When I stepped out of the restaurant the snow was falling. Since I learned, two weeks ago, that the Turkish word for snow is kar, I can’t help thinking of Ka and Orhan Pamuk’s book.
Our party broke up and I was left to take the tram home. Cars were logjammed over the tracks, meaning no tram could pass. The wind was suddenly fierce. I was suddenly underdressed. Trams in both directions were stationary as were the cars intervening their path. The visibility dropping, the source of the obstruction was abstract.
Then emergency vehicles rushed up the tracks only to be halted by the gridlock. Now this was a sight, fluffy snow blown horizontal by cutting wind, three ambulances and five police cars sirening to no avail, trams backed up in both directions and endless honking cars unmoving.
I can see the Blue Mosque from the window of my new hotel room. It was $25/night. That’s what prices in low season have come to in Turkey.
The man who checked me in is from Egypt. He lost his job for a British Petrol company when Egypt nationalised the companies a couple years ago. He came to Turkey in hopes of a better economic situation. Since the attempted coup tourism has been very bad, he tells me, and it has only gotten worse and worse since the attacks. He has a family back home. Fluent in French (his second language), Arabic, and English, he says he has no interest in learning Turkish, “That’s a matter of opinion I guess,” he laughed when I said it was an easy language to learn.
There are Russians spending Christmas here in Sultanahmet despite recent events. Many of those who were snapping snow photos with me in the late hours were Russians.
There is much more, but I’m up early tomorrow. This from Snow (remember, our protagonist Ka is snowed into staying in a parochial albatross-town of his past):
Outside, the snow was falling thicker and faster than ever; just the sight of it made Ka feel lonely. He was also worried that the westernized world he had known as a child might be coming to an end. When he was in Istanbul, he had returned to the streets of his childhood, looking for the elegant old buildings where his friends had lived, buildings dating back to the beginning of the twentieth century, but he found that many of them had been destroyed. The trees of his childhood had withered or been chopped down; the cinemas, shuttered for ten years, still stood there, surrounded by rows of dark, narrow clothing stores. It was not just the world of his childhood that was dying; it was his dream of returning to Turkey one day to live. If Turkey was taken over by a fundamentalist Islamic government, he now thought, his own sister would be unable to go outside without covering her head.
I didn’t read Snow in the original Turkish but at times our guide Ka cartoonifies (as it does above) and plays according to (arguably) false dichotomies of certain narrative machines.