by kate@clickscount.co.za | May 20, 2019 | People
So, I should make it clear that I never actually gatecrashed the wedding. It just felt like I did! I received an official invitation, but I miscalculated spectacularly. I knew that I had misjudged the whole thing, just the minute I walked into the church and saw the hats. The church was a hat ocean and I… was hatless. My outfit was smart and elegant, but it was definitely inferior. This became clear to me, when the sixth person mistook me for the event planner and asked me about the seating plan. I might have gotten away with the bland outfit, had it been the blandest in a series of outfits, which became more ornate as the evening progressed. I hadn’t realised that, as a close family member, I would need different ensembles for the reception and the church ceremony and the bit between the church and the reception, or maybe it was for the part after the reception…(Oh my gosh!, I think I may have messed up even after 1am, which means two days of misjudgement, instead of just one).
My husband failed to notice that I felt out of place. All hats apparently look the same to him, even the invisible hat that I was definitely not wearing. Luckily, my husband had bought the gift. There is a ranking system. I can’t explain it here, it is just too complicated, but just know that it exists and if you ever get invited to an Armenian wedding, pay close attention to gift giving protocol.
Everyone was very gracious and told me I looked lovely. Too bad I felt like Cinderella, but without the pumpkin coach to whisk me home. I wouldn’t have needed the coach anyway, as I could easily have just rolled down the street, after the all the pastries I ate. These people do their feasting, just as seriously as they do their hats and gifts. With hindsight, I wished I had worn a hat, as it would have been the only thing that still fitted me when the clock struck midnight.
My first Armenian wedding was spectacular. I loved it. I felt sad when we had to go home, but then my husband told me that the Christenings are even better. I am off to buy that hat!
by kate@clickscount.co.za | May 20, 2019 | People
Let me start this piece with one word: bleach.
When it comes to the real housewives of Istanbul (or anywhere in Turkey), bleach takes the top spot on their cleaning supplies shelf. Every single surface in a Turkish home has to be touched by bleach, otherwise it can never be considered clean. Mopping the floors? Add a drop of bleach into the water. Doing laundry? Make sure to use bleach! Wiping windows? No, can’t do it without the bleach.
This takes us to the window part of my piece. Windows have to be spotless at all times. Window obsession is real. If a housewife of Istanbul started deep cleaning, which invariably involves hiring help for the day or requisitioning a reluctant relative, then heaven forbid if the rain starts. The cleaning is automatically cancelled. Why? Well, rain will ruin the spotless windows. And that cannot happen on the watch of any sensible housewife in Istanbul. The crew is sent home and the cleaning is rescheduled, according to the weather forecast.
Ironing! Oh the Turkish ironing culture. One doesn’t realize how deep it is rooted in the culture of the city, until one sees it first hand while residing with a very particular mother in law. Every single piece of clothing that comes out of the dryer has to be ironed, even the underwear and socks. No, I’m not being sarcastic. According to a real housewife of Istanbul, ironing kills bacteria on the socks and prevents your feet from smelling! Oh the wisdoms I obtain while sharing a home with a local.
One particular part of housewife routine that I find appealing is the cooking. Now this is what these women should teach to the rest of the world. Cooking at home is not that hard. Really! I watch my mother in law make a three course meal in under one hour. I’m dead serious. If you don’t believe me, come visit our home. A lentil soup, koftes (Turkish meatballs) and a nice vegetable side dish come out from the kitchen with no effort or fuss. The ingredients are simple. The cooking is a pleasure and the result is delicious!
So, to become a real housewife of Istanbul, one must pledge allegiance to cleaning with bleach, ironing every handkerchief, keeping the windows spotless and making a spectacular dinner every single night. What? You thought it was easy? If it was, I would have written about the householders of Istanbul and included the men. That is another story for a rainy day, when I am not busy fetching more bleach for those windows.
by kate@clickscount.co.za | May 20, 2019 | People
As it turns out, the school bus driver is definitely not a pirate. He does look like one though, especially because of his beard (with beads in it), his silver earrings in both ears and his thick, dark hair in a pony tail. When he waves hello, every finger has a ring on it. All he needs is an eye-patch!
Murat is my daughter’s bus driver. He knows how to turn an early morning bus ride into an exciting adventure. The kids absolutely adore this man, even though he would intimidate most adults.
We first landed in Istanbul in a wet and gloomy March. I had only visited during the summer and the weather was a shock. Vacationing in Istanbul was totally different from moving here permanently.
I was five months pregnant with my daughter and had just crossed the Atlantic, having sold our home in the U.S.A. In comparison to Istanbul, Herndon VA could fit into one small suburb of it. To say that I was overwhelmed is an understatement.
Fast forward four years, I was quite comfortably living in Istanbul and raising a daughter. When the time came to look for schools, we visited our first choice, with nervous expectation.
