Harassed in Old Town Istanbul

Not every man is a creep, but the ones who are, spoil it for the others.

First of all, like my time in India, I'd been warned. Twice.

My friend's mother cautioned her that it may not be wise for me, a tall, blonde, Western woman, to travel alone in Istanbul. "Have you ever been to a Muslim country?" my friend asked. "Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia" I replied. "India."

Not the same, she quickly dismissed.

The other warning came from a friend who has friends who have married Turkish men. It did not go well, she said, and both women are now divorced. Do not have a holiday romance with a Turkish man being the moral of the story.

Cairo Time is one of my favorite films. It's with American actress, Patricia Clarkson, and is a visual and soulful feast that starts with a woman traveling to Egypt to meet her husband. He is working for the UN but is delayed from his post, which leaves Patricia largely alone for days unto herself.

Her husband has a local business acquaintance who takes Patricia under his wing, and while this man is very likable and the ultimate gentleman, others, we come to learn, are not.

One such scene demonstrating this is when Patricia's character walks out onto a city street. She is quickly seen and followed by several men.

This has happened to me in Old Town Istanbul (a highly touristic part) three times in four days. That's not counting the constant: "Hello lady" "Where are you from?" "Can I tell you something..." that I endure from the touts the moment I walk out of my hotel door.

Yes, on three consecutive days, I've had a different man follow me, arrive at my side, and start a conversation...and then, what?  They keep at it for a few more go's until thankfully, seem to accept defeat.

These incidents harken back to the time I went swimming in Gokana, India, when I needed to keep swimming further out to avoid the packs of Indian men wanting to grope me underwater.  I'd read about this, and that local Indian men are not great swimmers, so the idea is to swim out to get ahead
and away from them. Unnerving it was.

Back to Istanbul.

I wanted to like this place, I'd heard great things, and friends rave.

The thing is though that I travel as much for the interactions I have with the local people as I do for a place, and this city is tarnished. It's branded with a collective of men who are sleaze buckets and honestly, probably know no better. Or at least, that's the impression.

I loved India - even with its gritty layers - I still loved it. Unfortunately though, India in its dark corners, has a problem with how it treats women. What impressed me however was that news reports do not shy away from this dirty truth. And the local women are right on it (scroll back to posts of mine in 2013 to see my writing on it).

I don't feel that from the Turkish women. I don't feel the resistance...but what do I know? I can't understand Turkish so I can not read the news, nor have I spoken to any Turkish women about it, if
much at all. Language and culture is a barrier and working Turkish women in the tourist parts are scarce.

But it does seem evident in this city, that it is a man's entity, and even when called to prayer five times daily, many are not practicing the virtues of the Qur'an.

Picture: Patricia Clarkson in a scene from Cairo Time.

Istanbul!

Turkish delight

Fresh pomegranate juice!

Halva!

Call to prayer!

Turkish disdain

Leering men!

Intrusive touts!

Traffic!

A stressful morning

I've been part of a Buddhist meditation group for the past few Wednesdays in San Francisco and there's not much more that can test the technique than arriving on a stressful situation.

Travelling solo comes with many perks but it also has its challenges. Much as anything I guess in the sense travelling with a friend or partner can at times be equally lonely and stressful.

I'm not entirely sure why I do it but I regularly throw myself into testing situations. Call it in the vein of personal growth and keeping things fresh.

This morning I was due to catch a 10am ferry to the island Hydra. I was staying at an airbnb in Athens and little did I know but as I left the keys in the apartment to 'check out' I unwittingly locked myself in the building. Unbeknownst to me, the downstairs door leading outside, had been locked and needed a key - the key I had just locked inside the apartment.

I frantically worked this door thinking a good push could unlock it but, no. In less than an hour my ferry would depart and I knew I would likely miss it. The following half an hour was spent sweating from the heat and stress and trying to calm my hurried mind so I could work out what to do. I had already knocked on the two other apartments in the building to no avail and in the end I used a combination of iPad and phone to source contact details and call my airbnb hosts. After a 15 minute wait someone they had rallied by phone came to my rescue. Phew. I was out.

I did miss the 10am ferry and had to wait an additional four hours for the next one at port. I whiled away this dead time reading up on the Australian liberal party's leadership contest at a cafe tucking into a healthy omelette and traditional Greek coffee. A much appreciated respite after an isolating start.

This is the thing about travelling, and especially to countries where English is the second language, if spoken at all. It can do its darnest to test your mettle and the side that reveals itself to you in these circumstances speaks volumes.

During the days, I stroll the streets alone and pass organised tour groups, mostly older people, probably retirees - mindlessly trudging behind their tour guide in numb submission. That's not me, I note, but I know why the sheep do it. Having to report and accord for yourself 24/7 in uncharted territories is not for the thin-skinned.

One thing the meditation and its teachings have taught me, is to breathe through it which helps still the mind and creates the space to think rationally.

I made it to port and was pleasantly surprised to learn that I was able to book the 2pm ferry at no extra charge. Things were taking a turn for the better. That is, until I stepped in shit.


