New blog address

Thanks for visiting my blog. Inside Out In Istanbul has now moved. If you want to find out more about my life and learn what it's like to live in Turkey, please click on the link below.

New address for "Inside Out In Istanbul"

Turkey in winter

Those of you who have been on holiday on the west coast of Turkey may never have experienced the magic of a Turkish winter. Although it may be cold, the scenery is often breath taking. Here's a selection of my favourite winter scenes.

On the road north of Antalya, February 2004

On the balcony, Elmadag, Istanbul, 2008

University campus, Kayseri 2002

Winter fun with a plastic bag, Elmadag, Istanbul, 2008

Erciyes Mountain in the background, Kayseri 2002

Wishing you all a very Baylan Christmas

San Francisco Turkish Radio

To hear my latest story click on Turkish Cultural Program 2 November 2013 Fast forward to 1 hour 29 minutes and 15 seconds (1.29.15) if you just want to listen to me, otherwise sit back and enjoy the show.

Display - Turkish Style

One of the things I love about Turkey is the way objects are displayed. It was clear to me the first time I came to Turkey back in 1990 that Turks believe there is no such thing as too much when it comes to showing off what they have for sale. Whether it's food or jewellery, less is never more!

Ankara simits for sale in Karaköy, 2008

Fishing on the Galata Bridge, September, 2013

Would you like parsley with your lamb? Butcher shop window, Bergama, 2006

Fish anyone? Kadiköy, 2006 and even now

Homemade çığ köfte spread with Erciyes University students, Birecik, 2004

Turşu (pickles) in Fish Street, Kadiköy, 2006

And the original, getting married, Tahtakale, September, 2013

Turkish weddings

Unlike popular stereotypes about women, I am not a great fan of shopping. True, I will go to great lengths to track down the perfect shoe or boot, but when it comes to other items of apparel, I am far less interested. Particularly when it comes to buying an outfit for a special occasion. It’s like finding a taxi. They’re always there when you don’t want one, but nowhere to be seen when you’re standing in the pouring rain, desperate to sit somewhere dry and save your new shoes from complete ruin.

When I received an invitation to a Turkish friend’s wedding I was more than happy to accept. After all, this was my friend getting married and I was very pleased for her. Then it struck me that a wedding meant a new outfit, preferably a dress, which meant shopping for a special occasion. Not a happy prospect. Nonetheless, I set off early on a Saturday, armed with a long list of errands, including the purchase of the dress. In the past when I’d been in the same situation I’d buy all the other things first so that when I failed to find the one thing I really had to have, the day wouldn’t be a total loss and I wouldn’t feel such a failure.

This time I decided to approach the mission differently and planned to look for a dress first. Knowing where to look was the easy part because when it comes to weddings, Kadıköy, my local shopping area, has two important streets concerning all things matrimonial. Both lead off an intersection of six streets officially called AltıYol, more commonly known as boğa, or the bull, due to a statue of one situated there. The statue was made in Paris in 1864 by Isodore-Jules Bonheur and was taken to Germany during the Occupation in WWI. It was then given to Enver Pasha as a present by the Germans in 1917. It was placed in various locations around Istanbul until it came to rest in Kadıköy in 1969. Despite recent attempts by the Ministry of Museums to rehouse it in the gardens of Beylerbeyi Palace it remains a popular meeting point and well-known landmark for locals and foreigners alike.

As my bus crawled up the street towards the bull I had ample opportunity to admire the latest tastes in wedding dresses. Everyone knows where to go after the question has been popped, and it isn’t even necessary to know the official name of the street. In Turkey it’s common to find shops selling the same type of items side-by-side in the same road. so if you say you are looking for wedding dress street even the most confirmed of bachelor’s could direct you there. To my inexperienced eye this year's wedding dresses seem to err slightly on the side of drag queen overkill with multiple flounces of lace, diamante and ecru silk appliqué. When I spy mannequins sporting tinsel wigs over rainbow electric coloured bridesmaids dresses scenes from Priscilla Queen of the Dessert come to mind. Nonetheless the shops are heaving with people so maybe I am being a bit critical.