Having met the staff and explored the grounds, my husband and I knew this was the best place for our family. What I did not know, was the importance of choosing the right bus service. Unlike some countries, Turkey does not have a school bus system in place. Most schools and colleges hire companies to do the driving. Some are good, others not so much. I was mortified. Being a first time mom and a control freak helicopter parent, I couldn’t stand the thought of sending my little girl off in some strange bus that had zero affiliation with the perfect school we had just picked out.
All that changed when I first shook hands with Murat at the parent-teacher meeting. It was sunny out and the meeting was set in a beautiful courtyard of the school, located in a gorgeous nineteenth century building, in the heart of Istanbul. I saw a very tall man with large sunglasses covering his face. He had on more necklaces that I might have worn my entire life. Dressed in black and carrying a binder in his hand, he was shaking hands with parents. I thought, “No way is my kid going to ride in this man’s bus”. He looked like the type who listened to AC/DC very loudly and smoked a pack a day. Mind you, Turkish people smoke all the time and everywhere.
I approached Murat and introduced myself. He shook my hand in his huge palm and smiled the most disarming and kind smile. In his binder, he had the maps of every route his bus would take. He asked me for my number and instantly added me into his messaging group chat. He explained that every kid would have a separate seat and asked to provide a booster seat if we found it necessary. That binder of his contained more details on school bus service that I could ever think of. Before I left, Murat came up to me and said that his little passengers were his adopted children. And that he would do everything to assure their safety. He did forget to mention three important things during that first conversation; firstly, that my daughter would go on to enjoy every school bus ride for the rest of that academic year; secondly, that I would be getting photos of happy kids singing on the bus (courtesy of his wife who was a hostess on Murat’s bus) and thirdly; that my little munchkin would always call him Murat Abi (uncle Murat). No matter the mood Olivia was in when she would wake up, once that bus door slid open, her face would light up with a big “Merhaba Murat Abi!”
So when you pick a school, make sure your bus driver is as amazing as ours. And if he looks like Jack Sparrow, well, that’s just an added bonus.
by kate@clickscount.co.za | May 16, 2019 | People
I landed in Istanbul five months into my pregnancy. I had been seeing an obstetrician-gynaecologist in the U.S.A, during my first trimester and couldn’t have been happier with him. The ultrasound showed a healthy development and we already knew that we were expecting a girl.
I walked out of the airport and immediately started looking for a doctor in Istanbul. Now I must tell you, googling one won’t be much of a success. In fact, you will most likely get overwhelmed with too many names, all claiming to be the best. Trust me, I’ve done the leg work.
I married into a very big Armenian family. The Armenian community in Istanbul is extremely close. If a business owner gets on the good side of an old Armenian yaya, she will make sure to refer every single Armenian and non-Armenian friend or relative, to said establishment. Trust me. If a baker makes good bread, there can be ten other bakeries next to him. Yet the Armenian yaya will buy only from “her” Baker.
Why I even thought I would be googling for an OBGYN, is now beyond me. The Armenian yayas were on to it before the immigration officials had finished stamping my passport. I was soon referred to an OBGYN, who had recently operated on one of my husband’s cousins. I was lucky enough to meet the cousin and she told me that this doctor had pretty much saved her life. This was a good enough recommendation for me.
We arrived for my appointment and were greeted by a lovely young lady in the lobby. The waiting room was bright and cosy with a selection of refreshments and some newspapers to read. I am told by English and American friends, that they have never been offered a refreshment in a medical waiting room. That is why Turkey is different and it certainly clinched it for me. Have you ever met a pregnant woman who didn’t feel like a cookie? If you have, that woman wasn’t me!
Dr. Herman Isci was, you will never guess, of Armenian heritage! Did I mention, referrals triple, if the specialist is from the same community? Being great at your job helps. Being an Armenian who is great at your job guarantees your business.
Dr. Isci spoke impeccable English and had no problem looking through my medical records from the States. He was very knowledgeable and extremely professional. I immediately felt at ease and we had an amazing doctor – patient relationship for the remainder of my pregnancy.
Even though we had prepared for a normal delivery, my doctor recommended a Caesarean section. And I was glad he did. My not so little bundle of joy weighed at a hefty 4445 grams (9.8 pounds)!
So when you are in the market for a good doctor in Istanbul, word of mouth is the best way to go. There is nothing wrong with asking around. There are dozens of community groups on social media where you can share a post asking for referrals and recommendations. But always trust your intuition. Us moms know best!
by kate@clickscount.co.za | May 16, 2019 | People
My hospital room, or I’d rather call it a suite, resembled a five star hotel. The view from the window was breathtaking and it all felt calm and serene, except for the noise. The crowd in the waiting room was getting louder and I wondered if there was a medical emergency, somewhere further down the corridor, until my mother-in-law explained that it was just my husband’s extended family filling up the lobby. I was scheduled to have a C-section, so I was amazed to discover that the party had started, before the tiny guest of honour, had even arrived.
