Goodbye Cologne

Cologne has been my tough love.

How can I explain?

I came to Cologne three years ago.

Whenever I go to a new city, I get an instant feeling; it is very strong, and it sits in my stomach. It tells me "this city is you..."  or not.  I know how it feels when a city is me. We breath together. All its faces, nice and ugly, are also mine. All its moods, high or low, are also mine. When my guests see my city they see me.

Cologne wasn't me. 

I gave us a try, three years long. It didn't work. It's a pity because it is a nice city. It is full of friendly, open minded and welcoming people. Besides, it is almost at the border of both Holland and Belgium and  this has an effect. There is so much interaction in between these cities due to the vicinity that people almost live together. It is like a shared flat, where each roommate brings in his unique character and cultural background. And this makes life the more interesting, at times challenging, and the more beautiful in this city.

In Cologne you will find many Belgian boutiques, cafes and  restaurants. In the grocery stores you will find much more Dutch food than in other cities. If you go out for tango dancing, your partners will be from Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Antwerp, Brussels, Maastricht even from Lille and Paris. 

Multicultural heaven.

In Cologne there is also a large Turkish community, which also has an effect. At least on me. All this time on all my public transport travels within the city I had to listen to many Turkish stories, about the breaking marriages, about the betraying couples, about the businesses going bankrupt. Very loudly told, very emotionally lived, all in Turkish. 

I know them all.

I didn't have a choice; it happens that I understand Turkish. 

It is a pity that it didn't work with Cologne and me. It is almost like, when you meet someone and admire and respect his or her personality but instantly you also know that there is no affection; and things will not pick up. This is our relationship with Cologne. 

In less than a week I am leaving; going to the south. 

Me and the south. Now, that is a passionate love affair. 

So here am I again, saying goodbye to a city. I do not even know the number of times I have been in this picture; silently saying goodbye to the streets, to the shops and cafes, to the familiar faces behind the counters. Next week the bakery across the street will sell my morning croissant to someone else. I also wonder if and when the man in that little shop where I have been buying water will realize I have stopped coming by. I will miss Museum Ludwig. I loved to go there after the work to see the paintings yet another time. It freed my mind and filled my soul. 

Cologne wasn't me, but I admire its personality. 

I am saying goodbye, while not believing in goodbyes.

I know I will come back; I still have tandas to dance, flammkuchen to eat, friends to see; and many more Turkish stories to listen to on the trams.

On my roots

My friend has a hobby: he is a genealogist. So, his passion is finding out about his family roots. He is German and he has been able trace back his roots that took him to today's Czech Republic. It is not where it stops.  And he will find it out.

I have always admired his passion, yet to me it remained as his passion.  Could not become mine. Did not think much about it either. I liked to listen to him.

Three weeks ago I met some far members of my family, whom I have not known until this age.  My 'new' uncle told me where my family stems from on my father's side.  He is also interested in genealogy, and it has been important for him to find out who we are and where we come from.  

My gran-grandfather came to Turkey from central Asia, more precisely from Uzbekistan. My grandfather and father were born in Istanbul.  Grandma and granddad found each other in Istanbul.

The form of the eyes of my 'new' uncle is like those of a central Asian.  I recalled that occasionally few people have been telling me that my eyes are a little bit like Asian eyes, especially when I was still a child. 

My grandma on my father's side, whom I never met, is a 'sarayli' my new uncle said; which literally means 'from the palace'. So, in general she belongs to a family that lived in the Ottoman palace. She and her family are Ottomans. 

My grandparents on my mother's side come from former Yugoslavia, today's Bosnia-Herzegovina. Grandma and granddad found each other in Adapazari, a small town one hour away from Istanbul.  

It sounds like I am a genealogical mixture: a little bit central Asian, a little bit Ottoman/Turkish, a little bit Balkan.

All of a sudden I have all this information about who I am, where I belong to, where my roots trace back to.  What I feel is relief, and comfort.  I don’t know why. Maybe because I have never felt that I had roots. I have always been on the move; I have lived in different countries, cities, continents, cultures.  It was my choice, and it made me happy. I have cherished the freedom, I still do, and being able to move and not to have to be stuck somewhere. The feeling that the entire world is my home. 

I feel relief and comfort, now that know a bit better about my roots.  That I am not a 'stray bullet' like my grandma would have said... I am the product of central Asian, and European souls, who were seeking new homes in yesterday's Ottoman today's Turkish soil, whose ways and hearts crossed in and around Istanbul.