Once we reach the bull I hop off the bus and head down the road leading away from the sea. Here is abiye street, a street full of shops dedicated to evening wear. Unlike my own country where superstition rules that guests at a wedding should never wear black, in Turkey there is no such restriction. In fact it is quite acceptable to do so, if a tad boring in the opinion of my more fashionable Turkish girlfriends. I am quite pleased with this fact because I find the Turkish trend towards colour, a lot of it, matching, clashing, and overlaid with sequins and other forms of decorations rather overwhelming. One colour is enough for me, but from what I’ve seen in the past, finding evening wear that isn’t neon and drenched in diamentes could be quite a challenge.

Prepared for defeat but hoping for success I march confidently into the first shop at the top of the street. I am immediately surrounded by floor length strapless gowns whose garish colours positively glow despite being shrouded in plastic. The colours are quite blinding and I am momentarily stunned and unable to respond when approached by a saleswoman. After she welcomes me a second time I manage to respond with the obligatory words “Hoş geldiniz”. I then launch into my well rehearsed speech.

“Hello”, I say in Turkish. “I am foreign, and I have been invited to a Turkish wedding. I want to buy a dress to wear. I am short so I do not want a long dress.” Looking at the dresses on offer I add, “I don’t like gold, I like silver. I don’t want anything too fussy.”

The woman, with the help of another colleague who has emerged from the forest of plastic, begins to methodically move around the shop and pulls out several dresses. These are brought to me for approval and I quickly knock back a mottled olive green lace tube dress with elbow length sleeves designed to cover all faults. I decide it wouldn’t be politic at this point to say that I don’t particularly want a mother-of-the-bride dress that makes me look like a short refrigerator with legs. I tentatively agree to try on a fuscia satin number adorned with a very small amount of gold beading around the neck, and a shapeless black jersey crepe tube with a fall of tulle down the front. I can see it has potential, possibly as a curtain in a funeral home, but I'm not sure how it will work as a dress. Nonetheless I promised myself I would try on anything remotely suitable and go outside my admittedly limited dress comfort zone to see if just this once, I can go home with more than dashed hopes.

Inside the changing room I’m instructed to strip down to my underwear. As soon as I give the signal the two women crowd into the cabin with me, lift my hands above my head and slither the satin dress onto my body. One holds me steady while the other fits my feet into staggeringly high heeled strapless mules and then we all make our way into the centre of the shop. Once in front of the mirror I can see that the dress is sexily fabulous. Even with the gold beading. However it is very tight, which I mention to the sales women. Yes they say, but “maalesef”, unfortunately, they don’t have a bigger size. They enthusiastically repeat that it really suits me, which it does. When I suggest I could only wear it to the wedding if I don’t eat, and they laughingly agree. They laugh again when I say I could only wear it to the wedding if I don’t sit down. When I add that I don’t think I will even be able to breathe very well in it they nod wryly and say “Maalesef, we have no other.”

Surprisingly this doesn’t make me despondent as it usually would. Like many women I’m not always confident about my body. How I feel about it depends on how I feel in general, and on low days I only see the things I don’t like. This is often exacerbated by living in Turkey where the average woman is quite small with narrow shoulders and no hips. I’m the opposite with the broad shoulders of many Australian women and hips that would have suited Marilyn Monroe. It can be hard to find clothes I like that fit me well.

However in abiye styles sexiness is exploited and having curves a plus. It’s a pleasure to try things on, especially as I’m helped by the labour saving device of a personal dresser. There’s nothing worse than the exhaustion of trying on and then repeatedly rejecting outfits and finally going home empty handed. I happily tap my way back into the changing room. Holding my arms up over my head again the fuscia dress is removed and in seconds the black tube dress is smoothly rolled down over my body. I look down and wonder at the drape of crepe sheathing what appears to be a standard little black dress. My biggest fear is looking frumpy and I’m worried that’s the only effect the drapery is going to have. I follow the shop assistant back out into the main salon again and turn slowly until I face the mirror. When I dare to look I immediately laugh with joy. This is the dress. The sleeveless black jersey shows off the things I love and the drape hides the parts I don’t. I feel strong and confident and sexy.

When I go to the wedding and it’s time to dance I’m the first on the floor and the last to leave. My oriental dance classes pay off and I launch myself into learning the damat with gusto and move with abandon, clad in a dress that makes me feel wonderful.

I hope you enjoyed my story. If you want to learn more about Turkish weddings please buy my book Inside Out In Istanbul and read the story 'Kına gecesi'.