Some of you might remember from previous articles, I married into a very big and tight knit Armenian family. Turkish Armenians are an extremely close community and they support one another in all life’s occasions. There always has to be fuss and visitors (and cake). The arrival of a new baby is the best excuse for a family gathering and the birth of my baby was anticipated with more preparations than a royal birth. If Princess Catherine managed to side step the paparazzi when her babies arrived, that was only because they weren’t Armenian relations.
My mother in law had ordered custom made chocolates a month in advance. Nothing like a bit of catering pressure, to bring on those first labor pains. Each individually wrapped truffle was topped with a ribbon and a ceramic angel. “A simple baby favor to give out to all visitors”, said my mother-in-law and I couldn’t protest (because I have seen more elaborate favors consisting of marzipan pacifiers and baby shaped handmade soaps).
The favors, my mother-in-law assured me, where merely a precursor to the main event. You would think that a baby arriving would be a big deal,, but it turned out that I was only providing a side show for the food deliveries, which just kept arriving from my mother-in-law’s kitchen. Nobody complains about hospital food in Turkey and it’s probably because they never get a chance to try it. My mother-in-law ensured that an entire buffet of tea, sandwiches, sherbet (a sweet beverage made of fruit and a dozen spices) and cakes was set up in the hospital. A special book for written messages was provided (and mine was decorated with rhinestones) alongwith a feathered pen, to guarantee that those messages and congratulatory wishes, were written with an extra flourish.
You can forget to pack a night gown and wet wipes, but forgetting to arrange for a caterer and a hairdresser will cost your reputation. Can’t have that baby without being photo ready!
But the family never shows up empty handed. When they come to see the new mom and her baby, they bring gold. Gold is another form of currency in Turkey. And the closer the family member to the newborn, the larger is the gold coin they attach to the baby’s crib while sipping sherbet and snacking on those custom chocolates.
In the two days I spent in the hospital, I probably received a hundred guests. And some two hundred others showed up to the Welcome Baby Party. But that’s a whole other story.
by kate@clickscount.co.za | May 7, 2019 | People
Throw the Lonely Planet into the trash and don’t bother with the expat facebook group. If you want to learn how to live properly in Istanbul, then acquire a Turkish mother in law. It is not a choice. You will have one (or a collection of Turkish mother-n laws) who will take over your life, even if you resist or run away. It doesn’t matter if are not planning to marry a Turk. In fact, you don’t have to be married at all. One of these ladies will find you – and in true mother-in-law fashion- she won’t wait to be asked. It won’t even matter if you don’t speak Turkish.
I met an American woman, who had brought up two sons alone in Istanbul. I told her how impressive that was. She burst out laughing and said “I didn’t bring them up alone, my mother-in-law helped me.” It turns out that as soon as her husband left, his mother knocked on the door and that was that. No discussion, they both just did what needed to be done.
No American self sufficiency or English reserve in Istanbul’s suburbs. Besides, why would you want to be self sufficient, when the neighbourhood is an extended family and everyone wants to help. As for ‘reserve’, well, there probably isn’t even a good Turkish word for that.
Just yesterday, an elderly lady, whom I recognised as a down-the-road neighbour stopped me in my street and told me off. It turns out, I was feeding the stray cats the wrong kind of fish. “I don’t feed the stray cats”, I said. “It doesn’t matter” said the Across-the-Road Neighbour, “your husband does and he gave them out-of-season fish, which means that you are not feeding him well either, so you need to cook better fish.” I was incredulous. I had no idea that my husband had been feeding the cats nor could I remember what fish I had last cooked. I knew better than to admit to paying so little attention to fish purchasing.
I called Alina, because she has a real Turkish mother-in-law. Alina said “I can’t talk now, my mother in law’s sister and sister-in-law are all here telling me to put my daughter in a thermal vest for school, because she has a cough. They have spent all afternoon discussing my daughter’s inadequate clothing, whilst at my niece’s third birthday party. If I stop to talk on the phone, they will start to make dinner and argue about how to slice the tomatoes, so I have to go. Sorry!”
Later that night, I asked my husband about the fish. He said “I have been feeding chicken to the cats. Never fish. We live in a crazy street!”
This is the thing about Istanbul neighbours – nobody cares where you park, or how noisy your kids are and they will happily ignore your howling dog but your privacy is a different matter. I can park badly and the dog can howl but the stray cats must be fed the best fish. My meekness, it has to be said, is because I am a wimp. Alina, on the other hand, has refused to add another layer of clothing on school days and the cough persists. She is a much braver woman than I, but let us see what happens at the next family birthday party, when she too is outnumbered.
