee, OLEEEEEE diye bagirdim bu gece. Muzik durdugunda anca fark ettim; gunduzlerin kuralci isiklari altinda solmus ruhum. Gece yeni kaliplara giren bedenimin icinde az biraz acildi ciceklerim. Ve tabi karar verdim flamenko dersleri aliyorum. Ani cikislari hic sevmem.

New York, New York...Nedir bu kadar vazgecilmez yapan sanki bu sehri diye soran biri daha cikarsa karsima yakin bir zamanda, flamenkosu diyecegim bu sefer de. Sacmalik! diyecek sorunun sahibi. Kucumseyecek belki cevabimi. Belki de deli oldugumdan endise edip yavasca yanimdan uzaklasir. Boylece sehir kendi kafasinda flamenko yapan, Oleee, OLEEE diye bagiran, altin rengi ayakkabili kucuk kadinlara ve ancak geceleri canlanan renkli ruhlara kalir. Iyi olur.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

WHO AM I, CAT?

I don't know about you but I often ask myself a series of fundamental questions about existentialism that are very hard for me to answer. They always begin with the same one: "Who am I?"

Trust me; not knowing the answer to this one kills your buzz right from the beginning. I mean I know bits and pieces about myself and my existence I guess. Things like I cannot continue doing what I am doing on a Word file before I put my paragraphs in perfect lining - Word calls this justifying funny enough - and selecting Arial as my font. 12 points of course, I mean who would dare argue that...Only after then I can peacefully keep at my daily business. Does that hint at anything about who I am? Probably it does a little yeah. But such granular level of detail is not what I am after, is it? I want to reach the bigger answer. You know, the one that makes crowds go "Wow! I would want to be that person, sure!" or make readers say softly inside "I totally identify with this woman. Oh my! It's like she sees right through me!" all the while their eyes are racing from one line to the next. Lines that I wrote. That's the kind of grandiose answer I am looking for when I wake up at 6.45am, sit straight on my bed staring into my cat's hungry eyes and ask who the fuck am I, kitty?

She doesn't know either.

My husband and I were studying on potential questions he might get asked at a very important job interview he was prepping for. After all the generic, empty questions that future bosses take special pride in asking you, we ended up with a question that I rather like and would definitely ask if I ever became a stupid boss some day. I hope you already have an idea of what that question was by now. I mean you have been reading for 335 words already. We thought it could go along the lines of:

"So tell us a little bit about yourself. Who are you?" Instead of being stupefied like I am every morning in front of my cat, he would be well prepared with his very intelligent answer and say:

"Well who am I you ask eh? It's not going to be a simple answer future boss. I am a long list of adjectives and nouns and highly likely even verbs. So if you're ready for it, hang on to your hats and hear this out! I am a lover, a husband, a son, a brother, an athlete, a yogi, a New Yorker, an Upper West Sider, a Turk, heck even an American, a cyclist, a redditist, a cat owner, a former dog owner, a future dog owner, a futboller, an avid reader, a gym member, a subway rider, a car driver, a truck driver, a motorcyclist, a shopper, a patron, a renter, a neighbor, a gentleman, a runner, a colleague, a boss, an employee, an employer, a flower kid, a pragmatic, an engineer, a romantic, a sentimentalist, a skater, an animal lover, a nature enthusiast, a traveler, a  tourist, a museum goer, a curious mind, a tired body, a vulnerable hearth, a kid, a parent, an uncle, a music listener, a musician, a class president, a friend, a best friend, a boyfriend, a student, a grad student, a scholarship student, a store clerk, a sales consultant, an account executive, an early bird, an all-nighter, opera goer, concert goer, movie goer, ballet goer, a dance admirer, a show stopper, a dancer, a groom,  a wedding attendee, a best-man, a swimmer, a beach body boy, a couch potato, a chic man in a suite, a bum without shoes, a well groomed man, a depressed man, an  abandoned child, a supportive child, a casualty of a broken home, a survivor of a bad father, a super hero, a burden, a nephew, a brother in law, a critique, a criticized, a story teller, a puzzle solver, a winner, a loser, a salesman, a customer, an entrepreneur, a developer, a learner, a teacher, a volunteer, a for-profit capitalist, a cigar smoker, a healthy eating enthusiast, a carb loader, a miserable failure, and of course a huge success. Like I said, not a simple man. "


