Some things (should) never change

Post-lockdown musings on daily commerce in an eternal city

I do love the nest of my neighborhood in Istanbul, but venturing out gives its own frisson, so I do it as much as I can. The lockdowns we had in Istanbul during the fiasco-filled period of 2020-2022 were of a draconian nature that, strange as it may sound, the very act of leaving the hood now in 2024 can still seem like a thrilling act of defiance. Yesterday I went a familiar route, driving towards the Galata area, parking, and taking the elevator up through the massive carpark that lies at the base of one of Istanbul’s oldest areas, the Pera/Galata neighborhood. Normally a social person, I also crave some alone-time wanderings, especially when it’s for ultra-random errands, and yesterday’s fit the bill: lightbulb shopping, picking up a lamp that had been dropped to be fixed, and looking for new artsy tiles to help decorate the front of our house. This to-do list positioned me perfectly to intersect with “Şişhane,” (pronounced Shishane) a sort of subsection of Pera and Galata, famous for its lamp and all-things-lighting-related shops. It’s one of those areas of Istanbul that literally makes me breathe better, just knowing that people have gone about their daily business here for millennia.

Stepping out of the carpark elevator and into the air of Galata had exactly the effect I was hoping for; I mean, maybe it was the bright blue of the sky and the fact that the sun was finally showing its face after a firm week of steady gray, but I choose to believe that the spiritual remnants of the city, in all their layers, *always* make me feel better when I bathe in them. Wending my way to my usual lamp store (yes, I have a lamp addiction, but I’ll save it for a later post), I stared surreptitiously at the faces of the (mostly) men coming in and out of stores, hoisting boxes and talking loudly to each other over little cups of tea; I was searching, as I always do these days, for outward signs of change. And maybe even more, for reassurance that things are still the same.

I got my reassurance, in spades. I realised, as I carefully picked out 4 lightbulbs after picking up my lamp, (for which I paid by sending 500 Turkish lira through my bank app to the shop owner’s account, the sole concession during this whole process to the fact that we do now live in 2024), that the sweet nothings tossed off during interactions with other humans as we go about our daily lives are quite literally the anchors that hold our ships steady while life buffets us with rough waves. And those sweet nothings have not changed. Like when the man testing my new lightbulbs for me on a little panel hung on the wall of his tiny shop offered me tea and a seat, an offer which seemed extravagant compared to the measly amount he and I both knew I’d be spending. He perhaps knew I wouldn’t accept the offer, and of course I had no intention of accepting it; but the very making of the offer itself is where the magic lies. It’s precisely that sort of verbal ritual that both defies the fast onset of online shopping (though not as much in Turkey, where I don’t think it’s taken off the way it has in other countries), but more importantly affirms the value of human interaction for us all. Somehow, to be lovingly forced into a verbal dance with someone you don’t even know, just because you are buying something, quite literally KEEPS us human, and more importantly, preserves our humanity. It even manages to elevate simple commerce into an art. “Here, have these light bulbs, but also, you look tired..would you like a little sip of tea and a seat while I box these for you? Let me wrap your lamp and put it into a bag for you; are you sure you can carry it? Do you need some help getting it to your car?..”

A second tea offer over the course of an hour came from my final stop before leaving Şişhane, which was the carwash (on the second floor of the carpark), where, in a fit of luxury meets practicality, I had decided to drop the car off when I arrived. I came back to the carwash a few minutes before it was ready, and there too was offered a glass of tea and a seat while waiting; this time I accepted, as the price for a gleamingly washed SUV has now risen to an eye-watering 500 Turkish lira (we are the proud owners of almost-Argentine levels of inflation here in Turkey), and besides, by now I really *was* grateful for a seat.

There is no moral to the story here. Well actually, there is also no story here, just a glimpse of daily life and the bits and shining parts of it that steady me, when I head out looking for them here in Istanbul. It is also a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same, which is as priceless as it is reassuring.