I have a friend.  He is a passionate genealogist. I understand him much better now. I understand his passion.

My father's Turkey

My father always used to tell me how Turkey and Istanbul once was. His Turkey, his Istanbul.
I loved to listen to his memories as if they were tales.

My father used to tell me Istanbul was a place full of public beaches. Families and singles would hop on a tram, go to the next public beach and spend a nice summer day there.

He used to tell me people would always dress nicely when they went out to the streets, out of respect to the others. They would greet strangers on the streets if their ways crossed. He used to tell people would discuss poetry, politics and arts at long dinners while drinking raki to the fish they ate.

My father used to tell they were proud of their young democracy, they respected those who went to mosques to pray, just as well as those who didn't go nor prayed. Women with head covers were respected as so were those without. Nobody questioned, nobody judged. Nobody asked why their hair were so apparently visible, or why not...Things were just the way they were. 

My father was a kind gentleman, who never said a bad word to anyone, even if the price he paid for it was to be looked down upon or be considered a weak person. He increasingly grew sad to see his Turkey and his Istanbul descent...

He saw Istanbul's streets getting more crowded, and then more crowded and even more crowded, so that it became impossible to greet neither the strangers nor the acquainted faces. He saw people becoming more and more disrespectful to each other because the life got more stressful as the competition for resources got higher and tougher.

My father's Turkey was a place, where everyone were sisters and brothers, no matter what religion, what ethnicity. Everyone was proud to have had established an enlightened republic after the Ottoman Empire and the years of war. Everyone was hungry for knowledge and the word 'human' was written in capital letters. 

My father didn't live long enough to see what I saw.

A week ago I saw the Taksim Square turning upside down...I saw the demolished cars and busses, I saw the young people running away from the police as these were chasing them with pepper gas sprays.

I used to go to operas and to the concerts of the Istanbul Symphony Orchestra with my father at Taksim Square. Now a battle field... I used to get on the bus that crosses the bridge to go to 'our side' with my father at Taksim Square. Now a battle field...I used to go the the Borsa Et Lokantasi to eat the famous 'doner' and the baked milk rice pudding with my father at Taksim Square. Now a battle field...

Then again, I saw the hopeful, determined, proud, open minded young Turks, who sat in front of the beautiful green trees of the Taksim Square to protect them from being torn down...I saw them uniting their hands, minds, dances, songs and hearts to protect the democracy in Turkey. I saw the ray of light at Taksim Square.

My father didn't live long enough to see what I saw.

You plan for one thing, something else happens instead...on being wrong by Kathryn Schulz

I watched this talk of Kathryn Schulz more than once.
It moves me as much each time.

 

She says we are all so obsessed by being right and getting things right because doing so makes us feel good, valuable and safe. Yet, being wrong is a most natural state of being human.

Moreover, we keep thinking we are right, even if we have been wrong all along. 
We don't realize we are wrong, because we are so busy with being right.

Being wrong is ok, being wrong is good, being wrong is human. Being wrong is how the life is. 
It just happens that you are wrong.

You plan for one thing, and something else happens instead. 

Things just don't turn out that way.
She tells the audience to think back on their high-school times. You were all going to marry your high-school sweetheart, buy a house at your home place and raise your children together. 

Something else happened instead.

How was it with you?

I was wrong.

Something else happened instead.

Kathryn Schulz on TED: on being wrong 

On being myself

This last week has been one of those when I needed to think about my identity or identities a little more intensively, again. I read things, had conversations or met new people, who made me think or react in certain ways that I had to reflect upon.

I read an essay from an expat girl from the US, who moved to Australia because of her relationship. She was describing her experiences and feelings in her new home country, and about how she was torn in between the old and the new homes. She felt she no longer belonged to none. Home was neither US nor Australia, while home was both of those places at the same time. She felt she was the 'other' one in both places.

I recalled that I had similar thoughts and feelings once. Am I now Turkish or German? Is my home Germany or Turkey? On top, people kept asking me: where do you feel more at home? Here or there? I basically had to choose between this or that. What a pressure. And honestly I was a bit confused, why do I have to choose? Can I just not be both this AND that?

During the course of the years I also lived in other places: USA, Italy and Sweden. So things  were getting a little complicated. Now, do I have to decide on one from all these five? Which one is my home?  This is when I gave up on it. I decided to belong to all those places and to none. The easiest is just to be myself. In all those places I feel equally at home and not at home. In all those places there are things that I embrace and those That I simply do not understand or can simply live without. And I know that this will be the case wherever I go. Put me to Timbuktu, certain things I will love, certain ones I will learn to love and some will never make it there. This is just the way the world is and the way we are.

