The Heat of Summers Present and Past

I’m pretty sure we hit traffic the first time I visited Ortaköy. I distinctly remember being in a taxi for what felt like ages, my sweaty back sticking like velcro to the fake leather seat. Matt, who was sitting in the front, pointed out the photographs of Atatürk lining the boulevard; his favorite was the picture of Atatürk doggy-paddling in the sea. I would have given anything to be swimming with the big man at that exact moment.

Matt, a friend of a friend, was taking us to Ortaköy to give us a taste of life outside of Taksim, where we were staying, and Sultanahmet, where we were poking around during the day. He was older, like my traveling companion, Anne, though certainly not older than my current age of 28. Back then, when I was still in college, anyone over 24 seemed beyond my reach. Not necessarily cooler or more knowledgeable, but rather possessing something that I distinctly did not have and could not access. A currency I couldn’t buy, a language I couldn’t speak; I felt a mixture of awe and insecurity.

I had experienced a new depth of loneliness that summer. Living in Ankara, immersed in a real and living language of which I knew nothing, even though I was desperately trying to learn. I was one of the only native English speakers in my TÖMER class, and my host family spoke no English. With no computer, I would spend stifling evenings in internet cafes filled with teenage boys, typing out emails with no paragraph breaks to family, friends and my sort-of boyfriend. Afternoons brought me to the edges of the city; I walked to places of questionable appeal (although the air conditioning in the newly-built Armada mall was always worth it).

Anne, a graduate student at my university, was introduced to me by a professor visiting Ankara and, finding herself in a similar situation, we quickly became travel buddies (when we could actually coordinate travel in our cell phone-siz states). After both of our programs ended, we made the trek to Istanbul to remind ourselves just why we decided to study this language in the first place. With long skirts and cardigans, we traipsed to mosques and monuments; the marble burned bright in the August sun.

It’s August, that month when Istanbul feels both full and empty at the same time. There’s a haze coating the city’s impressive vistas, and there’s talk in the newspapers of the hottest day of the year. Every year I think I’m ready for it, for the twice-a-day showers, the constant sweatiness, the lazy brain. But each year I feel betrayed and deceived — I don’t remember signing up for this heat, and it was most certainly not this hot last year. I have to start over again, build up my tolerance from scratch.

The buses are where the heat hits me the most. After work I hop on in Kabataş and immediately stick my head out the window, ignoring the puzzled stares of the other passengers. Thankfully the bus keeps moving at a steady pace, producing something of a breeze. But then comes Besiktaş — I look on in horror at the hordes of people that immediately rush the door when we come to a stop. All those tourists going to Ortaköy; having lived there the past two years, I’ve mostly forgotten the neighborhood’s appeal in light of the constant crowds. We pack in, and I continue to sweat through my business casual attire. I pray that the traffic on the sahil yolu isn’t at a standstill, or, if it is, that it doesn’t stretch to Çırağan — I’m not wearing my best walking shoes. But as we go, those photos of Atatürk mark our pace. We stop right in front of the one of him doggy-paddling, happy and carefree. It reminds me of Matt and Anne.

For all its immediacy, its power to focus your energies on the discomfort of the present moment, the heat can also muddle time. That first encounter with Ortaköy in 2006 came back to me. I remember trying to use my basic Turkish with the kumpir vendors, a bit embarrassed when Matt stepped in to help. We sat on the bench that now serves as a makeshift work space for the man selling wish lanterns to tourists; I mostly listened as Anne and Matt discussed grad school, telling the story of how they came to study what they studied. The night ended with a visit to the print shop, where we thumbed through old maps of Istanbul and painted scenes of former decadence along the Bosphorus.

It’s different now: Ortaköy. The flea market that used to only take place on Sundays has become a permanent fixture, and the wares have become decidedly tackier. The print shop has lost most of its charm. I, too, am different — gainfully employed, married, no longer intimidated by age (or at least not in quite the same way). Walking off the bus and up the hill to my apartment, I recognize how far I’ve come; I now inhabit an adulthood I couldn’t have imagined back then. Yet this heat, this goddamn heat, persists, and the sticky sweat brings me right back to that girl feeling lonely and nervous and eager and lacking on her first visit to Ortaköy. It’s strange, to feel so removed and yet so absorbed in a moment. But a car honks, and I’m at my building, ready to climb the stairs to my apartment and finally stop sweating.

Emma Harper is a contributor to Yabangee. You can find her tweeting about the sweaty mess that is summer @emineharper.