TOIST Blog
My love affair is shape-shifting. When naked reality bites within a fairly new and exciting relationship, you begin to see the true colors, obstacles, and issues that could possibly be deal-breakers. It's time to assess. Is the honeymoon over? Yes, the drunken infatuation with my sexy, alluring Istanbul, with whom I was besotted for the past two years—a magnetic attraction that I could barely understand, or hardly explain to others, is changing its shape. The psychic landscape dotted with starry-eyed escapades that helped me become my own fantasy figure, forgetting my true age and my former life, is transforming itself into a grittier panorama that is trying to balance the painful realities against the available pleasures.
One year ago, if someone asked me: "Are you happy here?" I would say in a New York minute: "Absolutely". Now, in answer to the same question, I slowly reply: "Well, mostly; that is, I have good days and bad days."
Witness what I went through in one week:
1) My heat and hot water suddenly stopped working—not unusual for anyone here, but maddening when you need a shower and it's midnight. 2) I discovered someone was stealing my Internet signal, disabling it every evening and weekend. 3) A former landlord in Beyoğlu tried to collect twice from me on the same electric bill, and with a bogus late penalty. And this was after spending the previous week trying to collect back pay that was owed me for a project finished a few months ago, an endeavor that requires the patience of Job, the negotiating skill of a trial lawyer, and way too many phone calls and text messages. Still haven't been paid.
My recent unceremonious welcome into my new neighborhood on the Golden Horn was a dog bite and the resulting four required visits to a rabies clinic for shots. Then I took a dramatic spill one evening on the crumbling cobblestones leading to my building's uneven and slanted marble steps, where I lost my balance again. My permanently damaged elbows are the gnarled bony proof of the daily hazards of the byways of Byzantium. Growing old in Istanbul is a survival art not known to Westerners who have a legally measured and leveled infrastructure with proper handrails on steep staircases.
At a recent business meeting, I was taken to task by individuals who had had their egos bruised by my brash honesty in dealing with a dilemma that was affecting many employees. "Let's work to prevent the problem, instead of denying it and shifting the blame..." was my broken-record style tactic. My no-nonsense American approach just didn't work in a culture where people are loathe to own up to their lack of responsibility. Figuring out how to deal with evasiveness is a continual challenge for me: I'm a New Yorker who is accustomed to an in-your-face method of getting results quickly. I've learned it takes time and a continually working radar screen to navigate the depths of deception peculiar to certain cultures east of the Atlantic.
Aside from assaults on my person and my imaginary security net, there's the stuff of local l'amour to contend with. I'm unabashedly drawn to those black curly haired descendants of the sultans of yore with their derring-do and heart-ripping emotionalism. Damn, why can't I settle for some calm Nordic gentleman of means who's in a position to make my life a lot easier, instead of a roller-coaster ride with a comparative toddler who has the dependability of a Turkish shower stall? But sexual chemistry is a snarky thing—either it's there or it's not. And it's mostly there.
That and the fact that I have an ample supply of wonderful friends here probably weigh in as Number One to counter-balance the negative issues. Also, the fact that there exists a surprising wealth of opportunities here for a foreigner like me. For example, I can write a column for this and other magazines without having previously been a published author. I can also rent an apartment without having to go through a detailed security check and scrutiny of my personal and professional life before I sign the dotted line. Where else can you see the Hagia Sofia? See layers and layers of previous civilizations within one brick wall? Taste freshly whipped up ayran? Hear bağlamas and zurnas in the streets? Only in Turkey; so with dear old Constantinople, my ancient paramour who loves me back in unpredictable ways, I will remain enamored.
Alexandra Ivanoff
Ex-Pat Chronicles: The Honeymoon is Over, Istanbul Mon Amour
My love affair is shape-shifting. When naked reality bites within a fairly new and exciting relationship, you begin to see the true colors, obstacles, and issues that could possibly be deal-breakers. It's time to assess. Is the honeymoon over? Yes, the drunken infatuation with my sexy, alluring Istanbul, with whom I was besotted for the past two years—a magnetic attraction that I could barely understand, or hardly explain to others, is changing its shape. The psychic landscape dotted with starry-eyed escapades that helped me become my own fantasy figure, forgetting my true age and my former life, is transforming itself into a grittier panorama that is trying to balance the painful realities against the available pleasures.
One year ago, if someone asked me: "Are you happy here?" I would say in a New York minute: "Absolutely". Now, in answer to the same question, I slowly reply: "Well, mostly; that is, I have good days and bad days."
Witness what I went through in one week:
1) My heat and hot water suddenly stopped working—not unusual for anyone here, but maddening when you need a shower and it's midnight. 2) I discovered someone was stealing my Internet signal, disabling it every evening and weekend. 3) A former landlord in Beyoğlu tried to collect twice from me on the same electric bill, and with a bogus late penalty. And this was after spending the previous week trying to collect back pay that was owed me for a project finished a few months ago, an endeavor that requires the patience of Job, the negotiating skill of a trial lawyer, and way too many phone calls and text messages. Still haven't been paid.
My recent unceremonious welcome into my new neighborhood on the Golden Horn was a dog bite and the resulting four required visits to a rabies clinic for shots. Then I took a dramatic spill one evening on the crumbling cobblestones leading to my building's uneven and slanted marble steps, where I lost my balance again. My permanently damaged elbows are the gnarled bony proof of the daily hazards of the byways of Byzantium. Growing old in Istanbul is a survival art not known to Westerners who have a legally measured and leveled infrastructure with proper handrails on steep staircases.
At a recent business meeting, I was taken to task by individuals who had had their egos bruised by my brash honesty in dealing with a dilemma that was affecting many employees. "Let's work to prevent the problem, instead of denying it and shifting the blame..." was my broken-record style tactic. My no-nonsense American approach just didn't work in a culture where people are loathe to own up to their lack of responsibility. Figuring out how to deal with evasiveness is a continual challenge for me: I'm a New Yorker who is accustomed to an in-your-face method of getting results quickly. I've learned it takes time and a continually working radar screen to navigate the depths of deception peculiar to certain cultures east of the Atlantic.
Aside from assaults on my person and my imaginary security net, there's the stuff of local l'amour to contend with. I'm unabashedly drawn to those black curly haired descendants of the sultans of yore with their derring-do and heart-ripping emotionalism. Damn, why can't I settle for some calm Nordic gentleman of means who's in a position to make my life a lot easier, instead of a roller-coaster ride with a comparative toddler who has the dependability of a Turkish shower stall? But sexual chemistry is a snarky thing—either it's there or it's not. And it's mostly there.
That and the fact that I have an ample supply of wonderful friends here probably weigh in as Number One to counter-balance the negative issues. Also, the fact that there exists a surprising wealth of opportunities here for a foreigner like me. For example, I can write a column for this and other magazines without having previously been a published author. I can also rent an apartment without having to go through a detailed security check and scrutiny of my personal and professional life before I sign the dotted line. Where else can you see the Hagia Sofia? See layers and layers of previous civilizations within one brick wall? Taste freshly whipped up ayran? Hear bağlamas and zurnas in the streets? Only in Turkey; so with dear old Constantinople, my ancient paramour who loves me back in unpredictable ways, I will remain enamored.
Alexandra Ivanoff