And if you want these kind of dreams, it’s Orientation. It’s the edge of the world, at least the Western civilization…*

Orientation came running at me, hit me, and then continued sprinting for the next two weeks following my arrival in Istanbul. Orientation (which I find funny because I endured this orientation in a city that is quite debatably in the orient or not) enlightened us toward the fact that there are far too many ruins and religious institutions to see in Istanbul. So many, in fact, that two weeks allowed us time to see the majority of the most famous, however, not anywhere close to everything that Istanbul offers. Basically there is more culture and history in the city than can be fully described in one language. Most likely it would take a few. Vocabulary would fail, sentiments would be lost. Nonetheless, here is my attempt, which may be doomed to fail before I even begin.

Sekiz

Sekiz means “eight” in Turkish. I was reminded of this translation every time we all scrambled back in our Mercedes Bus after some adventure on the high trails or in the Mecca facing mosques when we had to count off, just to make sure we didn’t loose someone—to either Islamic conversion or goat gazing. Being in prime first chair location on the premier count off, I was granted the privilege of being “bir” or “one” in English, and I can never help smirking at the fact that first, I have to yell “bir” to start a count off, and secondly, I didn’t really know any Turkish at all. (Alright, I’m lying. I knew that “Merhaba” means hello. But I know how to say hello in about seven different languages, which is pretty indicative of how helpful that was. Plus, it is a very unfortunate “only word I know” in a country were foreign women should be the least friendly as possible to avoid creepy encounters.) Anyway, my lack of Turkish language knowledge was always apparent when one of the professors would call out the phrase, which means something like, “Count off!” (It sounded close to, “Kelereesaaaii!) And I would think, “Oh, man, there he/she goes speaking Turkish again. I wonder what he/she’s saying.” Then one of my fellow companions would nudge me and would whisper, “That’s you. Say bir. Quick! Say bir.”

“BIR!!”

I caught on eventually.

I was actually very much relieved when I was granted with the number one spot because I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about keeping track of my position in the chaotic Turkish number line or learn more than one number in Turkish, for a while anyway. However, at one of my first Turkish classes, I realized that I was the only one on the trip who could only count to one due to just this reason.

Back to eight. It’s really a great number. Nice and even. Divisible by two. Even four, which is conveniently the number of months we are living here. That means each student gets one on one time with another student for just one half of a month! There are eight of us. Eight of us, Countless cities to be traveled to, countless mosques to be seen, countless papers to write, and the most important part: four months. Boy, we are really either going to hate each other or love each other by the end of this ordeal. Probably a little bit of both.

If you’re thinking that this really doesn’t have any relevancy to my semester abroad, please hear my rebuttal. We have eight personalities here. And eight different faces. Eight different educations, eight different laughs, and eight different voices. We also have eight different life stories. But for these four months, we are all living essentially the same life story, give or take a few nights out, weekends out of town and classroom experiences. Basically, right now we are all college-aged students from American universities residing in the Republic of Turkey (complete with residency permits, in fact). And in a foreign land, this single bond is enough to make us more open-minded than perhaps we’ve ever had to be. We were forced upon each other, which is a big risk one takes when signing onto one of these programs. Life really is a box of chocolates… need I go on? To emphasize, it is undeniable that the lives we are living in Turkey do not just involve this country and its people. We have a family here. We sleep in the same lodging, we take meals together, we all share classes, but most importantly we are all seeing Turkey through the eyes of those aforementioned American students. Sixteen eyes, which is actually the number of weeks we are here…

I will conclude by saying that so much of my experience in Turkey so far is dependent on three things: location, people, and mentality. And for this trip, most of my blogs will reflect primarily just these things. Location will most always be Turkey (except for when we go to Syria and during a few jaunters outside of this cupped left hand* during our breaks), people are most always going to be my fellow classmates intermittently mixed with my professors, Turkish intellectuals, and native Turks. And mentality changes pretty much on a daily basis. Bear with me.

Bey/Hanim

I’ve never taken Turkish. I’ve said this before, I know, but I wanted to emphasize. However, the learning Turkish process started immediately upon arrival at the hotel in Istanbul. The first night we gathered in the lobby of our hotel before walking to dinner at a nearby restaurant, Prof. Kay Ebel explained the way to address someone in Turkish. Basically, one uses the first name and adds either “bey” or “hanim” to the end, the first being for men, the second for women. Dr. Kay Ebel and Dr. Scott Redford have become Kay Hanim and Scott Bey. In a way, this is necessary. If we are to spend four months with these two figures, trust them explicitly, and grow to be not only their students, but their eight pseudo children for the duration of our trip, we must be able to address them in a comfortable manner. And Turkish makes this very possible. Instead of the formalized “Dr. Ebel” or “Dr. Redford,” we have been granted the privilege of the simple Scott Bey and Kay Hanim.

The Bosphorus Cruise

The first day in Istanbul, all eight of us were herded from our lovely Turkmen Hotel, a few paces away from the Hagia Sophia, to the harbor area on the Bophorus next to the Yeni Camii. If you don’t know what these two double worded proper nouns are, don’t fret, I didn’t either. Simply, they are mosques and two of the most famous in Istanbul. We boarded the cruise boat (a small ferry) with all the likes of us and two of our professors, the previously mentioned Scott Bey and Kay Hanim, that we would spend nearly every waking moment with for the entirety of orientation. The harbor was bustling, crowded, and smelt a strong stench of sweaty people and cooked fish. Mmm.