The other Istanbul: Churches, Monasteries, Schools

Istanbul is well-known for its many beautiful mosques as well as architectural marvels from the Ottoman Empire. Under their reign, peoples from many different ethnicities and religions flourished in Istanbul. Pockets of this diverse past remain in the richly decorated churches and other religious buildings still in use today.

There are hundreds of Armenian Churches tucked away in corners of Istanbul. As the Armenian population of Istanbul has become smaller, the number of Armenian churches in use has shrunk. One still in operation is the Surp Garabed Armenian Church (Church of St John the Baptist) that I stumbled across on my way to Çinli Camii in the Murat Reis neighbourhood of Üsküdar. Although the construction date of the church is not known, it is one of the oldest Armenian churches in Istanbul, and has existed at least since the year 1555. The church was originally erected as a small, wooden  temple at the firman or royal decree of the sultan. It was to be used by Armenian workers, most of whom had migrated from Muş or Van to work on the construction of many public buildings, including the Mihrimah Sultan Mosque, also in Üsküdar. The church has been rebuilt several times following fires, and the current church was built in stone following the great Yenimahalle Fire in 1888, and is still open for church services today.

Courtyard of the Üsküdar Surp Garabed Armenian Church

Interior of the Üsküdar Surp Garabed Armenian Church

The Greek Orthodox Patriarchate has been on the same site since about 1601, although the present Church of St George only dates from 1720. Like all churches built in Istanbul after the conquest of 1453, it is small in size as Christians were forbidden to build churches with domes or masonry roofs. Although its present congregation numbers only a few thousand, it is still the centre of the Orthodox Church. In its heyday the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople dominated the religious affairs of the entire Eastern Christian world.

The main altar

 

The Patriarchal Throne thought to date from the late Byzantine period.

A mosaic in the portico

Coffins of the martyrs including the bodies of St Omonia, St Theophano and St Euphemia of Chalcedon (present day Kadiköy

Known in Greek as the Megali Scholio, or the Great School, the Özel Fener Rum Lisesi (Fener Greek Orthodox College) was founded before the conquest of Istanbul. It remained the principal Greek institution of secular education throughout the course of Ottoman history. The present building was designed by the Ottoman Greek architect Konstantinos Dimadis in 1881 and continues to educate pupils today, providing a full Turkish curriculum as well as a thorough grounding in Greek language, literature and religion.

In Byzantine times, there were at least three monasteries on Heybeliada (Saddle Bag island), then known as Halki. Today, only the Hagia Triada (Holy Trinity) monastery remains, standing on the crest of Ümit hill. With a long history that predates the conquest, the building housed the main Greek Orthodox theological seminary in Turkey until it was closed in 1971. To this day a former teacher of mathematics visits the school every Wednesday to take tea and reminisce about his former colleagues and pupils.

                                             

Meryem Ana (Church of the Virgin Mary) in Karaköy, was built in 1583 by Tryfon Karabeinikov. It is more popularly known as Santa Maria de Kaffa (Panagia Kaphatiani) because it was founded by the Greek community of Kaffa (Crimean Greeks). It is now the headquarters of the Patriarchate of the Turkish Orthodox Church whose origins can be traced back to the Greco-Turkish War. In 1922 a pro-Turkish Orthodox group was set up consisting of the Turkish-speaking, Orthodox Christian Karamanlides population of Anatolia who wished to remain both Orthodox and Turkish. The group has had a turbulent history and religious services ceased to be held in the church in 2008.

 

And of course, everybody's favourite, the Haghia Sophia in Sultanahmet.

Photographed November 2000

Meet me and buy my book

Hi Everyone,

If you've been enjoying my stories you can meet me and buy a copy of my book Inside Out In Istanbul. I will be at Molly's cafe between 2-4.30pm on Thursday the 17th of October. My book is only 12 Euros (30tl). I'd love to hear your feedback in person so come along. You can also try Molly's great coffee and yummy cakes.

See you there,

Lisa Morrow

How to get to Molly's Cafe

Excerpt from "Lisa's Little Men"

Republic Square in Kayseri,, Turkey 2002

      ...I am short. I’ve spent most of my life being short except for one brief moment when I was 12 and was the tallest girl in the class. Had I been a boy I would have been the tallest boy then too. Over the years I’ve come to accept that I’ll never wake up with legs up to my ears and am used to most things being just out of my reach. I know I’ll always miss out on knowing what’s going on if I’m standing in a crowd.

