Via Prague: Hiding on the Silk Road

I have been staying at a bachelor's pension (at least that's the name of the place in Turkish) the past week. It's a small, clean place not far from Zafer Plaza. The proprietor is a gentleman in his late fifties or early sixties, although that's just a guess on my part. He keeps a bed in a small room near the front desk, and in the early morning, he wakes, says his daily prayer on the floor, and then recommenses his post at the desk. There is also a woman who appears in the mornings and who takes care of the cleaning.
They are friendly people, and I am ashamed to say I haven't asked their names yet. They are very curious that I am American (I can see in their faces, what the hell is he doing in Bursa?) but at the same time anxious to look after my comfort. Language can sometimes present difficulties; for example the other day they kept asking to leave my keys, and only after much gesticulating and head shaking, was it finally understood that they wanted me to leave my key on Tuesday morning so that my room could be cleaned while I was out.
The room itself is simply furnished, two beds, a desk and a small wardrobe. The walls are painted a flat dull yellow. On the wall, some past guest scrawled on the wall in pencil, 'The Turk.' The bathroom 's in the hallway. There is hot water in the evenings and for three hours in the morning. The toilet is the old-fashioned Turkish style, where you sort of squat over a ceramic hole and use a nearby pitcher of water for -- well, best to leave it at that. On Saturday and Sunday mornings I have early classes at the school, and the proprietor, at my request, comes up and knocks at the door at seven. The mornings are chilly, and the water is not always hot, more often a tepid warm. Nude, shivering, I scurry back to the room for a quick dress.

Most mornings I leave about nine or ten. By then, the streets are alive; there is a bazaar that runs several blocks, twisting and turning through narrow streets. These street markets are a staple of Turkish cities. Pressed trousers for 15 lira hang from string, varipatterned rugs wave like exotic flags in the wind; armies of shoes, galaxies of watches, armadas of hats; women's scarves of a thousand colors and prints, a reminder that in ancient times Bursa was a mark on the map of the Silk Road, connecting then, as it still does, albeit in a more general sense, the world's of Europe and the Far East. As you pass, the street hawkers cry out like barkers, naming prices in a steady staccato.
And then there are the cafes and restaurants; in fine weather people sit outside under awning, sipping tea in hour-glass-shaped glasses. At the restaurants you can see men with flour-stained hands assembling lahmaju, a kind of Turkish pizza, served with lettuce and parsley and lemon. Delicious!

On the main streets traffic moves at a sort of brisk creep, if that makes any sense. Taxis pass by the dozen. Sometimes I walk all the way from the pension to work, about twenty minutes' journey; other times it's nice to wave down a cab and, for three to five lira, depending on the driver, get dropped off at Zafer Plaza.
The plaza, by the way, is home to a shopping mall, but not one of those sprawling terminals you'd find in America. Rather, viewed from the surface, you behold a glass pyramid, similar in form and style to its obvious inspiration in Paris. The effect is a bit jarring, yet, when viewed from a certain perspective, especially with the minarets of the mosques in the background, the pyramid gradually makes itself more at home here to the passing eye than it does alongside the classically inspired architecture of the Louvre.

Anyway, a good part of the shopping center is underground, and there are five or six levels, including a food court, ranging from the inevitable (a McDonald's) to the surprising (Popeyes chicken! No way! I vaguely recall eating at a Popeyes in an unremarkable episode of childhood, but seriously, a Popeyes?). Actually at the McDonald's you can buy what is billed as the McTurc, which is a spiced beef patty served in a kind of pita bread; there is also a Köfte sandwich, essentially a burger with a dash of curry. Not bad, actually. Interesting to observe that here, as in Prague, the food court is usually crowded with young people, in twos and threes, teen-agers, who nibble french fries and burgers while sending mobile texts.
On the way into the shopping center, you pass through a security gate. A guard asks you to hand over your mobile phone and wallet while you pass through the scanner, then they hand these items back. No one cares about you on the way out.

In the evenings, now that winter is approaching, it gets dark around five o'clock. The markets in the streets are still busy, and there is a chill in the air. Near the pension is a music bar called Leman, a three-storied place with an open garden and live music nightly. Popular with young Bursites, it has become my regular hang-out similar to the Zaba in Prague. After the past week or so, all the staff know my name (but then, how many James live in Bursa?) and I've gotten to know a few of theirs. Smoking is forbidden in bars and restaurants, but it's OK in the garden, and in Leman's case, the third story serves by tacit agreement as a smoking area.
Most evenings classic rock, the Beatles, Pink Floyd, can be heard on the jukebox, which pours the music out into the garden. The live music starts about eight, and it's usually Turkish young people singing Turkish music. The melodies are often searching, melismatic, passionate but melancholy, as much of Turkish music seems to be. Some nights the crowds are indifferent, preferring to drink glasses of raki or Tuborg beer (strangely, Efes, the most popular Turkish beer, isn't served here) and talk amongst themselves. But sometimes, particularly if it's a popular song, the crowds will join in, singing along in plaintative whispers.

It was at Leman that I met Ozlem. She was sitting at a nearby table one night with a friend. Out of curiousity, and because they felt I was lonely, they offered to join me. They spoke some English, and over the course of the evening we hit it off, and by evening's end had traded Facebook names.
Ozlem (pronounced Urz-lem; think "Ursula") is 31, but looks like she's in her early twenties, and has close-cropped hair that has passed through several stages of strawberry blonde in the week or so I've known her, a reflection of her changeling personality. She's a modernist; aware of how paltry and insufficient that word can be in these times, I suppose you could say she firmly distances herself from the women you see in the streets wearing burkas "I believe in God," she says, "but I am not like this --" making a gesture of tying a phantom silk scarf under her chin, a fashion common among more conservative Turkish women. She enjoys going out for beers with her male friends, going to the cinema (she loves horror films and Mickey Rourke -- the young Mickey Rourke. "'Barfly.' 'Rumblefish,'" she says, with careful distinction, though she also liked "The Wrestler").
We went out together, Ozlem and I, one night and she showed me a few other places. We stayed out late, and as we went to get a cab, she took my arm and moved close against the cold. A few stares, some curious, some resentful, greeted us along the way, stray young Turk guys out in the night before we found a cab and headed home. I asked Ozlem about the people who looked at us, but she waved them off.

The next morning at the pension I awoke feeling a little uncertain, like things had gone too far too fast. Sure, she is a 'modern girl,' but here there could be problems perhaps if there was a misunderstanding, or an expectation. I sent her a message thanking her for the evening, but the next few nights I had classes and I felt a little relieved to have a reason for not seeing her. Funnily enough, one day, while on Facebook, I updated my status report with one of those elliptical comments that are supposed to be clever or what used to be called jocular --
. "James ... is in hiding."
Several friends in America of course replied, "From what? From who?"
Ozlem wrote expressing concern. She thought I might be in trouble.
A couple of evenings later we met again at Leman, and passed another good evening. Afterward, we walked to one of her friends' flat and hung out for awhile, and then she walked with me back. We were both a bit drunk, but still it was nice walking together and Ozlem took my arm again. By now it was understood that my Facebook comment had been just a stupid joke and we laughed about it.
"Everything will be OK," she said, kissing me. "Don't worry. Don't hide."

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