Last week I also met someone, a German lady, who returned 'home' after 14 years abroad. She told  me she sometimes feels like an UFO. To begin with, she is no longer that fluent in her mother tounge. I couldn't identify myself with her more....Turkey is home when I smell its smell, when I eat the bread, when I see my family and friends, when I watch the Bosphorus. Turkey is no longer home when I have to think much longer than I used to, to express myself correctly in certain occasions. Or when I have to back up my sentences with English or German words (and they sound sadly pretentious). It stops being home when people behave more rudely than I have experienced in other places. Yet, the same feelings I have for Italy, Sweden and USA also for that matter. I will always be the 'other' at some times and 'one of us' at some other times. In fact, the easiest is just be 'myself' at all times.

Weekend @ El Corte

I came back from a city called Nijmegen in Holland this evening.

I never knew it existed before I moved to Cologne. 

My ignorance.

Now I know  that this little Dutch city is famous for two things: its university and the tango.

There is a tango salon called El Corte there. 

I never knew it existed before I moved to Cologne.

My ignorance.

Tango dancers from as far as New Zealand, South Korea, Urugay.. all knew about this place.

They come there to dance. 

I had been lucky to go there with some friends for the very first time, as otherwise I have had never found the place.

It is just a door, on some backstreet, close to the main train station.

I would have never thought it is a place where you would go to dance.

With tango I  always expect some 'salon' as they call it.

Some elegant place with wooden floor, chandeliers, bistro tables...

Nothing like that.

You open the door, walk in, and all what you see is big a table, some sofa, a kitchen - bar on the left hand side, and somewhere back there is the dance floor. It is just a room. Could have been your living room.
When I first saw it, I thought, hmm so this is the salon that is what they say is world famous... 

After 3 years, I know why it is so famous, and it so much deserves it.

It is about the the place and it is about the people.

All these people, from all over the world come there for their passion. Yes, they are passionate about tango.

And it is so international and this 'salon'...the way it is makes you feel so much like you are at home.

Yes, as if you were at home, you had invited your friends from the rest of the world for coffee, you speak all sorts of different languages, and a common one: tango.

No entrance fees, just caring hosts who make sure you feel well. They serve you coffee, food, they clean and tidy up all the time, they play wonderful music and they smile. If you went there a few times, they know you by name..They want to know where you come from, they pay attention to the detail. 

I remember the first Friday evening I had gone there, after a long work day. I arrived there finally and asked about the entrance fee. They told me: "there is no entrance fee, you came a long way, it is late and you are tired. now just come in and relax..."

Once there, it is amazing how the time passes..I realize how late it is only when I get hungry :) That is usually around 8 pm. So from 1 pm to 8 pm I have been dancing to the wonderful music, or at least listening to it if my feet could no longer carry me dancing, I have been chatting with old and new tango friends from wherever in whatever language.

This time I had wonderful dances with tangueros from France, Latvia, Britain, Holland, Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, Turkey, Scotland, Slovenia, ...I am back home but I still have the music in my ears, and and the things we told each other without having used the words. 

'A Better You' on TED

I recently discovered a series of talks on TED (Ideas Worth Spreading) named 'A Better You.' The talks are about you and your life, it is about the things that may or should matter to you. They make you reflect upon yourself.

They are of varying length, from 3 minutes to half an hour, so that you can perfectly watch one while you are waiting for the bus, or on the train, or just before you go to sleep.

So, how does this 'Better You' look like.

In one talk called "Success is a continuous journey" Richard St. John tells, very briefly, what success did to his life. Success made his life an unhappy one. 

He heartily explains that all the things that mattered to him about his work, like passion, focus, creativity, dedication...brought him the success, success being money. And precisely that made him fail, because he no longer could dedicate himself to the things that mattered to him: to his passion, to his real work, to his creativity. Because the money needed to be managed. He couldn't care for his people, because he had no time to do that. 

So he decided to compensate what he lost through material acquisitions; fast cars, expensive holidays...He bought everything, but one: happiness.

He started to fail, because he was unhappy...The more he failed, the less money he had. And guess what? The more freedom! 

His freedom and his state of having hit the bottom transformed him back to the person he was in the beginning: passionate, creative, dedicated,  hard working, and happy...

It is a heartfelt story of about only 4 minutes. Watch it while you are waiting for your hard-boiled egg to cook.

on TED: Richard St. John "Success is a continuous journey"