Objective

To discern essential cultural differences and between the cities of Rio de Janeiro and Istanbul, focusing on two primary points of analysis: cats and old men.

I. Cats

The majority of local street cats I happened upon in Rio were mangy, flea-ridden creatures. They prowled around the neighborhood of Santa Teresa in small gangs, suspiciously eyeing all passers-by and looking tough until the local dogs were out on their walks. There was one crazy lady who put food out for the cats, but their gaunt, scrawny frames were a testament to the insufficiency of her efforts. The rest of the neighborhood was tolerant of the unsightly, unfortunate things, but one would have been hard-pressed to find anyone harboring much affection for them (outside of the crazy cat lady, of course, but there was a reason we all called her crazy).

Upon my arrival in Istanbul, one of the first things I noticed was a rather tubby cat stretched out in the middle of a sidewalk outside of our hostel. I watched it for a short while, as it lazily rolled in and out of the sun, and noticed that the animal possessed no trace of predatory tendencies. This cat was not a hunter. It was not sleek, sly or cunning. It was a sluggish, fat and arrogant. I was puzzled for a few minutes, but then reasoned that it must be a domestic animal that had found its way into the street. There was no way that any self-respecting street cat would be caught in such a state of indolent lethargy.

As our first week progressed, however, I found more and more pudgy felines puttering around in the streets, in markets and outside of fast-food joints. Unless Turks are utterly incompetent at keeping their pets indoors, my escaped-domestic-animal hypothesis was incorrect. I could not figure it out. At one point, I decided the difference might be explained by the street foods of each city. Brazilians prefer their snacks deep-fried, and fried balls of manioc paste stuffed with meat or cheese leave little in the way of street-droppings. Döner kebabs, on the other hand, which are shavings of cooked meat (usually served between two slices of bread) that can be found on most every street corner in Istanbul, seem to be designed such that half of the meat must fall to the ground. I was rather proud of my explanation until I discovered that I was once again wrong. The truth is that Turkish people just love cats. They feed their street cats. They leave cat food outside of their shops, restaurants and homes, and sometimes butchers even leave bits of offal out for the animals to feast on. One of the neighborhoods, Cihangir, is specifically known for its beloved street cat population. Perhaps the crazy cat lady from Santa Teresa should look into moving here. I have a feeling she would fit right in.

II. Old Men

One of my favorite scenes in Rio was that of old men drinking beer outside of the bars and small restaurants that dot the streets. The men were usually in pairs or groups of three, sipping from small glass cups as they sat around plastic tables with a big bottle of beer between them. I have heard that sharing large bottles of beer is a common phenomenon across Latin America, and I believe that the practice offers an interesting insight into the region’s drinking culture. Beer out of oversized bottles inevitably becomes a shared commodity, and the effect is not unlike breaking bread with a friend. The sharing of beer might even improve upon the metaphor, since no amount of bread would induce an individual to drunkenly profess his or her love to said companion.

In Istanbul, there is no such beer-soaked camaraderie among the elderly. Being the cultural and historical capital of an Islamic state, alcohol is much less publicly visible in Istanbul than one might expect of a major European city. Old men here sit outside just the same, but outside of nargile (hookah) cafés rather than bars, drinking tea rather than beer as they focus on the tavla (backgammon) board between them. There is no laughing or smiling. These are serious men playing a serious game while sipping tea out of voluptuous little glasses. The conviviality of shared libations in Rio replaced by the thrill of competition, the sweet taste of victory and the bitterness of defeat. Welcome to Istanbul.

Further Reading

Ethnic differentiation abilities aside, I have found that the bulk of my interactions and experiences in foreign cities are more predicated on how I am physically perceived than any effort or cultural understanding on my part. In Brazil, for example, when I was clean-shaven and wore my hair tied back, I was almost always mistaken for a native. Since I was not living in the best of neighborhoods, I accepted my faux-Brazilian identity whole-heartedly and never carried a backpack for fear of being labeled a tourist. In Istanbul, in spite of my handsome moustache, I stick out like a sore thumb. My skin is too dark to allow me to seem Turkish, and while there are plenty of fair-skinned tourists, I have seen almost no South Asians since I arrived. Since assimilation is futile, I have reverted to carrying a backpack and camera everywhere. If they all know I am a foreigner, I may as well embrace it. Hopefully my slowly-improving Turkish will soon be good enough to make some shop-keepers and restaurateurs do a double-take, but for now I will have to settle for smiling and nodding and explaining that I would like the part of the meat that is not given to the cats. Yes, yes and a glass of tea. Thanks.

Much love,

Auyon