The cruise on the Bosphorus oriented us with the layout of the city, which very much determines all of this richness that sprang about in the many centuries which civilizations reigned, and not only that, but the general daily activities that would soon become our way of life in Turkey. To elaborate, we sailed along the Bosphorus on a gorgeous day, silently staring at times, mostly looking afar at each side of the river, which was spotted with multi-million dollar villas, the new Four Seasons Hotel, one of the most “happening” clubs in Istanbul where billionaires roll up in their billionaire cars, huge rims, and scantily clad beautiful women to spend copious sums on high end drinks and pass the hours of the night. It doesn’t end there, I’m not afraid to say. Put simply, the real estate on the Bosphorus is in high demand and has been for years. Sort of like front row seats next to heads of state at the Olympics.

“Which side is Europe and which side is Asia?”

Scott Bey had just pulled out a map of Istanbul. My brain, thinking quickly, did the math. Well, Europe is the western side and Asia is the eastern side. Duh. I pointed and explained.

Wait, Istanbul is in two different continents? Not duh.

It was our first big day out in Istanbul, being finally semi recovered from the stupors we had all arrived with from the travels from yesterday. The agenda was full with our cruise down the Bosphorus on a ferry to enlighten us with exactly what has made Istanbul, the previous city of Constantinople, so sought after by so many different empires.

Location, location, location.

At the end of the cruise, we landed at a small fishing town, Anadolu Kavagi, fully equipped with more fish stench. I must tell you now I suppose that I really am not the biggest fan of fish stench. Luckily, Scott Bey had plans take us up to the ruins of Yoros Castle, built by the Byzantines and which served as the primary marking point where the Bosophorus runs into the Black Sea and was used as a defensive port for many centuries. So, off we went, scaling a mountain in about 90 degrees Fahrenheit weather—complete with beating sunshine and a twenty minute climb up the nearly 40 degree inclined mountain to greet the ancient ruins.

Deep breath. Go.

The rest of orientation (and then some) have been full of these mosque and ruins visit, spotted with a few attempts on the students behalf to fully explore the city, leading to much sleep deprivation due to the little time allotted to ourselves. Although in a city as entertaining and distracting as Istanbul, the lack of slumber can slip by without notice for a few days. And since being away so far from home is like dreaming anyway, one doesn’t tend to miss it.

The Cemberlitas Hamam

Kay Hanim, two of my fellow female students (whom I would grow to love and adore) were all laying on a large concrete slab, on little small cloths, staring up at a large domed ceiling, spotted with cut out stars which one could peer through and see the sky outside. We were completely nude, and the looks on our faces reflected this. If I had known two days prior that I was going to be experiencing a situation such as the present that so suddenly was sprung upon me, I would have been a little bit more apprehensive about getting on that plane.

As I laid there in my first Turkish bath, the sounds of the women’s voices and the streaming, dropping water all echoed tenfold. Like being in a cave or cistern filled with naked woman. I closed my eyes and let my body soak in the warmth and the steam. I began to feel cleansed. Having just climbed up to Yoros Castle that day, I was extremely dirty and my limbs were weak, but lying there seemed to rejuvenate me. I could hear the voices of the bathers around me. Different languages filled the bath, echoed against the walls, and reverberated in my ears.

Around the huge concrete slab stood about four or five huge Turkish women, some with bras on due to the fact that their breasts were so ginormous, had they not been wearing them, the mammary glands would have hung to the floor.

Suddenly I heard a burly woman with a thick accent call, “MAAAHSSAAGE!”

My eyes snapped open, and I noticed Kay Hanim’s head lifted off her small mat as she spat, “Someone! Go!”

I took initiative. Without shame or self-conscious, I hoisted myself off of the slab, which proved to be the slightest bit difficult due to the soggy, humid air that dragged me down. I blinked a few times and noticed that I was the only one standing in a sea of naked women, all eyes on me. I felt triumphant as I took a few steps toward my place of bathing and towards the woman whom I didn’t know in the slightest but who was going to wash every inch of my body.

She was short, huge, and weathered. Her hands had spent too much time in water and too many days scrubbing other bodies. She managed a half smile and smacked the slab right in front of her. “LAY” she demanded.

Maneuvering one’s self on a slippery concrete slab with bubbly water running around everywhere is difficult in itself. Doing it naked is even harder. When I realized this, I just plopped myself down ever so un-lady like on the slab and slid onto my stomach in a seal like fashion. Suddenly, a bucket of suds was dropped on my back and she began her magic. With a “scrubber mit” covering one hand, she rubbed me down from back to toes, my arms, and in every area that was not either my head or something inaccessible from the position I was in. The suds kept creeping up toward my face, however, and by the end of it, I was certain the luminous blanket of suds that was hovering over my face would fall, and I would certainly be asphyxiated.

However, before this doom came upon me, my bather woman smacked me on my left butt cheek. “OVER!” I turned over faster than I’d moved all day.

The bath came complete with a massage, as indicated when she called for me the first time. The conclusion to the whole experience involved me walking to a small room where she dumped another bucket on me, this time over my head and went to work on my hair. She did speak to me a few times, asking me where I was from, and if I liked Turkey. She smiled more during this exchange, and I found that I began to care for her, purely for the reason that she was caring for my body in a way that only I had or my mother when I was little.

That night, I slept better than I had in a very long time.

*Just to give credit where credit is due, my subtitle is my adaptation of the song, entitled “Californication,” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.