So, I am looking for the charm in monotony. Not in the blare of my alarm, or the repeating songs on my iPod as I make my way to work. But in the familiar faces, smells, and sights that I look forward to every day.
In the morning, on my way to work in Kadikoy, on the Asian side, I walk through a small Otopark next to the Kilic Ali Pasa Mosque, where cars are beginning to fill the lot. The proprietor, in a tattered green overcoat and gloves, is directing traffic or collecting money, but he always stops to say “gunaydin” (good-morning). His dark, weather beaten face and scruffy chin contorts into a joyful dimpled smile, half hidden by the upturned collar of his coat. Often he urges me to join him for cay and biscuits in his small shack, where the TV wavers colorfully, but I’m usually late for the ferry so I run past with a wave and a smile.
In the next block, I can’t help slowing down to take in the smell of a tiny bakery, crowded with morning commuters, windows laden with simit and açma. The surrounding pavement is covered in a thin layer of flour, trampled with dirt by shoes on the march. I take a deep breath before moving on. A battered truck is always parked on the corner, overflowing with seasonal produce. Locals and commuters stop to peruse the leeks, pumpkin and celeriac, persimmon, tangerine and pomegranates are prevalent this time of year. The vendor, in thick spectacles and a wool cap, is always doing better business than the supermarket next door, and when I return in the evening his truck has gone. He’s probably sold all his goods and is on his way to gathering tomorrow’s supply.
At the end of the street, I turn a corner and glimpse the water. A line of shoe shiners with their decorative brass boxes are always set up on the sidewalk, sipping tea and waiting for customers. I pass them in my sneakers and they look contemptuous. If I’m early, I watch the ship make a smooth turn to dock as I walk, the deckhands grapple with the worryingly frayed (but reassuringly thick) green ropes that clutch the vessel to the shore, and maneuver planks for disembarking passengers (many of whom have already made a calculated jump to the wharf). Usually though, I’m not. Instead, I fight against the current of discharging commuters to the ticket gates.
On the ferry I make my way to the second floor, where the view is better. I remove my hat, gloves, jacket, and scarf, breathe in seawater and aging wood and sink into the maroon bench of faux leather, the filling sculpted by countless Turkish (and now at least one American) bottoms. I pull out a book but am always too distracted by the scenery to pay much attention. The restless water, kaleidoscopic blue and trafficked with fishing boats, commuter ferries and freighters. The curved domes and pointed turrets of Topkapi. The stark angles and bold colors of cranes and containers at Haydarpasa shipyard. Apartment blocks, built on the rising hills of Kadikoy stare out across the strait with a thousand square and curtained eyes. The rooftops of Cihangir slope dramatically, a jagged stairway of terra cotta tiles descending to the shore. The weather patterns dance across the horizon, the clouds shifting and the light glinting. It feels like only moments before the ferry berths gracefully and we pour out onto the pier.
I walk through the market, past an ancient man in a long graying apron. He lovingly examines his lettuce, pulling away browning leaves and arranging the heads on his stall. He organizes tomatoes and lemons in neat rows, and stacks onions and oranges into perfect pyramids. We look at each other knowingly, but won’t crack a smile. Further on, the apothecary is setting up, pulling up the metal grate in front of his shop and bringing out baskets of olive oil soaps and loofahs, herbal teas and dried fruits, strings of herbs which he hangs from the awning. Down the hill, the tall, bearded owner of a small junk shop in nods his head and smiles from his seat in an old armchair. He places it on the street, a crumbling relic of faded silk, orange foam spilling from a torn seam, and sits awkwardly, long legs sticking up crookedly as he watches passersby. His other wares are much the same. All have seen better days, badly upholstered chairs stacked on old linoleum desks, rusty stove tops aside chipped porcelain lamps.
I’ve almost reached the office by now, just a quick walk along the boardwalk, where a crusty seaman has emerged from his cabin on a tiny boat and made tea on deck, lazily stringing his fishing pole. The stray cats meander towards the smell of raw fish, gathering where a heap of carcasses has been piled alongside his craft. I wrinkle my nose at the stench and hurry by to my office door to let the day begin, and leave the visions of streetscapes outside.
On the clammiest days of summer through the howling winds of the fall, the moments I have spent observing the day to day life of this city’s inhabitants never ceases to peak my curiosity. I only get a tiny window into their lives, but I feel I know them somehow, as they carry out their routine, much like I do.
Until quite recently, another constant in my commute is the sight of paper thin book with a vibrant pink floral cover entitled True Love. Strange enough that the same English title was seen so often when I took the return ferry to Karakoy. The fact that it was being read by a man in his mid-twenties was even more puzzling. Over the next few months, the book consistently entered my line of vision, becoming more and more decrepit each time it was pulled out of the pocket of his oversized black wool coat. And somewhere within that period, its timid reader gathered up the courage to tap me on the shoulder as we were disembarking and muster up an awkward “hello.” I noticed the thin, childlike smile that made his eyes squint, and his small, fumbling hands, both awkward and gentle. He didn’t say another word for several months, just perched behind his pink paperback somewhere in my sightline, smiling excitedly when he caught my eye. He became a part of my daily routine. A familiar face in the crowd.
In late October as I was rushing off the ferry in the midst of a squall, he tapped me again. He handed me a heavy bag, which upon peering inside appeared to be full of dead leaves. I looked up at him, bewildered.
“This is gift,” he said, “from my home village.”
I love gifts. The fact that a complete stranger had wanted to give me a present (bag of leaves or otherwise), was utterly overwhelming. Excitement and gratitude welled up and I could only muster up an awkward and heartfelt thank you (“cok, cok teşekkür ederim”). He simply nodded fervently and smiled his small smile before turning away and marching into the storm. I skipped away, now unconscious of the wind and rain. Once I’d rounded an inconspicuous corner, I felt safe enough to do a thorough investigation. Upon closer examination, I realized that my bag of apparent foliage actually concealed hidden treasures: tiny brown hazelnuts enveloped in the dried leaves.
Now when I see Ahmet on the ferry, we say hello and share a few (effortful) words, and occasionally walk together till our paths part ways. He's finished his bright pink romance novel, and has moved on to an abridged version of Little Women, which he shows me with pride. It's Advanced Beginner level, and distinctly less pink.
It's nice to have a friend on the ferry, but honestly, I enjoy the moments of solitude on my commute. It's then that I can really taste the pastry dust in the air, admire the gulls skim the choppy water, or smile to myself as the man in the market lovingly caresses his artichokes. These people and places are now so recognizable that without knowing it they take the monontony out of life. Each day I pass by wondering what might be different about the scene that's become so familiar. And each day I find something surprising. Not always as surprising as a bag of hazelnuts, but I live in hope...