Thoughts on the neighborhood

After living in a fairly expat-rich neighborhood in Ankara, I was in for a bit of a shock when I moved to my current neighborhood in Istanbul. As far as I can tell, I am the only Western foreigner living here, and definitely the only single female twenty-something Western foreigner.

This is both a blessing and a curse. My first week here, I wandered into a pide shop to buy bread, and chatted with the owner a bit. The next day, as I walked down a different street, I heard a man turn to his friend to fill him in on me: “She’s American, she used to live in Ankara but now she lives here. She writes and she studied at ODTU.” My conversation with the pideci had spread around the neighborhood in under 24 hours, and almost everyone knew my basic background.

Not everyone remembers that I do live here though; there is a street nearby lined with restaurants catering primarily to tourists, and I walk down it almost every day. Even a month after moving, waiters and restaurant owners chorus behind me as I navigate between groups of German and Japanese tourists: “Excuse me lady! I have a question, do you want to eat? Our fish is the best!” I find the “I have a question” one a bit annoying, as I usually stop to hear what it is, hoping it’s not a request that I eat at their establishment, only to hear “Why aren’t you stopping here for dinner?” or “Do you want a drink? Fish?”

There is one fish restaurant whose staff has figured out that I’m a local. We exchange greetings as I take the corner in front of their tables, me in Turkish and them in English.

I’m not, however the only foreigner in the neighborhood -- not by a long shot. My neighborhood is home to a “migrant guesthouse -- Turkish doublespeak for an illegal immigrant detention center. The people who live there are allowed to stay there, and not much else: they cannot work, they would face problems leaving Istanbul, and I believe their movements within Istanbul, outside of the guesthouse, are restricted as well.

Most of these “guests” are of African origin: the call shops around my neighborhood prominently advertize their rates to Somalia, Congo, Libya and Ethiopia. It’s actually quite odd, I’ve seen more pagnes here than I have since leaving Niger; I keep meaning to ask if there’s a Turkish source for them.

I do wish that the government would allow the migrants to work legally, as I’d love to see some migrant-operated businesses in the area (especially restaurants -- Turkey has a dearth of ethnic food and I would absolutely love to find a place selling shinkafa da wake or fari masa, or serving up fresh cold glasses of byssop). I occasionally see a migrant or two working, clearly under the table, in one of the small tailoring factories that dot the neighborhood.

I do think I enjoy my current neighborhood more than I'd enjoy living in one of the "expat-heavy" areas -- Cihangir, for instance, although I do find myself walking around that neighborhood quite often. There's just something to be said for walking down the village-like streets of my neighborhood, where if everyone doesn't know my name, they do know who I am.