These were only some of the things that came to my mind at one blink of an eye. Imagine what any other person, whose lives he has ever touched, could have said about who he was. His mom, his best friends, his worst enemies..I mean I don't even want to begin. How many people do we get in contact with throughout our entire lives? 73,089 on average? Probably, I'm pretty good with numbers. So they could all help add to this list and at some point the answer to this interview question would become a book of its own, right? We can't do that at this interview. He won't have time. His boss will lose interest. He won't get the job. He has to summarize, shorten, simplify. And despite the never-endingness of who he is, when you ask him, he gives you the same blank stare I give to my cat in the mornings right after I wake up and says "....I don't know...Just a man..."

Same responseless syndrome I suffer from, right? So can it really be a coincidence that I can't answer this question and so cannot my husband? Are we the only human beings on earth, who doesn't know who they are? I mean if so, it's kind of beautiful that we were able to find each other, isn't it? So romantic. However I don't believe that to be the case at all. I think nobody really, truly knows who they are. Some are just more open about it than others.

Do you know who you are? Does the answer you give to yourself really satisfy you? Or is it just an automatic one? Like when you say "Good!" to your colleague asking how you are in the morning.

Are you really good? How do you define good by the way? And do you even care that grammatically, you're supposed to say well, not good. You don't? Good. I don't either but if I ever used it in an article that was going to be published somewhere, an editor would probably shiver at a "good vs. well" mistake and potentially advise against the article altogether. Because some things are more important than others in relation to the context within which they are reviewed.

Like the real answer to the question who you are doesn't matter in an important job interview as much as the answer to  question "how will you help this company make more money?" Or if you ask a terminally ill patient what they would do with shit loads of money, they wouldn't care, would they? Money doesn't matter to them, same way my existentialist agony doesn't matter to my cat. She just wants food, ill patient to live and my husband to get that job.

World doesn't stop whirling all of a sudden when I wake up every morning not knowing who I am, nor do I stop living. We just do. But I sincerely believe that those of us who take a break from all everything and just figure this out turn out a titbit happier than the rest on last day of their lives.

Hence forth, I will find an answer to this question like I occasionally find myself having done just that. Problem is by the time I do come up with one that is acceptable by my and world's modest standards, I will probably have changed fundamentally again, as I did several times throughout my 30 years of existence and by then I will once again start waking up not really knowing the answer to "Who are you?".

Point is I don't trust people who know exactly who they are and what they want to achieve in life. If one has a clear purpose like some lame self help book might recommend, it is probably a made-up one. A fake purpose that someone else thought was giving a strong message to the world, right? Because all we care about is to look strong, to be good and to have it all, right?

Today, once again I woke up not really knowing who I am. I just don't know. I do however, know this: I will at all costs constantly avoid becoming a pretend, know-it-all person, who strives for perfectionism. Who are we perfecting ourselves for? No better yet, who are we?

Let's start every morning with that simple question until we can see that it is not simple at all. If anything, it is the exact opposite of simple. It is impossible to know that, especially in today's society where the socially acceptable norm of self changes on a weekly frequency at best. We are too lost in daily conversations, things to follow, rules to break. We're too concerned with layers and layers of bullshit when the only thing we have to figure out for ourselves is just who the fuck we are.

I don't know it. Noone will know it for me either. I have to figure that out for myself and take the necessary fall for it if I have to. 30 years of being on this earth prepared me for nothing but this. I can't promise that I will definitely find the answer but I am willing to try. If all goes to hell, I will just go back to not knowing but living anyway. Isn't that what most people do anyway? But I am not most people; I am me and me wants to be discovered.


DA