When I first came to Turkey I could almost console myself to being short because Turkish women are short too. Initially I felt at home because eye level for them was the same for me and I didn’t feel so hampered by my lack of height in kitchens here. I say almost, however, because while we share a vertical similarity, their horizontals are so much smaller and slimmer than mine. Once again I was prepared to resign myself to the fact that I am short, when I met the first of my little men.

At that time I was living in Kayseri in central Turkey. I was working at a government university and living on campus. From there it was a very fast and frightening three minute bus ride the four kilometers into town with a driver who thought he was competing in a Formula One Grand Prix. Red lights and speeding trucks were never any deterrent to them. When we screeched to a halt at Republican Square it was always a relief to get off the bus, even though it did mean leaping several feet onto the ground from the curiously high set buses.

The old town centre was originally completely enclosed in a towering granite wall. By the time I arrived the crumbling façade had been clumsily and controversially rebuilt with poorly mixed concrete. The final result might not have been aesthetically pleasing but it was practical. Along its base an assortment of men had carefully set themselves up to ply their trades. The shoe shiners lined up next to one another, each sitting behind an even more elaborate brass plated, boat-shaped cleaning kit. They were lavishly decorated with postcards featuring portraits of luscious female Turkish singers and impressively masculine Turkish performers proudly showing off bristling moustaches. Their ranks were supplemented by five men sitting at ancient tabletop treadle sewing machine with the original glistening gold lettering, repairing shoes. All of them displayed coloured shoe laces by draping them over a piece of string suspended the length of the table. When the wind blew and the call to prayer sounded they seemed like Hawaiian dancers undulating in time to the music.

All of the trees in the row planted in line with the wall had been claimed. At each stood a man with a cart, usually made by a converting an old-fashioned baby carriage, offering a startling range of goods and services. I still smoked back then, and I went to the third tree from the left, where a little man, dressed winter and summer in a long-sleeved shirt covered by a hairy jumper, would refill my lighter. After being caught out by a burst of gas the first time I went to him, I always stood upwind when he inserted the nozzle of a bottle of butane into my lighter and refilled it. At other times I waited as he started up his portable generator and turned on his laminating machine to cover a new identity card or travel pass with plastic. Along with the men at the other trees he sold mobile phone cases, pens, worry beads and an assortment of other small things...

 
This is an excerpt from my new collection of short essays about life in Istanbul available next year. I have more stories available in my current collection called Inside Out In Istanbul. Click on the book title today to buy your copy in paperback or as an ebook.

San Francisco Radio - Orient Express show no. 2

Want to learn more about Turkish weddings and köçek dancers? Listen to me on the KKUP Orient Express show on San Francisco Turkish Radio (24.9.2013). Listen to the complete show or tune in at 54 minutes 20 seconds just to hear me. Click Lisa Morrow on Orient Express to start. I hope you enjoy it! 

By the water in Istanbul

 There are many beautiful places by the water in Istanbul.

These are some of the places I love.

Sunday in Ortaköy, August 2000

The German designed Haydarpaşa Railway as seen from Kadikoy, May 2011

Drinking tea in Üsküdar, April 2012

Fishmen and boats at Eminönü, November 2000

Lost in the fog at Kadikoy Iskelesi, May 2013

Kadikoy waterfront, March 2001

Young soliders on their day off, Haydarpaşa Railway Station, October 2011

Up Close & Personal: an excerpt

How reassuring to know my local hospital now uses kidneys from both

live and dead donors when performing transplants!

A look at the Turkish public health system
 

Back in 2000 my husband and I worked at an English college on Bağdat Street, run by a money hungry former military man with good connections but bad intentions. Thanks to him we had the dubious pleasure of visiting the Bakırköy public hospital as part of the process of getting a work permit. According to our charmless director we had to go to a public social security hospital, otherwise the bureaucracy in Ankara wouldn’t believe the results of our health tests were above board.

