Shopping for Unmentionables: Buying Underwear in Turkey

As a young teenager I was a tomboy, so getting my first bra wasn’t something I looked forward to. When the fateful day came my mum took me to a long established Sydney department store for a proper fitting. There we were attended to by a woman with an enormous, shelf-like bust. On this rested a chain, attached to eye glasses, propped onto the end of her nose, and a measuring tape. Instructing me to take off my T-shirt she quickly whipped the tape off her neck and put it around me, all the while commenting to my mum, accompanied by intermittent laughter, about youth, size and perkiness. Already feeling mortified, I remember just wanting to die when she helped me put on the bra by popping her hands into the cups to ensure I had it on properly, lifting and plumping up my breasts in the process.

Fast forward some twenty years later to Kayseri, central Turkey, where I discovered men, and not women, working in underwear shops. Despite the fact I wasn’t brave enough to venture into any of the shops I saw, those feelings of intense embarrassment came flooding right back. They increased even more when I learnt the men would just look at you closely to determine your size. If budget was an issue, you could always buy a bra at the weekly outdoor markets, where the procedure was very similar, only with a much larger audience. Regardless of venue, the idea was that you bought the bra size the seller suggested and tried it on at home. If the size was wrong you could take it back and exchange it for one with a better fit. As a result there was no limit to the number of times people told me to wash any new bra really well before wearing it, as you never knew how many people had worn it before you.

Now I live in Istanbul and can buy my bras in modern, anonymous seeming department stores. I’ve overcome my tomboy resistance to the idea of wearing bras and now choose luxurious underwear over utilitarian garments, but my early shyness about discussing underwear preferences remains. As well, I’m an Australian in Turkey, a foreigner, and as I’ve written in my book Exploring Turkish Landscapes, Turkish fashion is very different, as are body shapes. I have broad shoulders and a strong torso, whereas Turkish women generally have narrow sloping shoulders atop petite thin frames. Finding a bra line I like, let alone one that fits me, is a challenge.

Recently I went to my favourite shop and flicked through the bras on offer. The racks were full of limpid pastels and insipid shades of nude, ecru and washed out coffee, but I wanted something bright and bold. As I was hovering, trapped by my indecision, a sales assistant pounced. On hearing my dilemma she said, yes, I did have broad shoulders and small breasts, so I could do with some more support and bolstering. Just in case I hadn’t understood her Turkish she firmly grasped the objects in question, one in each hand, and pushed them high on my chest to demonstrate her point.

Biting down on the chagrin her comments and actions caused, I stayed true to my promise to try new things and break out of my comfort zone. For the next forty minutes I tried on an array of bras whether I liked the fabric, the color or the style. After a while I was happy to hear her tap on the change room door so I could open it and see what new goodies she had to offer. I finally left the shop happily clutching a bag containing a bra and knicker set in deep purple that offered the magic she promised to find me.

In contrast, buying underwear at my small local Alışveriş Merkezi (a local shop given the grand title of ‘Shopping Center’) is a different experience all together. ‘Unmentionables’, whether for men, women or children, really are unmentionable in this type of Turkey. They’re safely hidden away on the mezzanine floor so you either have to already know they are there, or send out a search party to find them. Some stores even have screens to shield the unsuspecting from accidentally catching sight of these forbidden items. Once you’ve made your selection you have to wait for the girl to wrap them in paper, and place a sticker showing the price on the outside of the packet. Only once this is completed can you descend the stairs and head for the cash desk, where you hand over your packet, careful not to catch the eye of the man who is trying not to show he knows what you’ve bought.

Naturally I learnt about this system when I took some underpants straight downstairs, unwrapped, and handed them directly to the man at the cash desk. He looked at me in horror and demanded to know why they weren’t wrapped. While I stood at the cash desk trying to unravel his Turkish to understand what I’d done wrong, he futilely called out for the girl to come and handle the aforementioned unmentionables. Finally he wrapped the offending items in paper himself, with such a scandalized look on his face that I found it hard not to laugh.

These days, shopping for underwear is something I look forward to because I never know what to expect. Whether I go to an upmarket store staffed by open-minded women with a hands-on attitude, or to a small shop staffed by the local version of the morality police, I always come home having learnt something new about this fascinating and sometimes confusing country I choose to live in.

To read more of Lisa’s Turkish adventures, check out her blog here.