It was certainly the longest time I had ever been on an airplane. Eight long hours, none of which I slept through. When we finally touched down, I was exhausted. As we disembarked, a man came up to us and convinced us, in our disgruntled state, to allow him to drive us to our hotel. Needless to say, we were ripped off and charged three times the usual fare. Despite the scam, the drive into Istanbul was beautiful. Here was a city where two thousand year old buildings stood alongside newly constructed skyscrapers. Smells of spices filled the streets, people were yelling to each other in the bazaar, and taxis were speeding down narrow roads. It seemed like something out of a movie, or an adventure novel. Turkey was culture shock, to be sure, but it changed my perspective on the world and often pushed me out of my comfort zone.
Getting to Turkey was, in essence, an accident. If you remember, last spring a volcano erupted in Iceland. We were originally going to go to Sicily, to go biking and look at the ancient Greek ruins. Then, about two days before our plane was scheduled to leave, that volcano erupted. So my dad booked the last two seats on the last flight available to Turkey, an area unaffected by the ash cloud, booked got us a room in a hotel, and left. We had no plans and no understanding of the culture. The only thing that we had to tell us about Turkey was a guidebook, purchased that very day. But, one plane ride later, we were in one of the greatest cities on earth.
One of the most difficult parts about being in Turkey was the language. The written language of Turkish has little resemblance to the spoken language, so the guidebook that we had was essentially useless. Unlike some other European tourist destinations, it was very difficult to find people who spoke any English other than “Hello” This was more than a little uncomfortable and unnerving. I didn’t know anybody, and I couldn’t even ask for directions in Turkish. Throughout the trip, with the help of a few very kind taxi drivers, we learned a few basic phrases, although my intonation left something to be desired.
There are many, many differences between Turkey and America. The language, the religion, the headscarves, and the foods, to name a few, but to me the most obvious was the bargaining. Instead of going into a store, reading the price on a label, and paying for an item, most stores in Turkey are the sites of intense price wars. The first example that comes to mind was during a trip to the Grand Bazaar. We had made our way to the middle of the shopping area, to a t-shirt stall. There, we found a shirt that my brother would love. It was blue, with the word “Istanbul” on it, and a picture of a mosque and red fish. We went over to the man sitting behind the counter. “Melhaba,” my dad greeted him, “How much for this shirt?” he asked. The man gave us a once over, and said, “Forty Lira.” My dad just laughed. “How about ten?” he replied. There was a long back and forth in English and a smattering of Turkish that resulted in us walking away, the shop owner threatening to close down his shop, and us finally buying three shirts for twenty-five lira. Throughout the course of the day, we had tea with a Pakistani man, I was supposed to be married in two years, and we got free ice cream. Now that I had seen the “master” at work, it was supposed to be my turn to try bargaining. I was more than reluctant, because I was purely uncomfortable with the situation. However, my dad convinced me, and thus, we went over to the bookstalls. There I found a pretty neat Turkish cookbook that had English translations. This was where I learned that the one thing that you cannot haggle for in Turkey is a book. I went up to the owner, who looked very confused when I tried to haggle. Despite the fact that everything else has a negotiable price tag in Turkey, a book does not. Still, I’m very glad that I tried, because, let’s face it, there are not a lot of chances to argue over the price of things in New Canaan, Connecticut.
After about five days in Istanbul, we took a plane down to the more rural area of Turkey, the area closer to Greece. A friend of my dad’s had a house here, and he let us stay in it for the few days that we were there. What struck me about this area of Turkey was the kindness and friendliness of the people. In case you didn’t already know, Turkey is a primarily Muslim country. We heard the Imams calling, saw minarets on the skyline, and I was one of the very few girls not wearing a headscarf. Thanks to Mr. McDonough’s World Cultures class, I already knew that the majority of Muslims were not radical extremists, but if you turn on the news, you’ll hear about terrorist groups and bombings in the Middle East. News giants, such as CNN, NBC, and FOX, seem intent on making all Middle Eastern Muslims out to be evil. Although the actions of terrorist groups are cruel and terrible, what these stations fail to mention is that the majority of Muslims are not evil. They are normal people, going about their lives and practicing their faith. They were perfectly fine with the fact that I was not a Muslim, and with the fact that I was an American.
So on this trip I learned a few things. To start I learned smattering of Turkish and what not to haggle for in a bazaar. However, what Turkey really taught me was that, no matter what the newscasters have to say, and no matter where you are, people are able to get along. Muslim, or Christian, or Jewish, or Buddhist, or Atheist, we can overlook our differences, and accept each other. This, I believe.