Photo: made it to stunning Hydra - the view from my window.

The Salon Series

Inspired by American writer, Gertrude Stein’s, salon talks in Paris where she hosted the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Pablo Picasso, and Scott Fitzgerald, for hearty and robust discussion in her home, I thought it fitting given I had moved into a beautiful place in Lower Pac Heights in San Francisco, to replicate my own version of the salon series.

Three good friends in PR tech came along on Saturday night and we kicked off with the following topic: A moveable workforce in a disruptive economy still ruled by legacy.

The aim of the evening was to allow candid conversation in a private setting, and thus I've omitted parts, but in general my talk covered:

Despite the ‘disruptive economy’ the way our bosses see the workforce, is still to catch-up. Our employers, and peers around us, are still living with the mindset that a ‘permanent employee’ is best.

To be permanent comes with fitting in and has its organizational perks such as health and dental benefits, vacation and sick leave, and oftentimes, share options.

Permanent is optimal and yet there remains a disconnect, i.e. more and more of these ‘disruptive’ companies want a disposable workforce where they do not really need to invest in the employee, and yet they demand our loyalty.

So we turn to the 'Gig economy' as it’s been coined in recent media articles from top outlets such as the Wall Street Journal and The Guardian.

The article in The Guardian The ‘gig economy’ is coming. What will it mean for work?, written by Arun Sundararajan, a Professor from New York University said:

Today, more and more of us choose, instead, to make our living working gigs rather than full time. To the optimists, it promises a future of empowered entrepreneurs and boundless innovation. To the naysayers, it portends a dystopian future of disenfranchised workers hunting for their next wedge of piecework.

Hillary Clinton warned of the downsides of this informal workforce in a recent economic speech, including the potential erosion of workplace protections, citing Uber as a case in point.

As a contractor, it is on me to provide healthcare and dental. This is where being a permanent employee would have done me multiple favors. 

Professions are changing drastically in scope and the way we work is continuing to be redefined. In the PR and journalism profession alone - we have had a complete overhaul on what is valued and what’s not.

The New York Professor says:

There’s definitely a sense of freedom about being your own boss. With some planning and self-discipline, you can achieve a better work-life balance. But there’s also something comforting and settling about a steady pay check, fixed work hours and company-provided benefits.

It’s harder to plan your life longer term – such as buying a house - when you don’t know how much money you’re going to be making from one quarter to the next.

After working seven continual months as a contractor without taking any vacation or sick days, the end of my consulting gig this month signals time for a much needed rethink on next steps and time for respite. And this break of mine, of course, will be unpaid - as unlike a permanent employee – I do not get paid for vacation leave.

But sometimes, and very oftentimes – one has to ‘disrupt’ themselves by doing things such as fly to the other side of the world, and spend time among other cultures and ways of life, before we can make sense of and find our place in the disruption at home.

Picture:  Gertrude Stein is pictured at the Paris residence she lived in for 33 years, and which became a salon for the artists and writers of the era.

How the death of my mother has pulled rank over my life

With respect to a friend who posted this article to her facebook newsfeed, A Letter To The Motherless Daughters On Mother’s Day, (its content a little too schmaltzy for this Aussie), the action and article spurred me to write my own post.   

Granted the article’s author is still young, 26, and her loss acutely fresh at two years. So I’m not quite sitting in her space, even though, yes, I am a member of the club we've both been forced into kicking and screaming.

I am a motherless daughter and have been since my mother succumbed to breast cancer at age 52.

“Mum dying fucked everything up,” I said in a matter-of –fact tone to my Melbourne shrink. I had been seeing him sporadically for a few years so he knew a thing or two about my story. “It did,” he agreed.

The long and often painful road between then – losing her, five days shy of my 22^nd birthday, and now, turning 41 in July, has covered tough terrain. Wine has been a stoic friend. Cigarettes too (for the naysayers, I haven’t smoked in a while). Her dog, Walt, who I inherited at four and went onto live until he was 17.

Across the years, I’ve turned to these tried and true aids to numb the wound that simply won’t heal.

The challenge for real healing as a person is huge and something I’m only now tempted to really address.  But that’s another blog post.

Friends have helped. Reading, theatre, family, a PR career, yoga, travel, my faith…the usual things one does in life, have helped.

But through the bumpy course, there’s been a lot of destruction both to others and, as a natural by-product, to myself.

In the years since that out-loud acknowledgement to my therapist, I’ve been in a constant battle to win back myself.

Where the exterior often points to a bold and brazen warrior, the person inside is much more complex.  Aren’t we all? 

On losing my mother, a deep sense of abandonment wells inside that heavily spills over when later disappointments come.

“You’re a sensitive person too,” one of my best friend’s Juzi, has long held.

Yes, I am – but my coping mechanism across the years has been to cover this up, play strong. I’ve fought relationship battles wearing an impenetrable shield while spitting harsh words.

