A thin slice of Istanbulites and others around the world
Come summer, the coastline between Ortaköy and Kuruçeşme in Istanbul lights up with stupendous nightclubs filled every evening by the rich and the powerful.
Four years ago or so, one evening I asked my husband and daughter whether they would accompany me to one of these spots, and so we went. The owner came up and kissed my hand and asked me what type of food we would like. I asked him what he meant. He pointed to the upper balconies surrounding the half-a-football-field-sized nightclub and indicated that we could have Chinese, fish, kebap, French, Italian or whatever kind of cuisine we wanted. I told him I preferred to be close to the waterfront and so we were seated at the edge of an upper-level restaurant.
When the waiter handed us the menus I asked him what he would suggest. He insisted that the chef's surprise was full of delicacies and so we gave in and ordered as he suggested. As the place began filling up I noticed that everyone was beautifully dressed and mostly preferred to form a ring around the bar, take a drink in their hand and stare. That's right. Only a few people were conversing, and the rest were mostly checking out who was there and what they were wearing. (I'll get to this shortly.) As it turned out, our chef's surprise was nothing more than a series of Turkish coffee cups, first filled with pickles, then one full of grated carrots and another with finely chopped rokka salad. And so it went. One cup followed by another. The final mighty cup landed at the end when we received the bill.
Anyway, there is a group of Istanbulites who must get a power kick out of appearing at these spots. You must, first and foremost, arrive in a 4 x 4 Range Rover that has got to cost over $125,000. Then you have to hand your car keys over to a lad who may have arrived from his village a few weeks ago and ask him to park your car, which, in short, is called valet parking.
You have to be dressed well. All your outer gear must have a designer label. The girls should have been at the hairdresser for over two hours and dressed in as low-cut a top and as short a mini-skirt as possible. Any lady over size six and with dark hair is simply not allowed in. Thank God I went there before this rule was passed through our Parliament. I could have passed the size limit bit, but it is the lack of blonde hair that would have caused me concern.
The men have to pass through the scrutiny of the “entrance bodyguards” who are more strict than British customs officials at Heathrow, who I am told are as powerful, if not more, as the British prime minister. One wrong glance at those bodyguards and they have the power to cut you to pieces, pack you tightly in saran wrap and spit you out towards the paparazzi cameramen who are waiting to record such a scene.
Dropping in at one of these nightclubs on a Saturday night is a power trip of the first degree. It says so many things.
1. I am rich.
2. I have a fancy car
3. I am available
4. I am “looking”
5. How did I earn my money? Never you mind. It's in my pocket, isn't it? Are you here to eat the grape or to beat the vineyard owner?
6. All my clothes are expensive
7. I am powerful, powerful, powerful…
Reading the above you'd think I'm objecting. No, no, no. I'm just showing a slice of Istanbulites from my perspective, albeit a very, very thin slice.
This slice of life is not peculiar only to Istanbul. It is the same in New York, Paris and London.
This is becoming a materialistic, status-symbol-conditioned, power-searching world.
June 17, 2006
AYŞE ÖZGÜN
http://www.turkishdailynews.com.tr/article.php?enewsid=46472
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