Paranoid

From what I have heard, most of the prostitutes working in Istanbul come from Russia. They are commonly referred to as "Natashas." I am fairly certain that I have not seen any and I have no idea where they congregate. Perhaps due in part to their unwanted influx, folks coming in to Turkey from Russia et al only get one month visas while we Americans and EU members get an easy 3.

There is one woman in my class who I thought at first might be a Natasha. She is very pretty, with very dyed red hair . Red hair not found in nature. She has this one black lycra t-shirt with silver guitars printed on it and laces that run in and out of the grommets, going on the inside and outside of the shirt. I cannot imagine this shirt is the least bit comfortable. Anyway, within a week's time, however, I realized that not only is she decidededly not a Natasha, she might actually be brilliant. She is apparently an Ukrainian economist and somehow manages to speak this mathematical language without the American requisite stops and starts. Ah, the danger of stereotypes.

So, one of my biggest fears here in Istanbul is being mistaken for a Natasha. I do have a coat with a fake fur hood. And I have some blonde hair. Now blonde hair like mine is very commonplace and does not target me as a foreigner. And I personally think I look Turkish. People often launch into Turkish when they see me, for example. The only ones who think I do not look Turkish are my Turkish friends, but what do they know?

A few nights ago I had my first bad experience in Istanbul, involving my Natasha fears. However, what started as one kind of bad experience quickly changed into another. I had met up that night with Veronica, my Italian friend from class, her Turkish boyfriend and a couple of her friends who were visiting from Italy and France. Everyone spoke in one language and listened to another. A lot of Spanish was spoken, with English as a close second. We went to a Greek taverna in Taksim and had some red wine and meze (appetizers). I did have two bites of lemony brain and had a slight gag reflex with each bite. We then ate mini-paella clams on the street, followed up by desserts. I opted for some chocolate covered pudding while Veronica went for her favorite - chicken pudding. It has pieces of chicken in it though it also somehow manages to have a subtle flavor.

Anyway, though indigestion would seem the likely next turn of events, I am happy to say it was not. I was taking my metro/bus combo home. After taking the metro to Levent... the metro that seems to be buried about a mile underground ... I was waiting for the 121A bus. This metro to the Asian bridge bus option always sounds the fastest and easiest to me but always lets me down. Why? Because the bus is always crowded. Always. And standing for 40 minutes or so on a swerving bus is rarely fun. The bus arrived and yep, already there were folks standing. Ah well.

I got on and right away, this man in his 60s or so offered up his seat. This generally does not happen so I was happy. Gentlemanly. He then started talking to me rather quickly, and waas pointing at his watch. Hm. Generally I am fine not understanding what is going on, but this time I was concerned. He obviously wasn't asking me for the time as he had a watch. Was he trying to confirm his watch's accuracy? I think it was around 11pm.

Next up was a mini-tirade about a key. Huh. So now we seem to have some need to communicate about time and a key. In an effort to find meaning in it all, I decide that he thinks I am a Natasha and this is how things go down. You specify an amount of time and she provides you with a key. Oh and it also seems that he is asking me to go somewhere with him, but of this I am not certain. I put on my slightly angry face and look defiantly out the window. Finally I just firmly tell him no. He reaches for his cellphone... somehow I know this is also going to fit into my analysis of the situation. He shows me the phone and it says "Cihan" along with the number of the house where I live. He is Cihan's friend. All of a sudden he realize that looks familiar. I think I met him on my first day at my apartment. However, as Cihan has a driver who takes him around in his new Mercedes, I hardly expect to see one of his friends on the bus. I have since realized that he is the guy who cleans the hallway. We had a conversation of sorts for the rest of the bus ride. I apologized and hopefully told him that I didn't recognize him. I felt so horrible... he was just riding home from his brother's and I acted like he was a low-level criminal.

So last night, when I was walking along the seaside road in Yenikoy on the European side, I tried not to jump to conclusions when a car stopped next to me and honked. Cars honk all the time here; every dolmus (mini-bus) or free taxi honks as it passes you, just to let you know that they are willing to stop for you. I figured perhaps he was actually signalling someone else, another car perhaps. I walked along a little further until I was nearly at the little road to the pier for the small boats to Beykoz. He pulled up again and stopped near me. Who knows what that was about. Hopefully I can find out more about the MO of these Natashas .. seems to me that slightly ill-fitting corduroys and an oversized jacket hardly seem the costume. And a well-traveled route in a toney neighborhood also seems not what I'd imagine. Yet again, so much to learn and so little time.