OK, I’ll admit it: I hate these lists. They’re usually a shortcut to thinking. Besides, I’ve always fancied myself more an impressionist than medievalist, so I don’t feel the need to label and categorize everything.
Having said that, the metro ride can be long at times. You find all sorts of random things popping into your head. The other day, on the train from Esenler to Yenikapı, this series of observations began ticking themselves off, a kind of mental tapdance that helped speed the journey along.
What set it off? Most likely it was some bit of minutia, the stuff you notice day in and day out, then forget the second you get off the train. Like the guy – literally the same guy – who always races you for the standing position right next to the doorway. That guy is your metro twin, your transit doppelganger. Sometimes you win, other days he wins.
You’ve never spoken, but in some ways, you feel like you know your metro twin better than you do your own blood brother. And that’s just plain weird. It’s Seinfeldian.
Or it’s a sign you may have been in Istanbul too long. Or just become an Istanbullu.
Other possible signs may include, but are not restricted to: Random guys address you as “Abi.” (“Abi, is this the train to Kadıköy?”) Long ago, they would take one look at you, say “Pardon!” and ask somebody else.
You greet people by slightly bowing your head, placing your hand over your heart and patting it.
You prefer saying “Kolay gelsin” to the rather mundane“Merhaba.”
Your coffee is served automatically with milk, no matter how many times you say “Sade kahve!”
You find yourself running to catch the metro, even though you know you have five minutes to spare.
On the same note, you actually time your commute to and from work and rejoice whenever you shatter your old record. (“Sultangazi to Üsküdar in just 46 minutes! Yeah, bitches! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”)
You start shaking your head going “Tut! Tut! Tut!” whenever somebody or something displeases you. You always hated that sound (and still do).
You follow up the “Tut! Tut! Tut!” with a loud “Allah! Allah!” at least once a day.
“Of yaa!” Yep, you throw that one too now and again. It’s kind of a catch-all.
You talk about winning the lottery. And buy a lottery ticket.
When visiting someone’s apartment, you compare it to yours – with yours (sigh!) always coming out on the losing end. Why can’t you win the lottery-ya?
Virtually all of your other yabancı friends have gone – or married.
You give the taxi driver directions on how to get from Kadıköy to Üsküdar. Or anywhere for that matter.
You don’t tip nearly as much as you used to.
You’re able to guess, with a high degree of accuracy, where tourists are from at a single glance.
You complain endlessly about enflasyon (followed by a few “of yaa!” and “Allah Allah!”) You recall the halcyon days when a bottle of ayran cost 3 TL.
You follow the dollar-lira exchange rate. And actually care.
You have a “bacanak,” or brother-in-law. (You greet each other with ecstatic cries of “Bacanak!”)
You say “Harika!” at every opportunity. “I had kebab last night.” “Whoa, harika!”
You say “Taksim is not what it used to be!” In fact, you can’t remember the last time you were in Taksim.
You don’t go out much. Why would you, what with enflasyon, ya?!
(Oh, yes – you end sentences with an emphatic, ya?! As in the sentence above)
You cut in front of people at the market without giving it a second thought. Why should you?
You start running conversations with dolmuş drivers as if you have known them all your life.
You converse with street cats on a regular basis. And you imagine they talk back.
You don’t read Orhan Pamuk anymore. The other Orhan – Kemal – is much better.
You’ve watched the bakkal owner’s kids grow up.
You can sing at least one Barış Manço song.
You wonder when people will ever stop referring to you as the “yabancı.” (“The yabancı wants to know if he can pay by credit card.” “The yabancı wants to know where the bathroom is.”)
You know now that Haliç actually means “estuary.” All that time you thought it meant “Golden Horn.”
You don’t get lost anymore. And for some reason, that makes you feel a little bit sad.
Well, I could probably keep going. Doubtless, reader, you have probably whipped out your own list, and are as we speak comparing notes. I’d be interested in your thoughts on anything I might have missed. And if my metro twin happens to be reading this (who knows, right? He probably is, the mountebank!) then I’ll be seeing you soon. That door spot is mine, ya!
James Tressler, a former California journalist, has written several books about his adopted city, including “Strait Fiction,” a short story collection published late last year. He lives with his wife Özge and cat Ginger in Üsküdar.