Age, wisdom and experience, have taught me one doesn’t win friends, lovers or favour, by being a bitch.  Instead, these days, I work very hard at being more agreeable. We all have our slips but I’m proud of how far I've come.

When mum died, I was thrust into an adult world probably a lot sooner than I was ready.  Being the only female in a nuclear family consisting of father and brother, without that maternal guide - saw me morph into a much more masculine version of myself.  This has never served me well. I’m working on it... less yang, more yin. But I will always be strong, and strong women can be alienating.

I haven’t had a mother to help navigate my adult life, instead turning to my aunties, female work mentors, and taking inspiration from female public figures: actors, politicians, authors, etc, which too has soothed.

More so, it’s been my friends, father, brother and sister in law, that I turn to. Their achievements and grace in handling their own paths and life’s events, encourages me because it is inspiring.

I didn’t marry or have children. I believe losing my mother had quite a bit to do with this. My life was no longer normal without a mother in it, at the young age of 22, so I didn’t place value on leading a normal life.

I didn’t feel pressure to do so either.  My dad and brother showed little interest in these things for me.  And throughout my 20s, while I paved a very successful PR career for myself, my personal life was often teetering the edge of firestorm hell due to residual grief. 

My mother valued work. She was pleased when I was working and wanted me in a good job.  She appreciated education.

I went to university for two degrees, and carved out a 15 year public relations’ career. I’ve often been motivated by knowing this about my mother. I know, in this achievement, she would be defiantly proud.

I’m travelling the world. Why not?  Be free now - for one day, we will be dead.

Looking death in the face of a loved one brings such perspective. Be curious and strive to live a full life. My mother’s courage has burned in me - all this time, throughout my many solo adventures, to India, Africa, Vietnam, USA, Europe, and more.

You can resent family. Mum has three surviving sisters. Each had children of their own, who now (many) have their own children. I look at my beautiful cousins still with their mothers and sometimes resent them.

My younger cousins in their 20s, don’t remember her which at times, can make me sad – but it’s practical, they were less than 10 at the time.

None of this is their fault and I’m sure on some level, me feeling resentful is a very natural response.

On Mother’s Day – not long after my mother’s actual birthday (27 April), I’ll just get on with it.  It’s a day you get through. Yes, it’s noticed and yes, it’s felt. The feeling uncomfortable and strange – amplified today where I could have very well had my own kids to celebrate with.

Yes, if mum were still around, life would be different. Not all good. She was a strong woman. There would be clashes.

She’s not here today, and yet, she is.  I’m still writing about her, remembering her, influenced by her – shaped my life around her - some 20 years on.

Photo: my school friend Sarah Willoughby, who I have known since we were 12, recently shared this picture with me. She was at her parent's house and found it. I don't remember it, but I can assume I'm 21. It wasn't long after this that mum died in anycase. I'm wearing my dad's suede jacket that he wore in the 70s. I used to love wearing my parent's vintage clothes. Mum was always a size smaller, but I could squeeze into a few things!

Not over him?­ My advice is to let other men in.

As those close to me are aware (and some not so close – my ‘open book’ nature revealed), I had a series of knocks in my life last year including two significant romantic blows.  

Significant, in that the courtships' demise hit me hard and I spent too long processing the circumstances and more time again feeling sad.

Suffice to say I have been on my own more often than not – my married brother says: “you do single well,” but of course it’s human nature for us to want more.

And during these long phases of singledom, or when love’s warmth turns cold, I find one of the best tonics for my emotional well-being is to seek the company of men.

It’s not what you think.  I'm not talking rebound, I'm referring to male friendship.

Among my network, I have young male friends; past work colleagues where we continue to support one another in our respective careers; married men – older married men; gay men – the full gamut who have added tremendous support, vitality and colour to my being and especially when the chips are down in the love stakes.

It makes it all the more sweeter when often the qualities I like in these friendships double for those I value in my romantic partnerships.  None of my male friends would qualify as macho - they are kind and caring, make excellent listeners and are good communicators.  We banter on facebook, grab a coffee or drink, and laugh.

It used to be I’d interact with males in a social context only when they were the boyfriend of my better female friend. But the advent of facebook, and I guess age, seems to have opened the door for me to develop deeper male friendships. 

My friend Adrian from Seattle said: “When one cool person finds another cool person, they should hang together.”

Sisterhood has always been important to me, the camaraderie between female-to-female creates a terrific support structure, but there is something about bonding with males.

So next time you get dumped by Romeo or have to reluctantly ‘let go’ of your non-committal, he’s just not that into you love paramour – do what I do and lean on men.

It’s a great lesson that men and woman can be friends despite years of me believing Harry moreover Sally. 

Obviously, I’d been missing out.

Photos:

1. The dapper Spanish men I met in Oslo, Norway on my September trip.

2. During my 2013 travels in India I shared many laughs with the witty and razor sharp local men.

3. When I asked the server for water, one of the men I met in this French group during CES in Las Vegas insisted she bring us champagne.  "Champagne is 'French water'," he said.