When we arrived and entered the foyer of the hospital, we were confronted by a simply enormous crowd of people. Everywhere I looked I saw people trying to squeeze their way past other people determined to stand their ground outside various doors while yet more people were pushing themselves through the clumps of people stuck on the stairs. I was reluctant to throw myself into the fray, so I looked to Kasım, the person assigned to get us through the day, for guidance. Although he was always referred to as the school driver, he was more like a minder cum stand over man. I often saw him delivering bundles of money wrapped in newspaper to the director, and with his long moustache and hardened features he could look quite frightening. Nonetheless, he was always pleasant to us. Unperturbed by the seething mass of humanity around us he motioned us to follow him through the maze. We inched up a crowded stairway and when I looked back, I saw that every corridor and every waiting area was jam-packed.

The sheet of paper Kasım carefully held on to had about twelve different headings on it. All of them required a trip to a different department and a tick from a different pen. Hours after we first arrived we were each given a white plastic disposable cup with a number written on it. Although it was nearing the lunch break we weren’t being offered tea but we did have to give urine samples. The women’s toilets were full of short round village women in headscarves, who all turned and stared when I walked through the door. Not only was I a foreigner, a yabancı, I had dark blue eyes and was wearing figure hugging, at least by their standards, Western clothes. Their unblinking stares were unnerving so at first I just stood and watched proceedings, all the while clutching my plastic cup. I soon saw that the first hurdle would be getting into a cubicle.  There was no queue to speak of, just lots of women milling around. Then it was first in first served. Even once the cubicles were occupied with the door locked (hopefully) and the red bar showing on the handle, the women would constantly shake the knob and ask was it full. It was survival of the fittest.

As I jockeyed to get closer I could see the toilets were of the traditional Turkish squat style. I pondered the practicalities of peeing into a plastic cup in a crouch position, while holding my handbag and coat above a floor I knew was going to be wet. I wondered how the Turkish women coped with their voluminous baggy pants, long thermal underwear, droopy cardigans and floor length coats. Even though they had friends with them to hold their handbags and bit and pieces, we all shared the same problem as far as aiming accurately was concerned. If you squatted in the normal position you aimed downwards but wouldn’t be able to see the cup. If you shifted so you could see the cup, your flow would be horizontal and hard to capture.

However, before I could work out how to proceed, I had to get into a cubicle. Even though I’d been waiting for ten minutes, almost everyone who entered the room after me had either already bagged one, or was standing in front of me. Putting aside my middle class upbringing I deftly side-stepped a barrel-like woman, gently elbowed another away from the door and thrust aside a third to claim victory. Once the door was tightly locked it was time to put the theory into practice. After some finessing I was able to hang my coat and handbag on the handle of the window. Settling into a comfortable position, I took some tissues from my pocket and did a ‘dry run’ of the procedure. I didn’t know how full the cup should be for the sample, but having no way of learning the answer I just went ahead regardless. Within a few moments I was finished. Still squatting and now holding a half full or half empty, depending on your point of view, cup of urine, I had to work out where to put it while I adjusted my clothes. There were no shelves or ledges that I could use. Looking about the empty space I saw the only solution was to place a tissue on a dirty bit of broken tile, and carefully balance the cup on that.

Used to clinics where you could discreetly pass your sample to a nurse who wouldn’t look you in the eye I was very reluctant to go outside, cup in hand. Knowing Kasım would be waiting I felt really embarrassed. He had a well-developed sense of humour and I didn’t want to be the butt of one of his many jokes. The minutes ticked slowly by before I finally steeled myself for the walk back out into the corridor. Luckily Kim exited the men’s at the same time and immediately captured Kasım’s attention. Holding out his cup, he asked if he wanted some tea. Kasım roared with laughter and I used the distraction to slip past him. I headed to the end of the corridor where a doctor was waiting with a trolley to collect our samples. When Kim joined me I asked him how he went. 
      “Well, I didn’t have any problems, but the guy before me must have. He came out trying to clean his cup up with a tissue,” Kim laughed and then added, “Turns out the black marker they use to number the cups isn’t waterproof after all”.

Mosque Life

Looking through to Sultanahmet Camii (the Blue Mosque), Sultanahmet 2007

 

The minber (pulpit) in Çinli Camii, Üsküdar, 2012

Behind Rustem Paşa Camii, Eminönü in 2007

Süleymaniye Camii, Fatih, 2007

                                         

The Şardıvan (ritual ablutions area) at

Eyüp Sultan Camii, Eyüp 2012

 

Women at Eyüp Sultan Camii, Eyüp 2003