It’s not fair to compare. But I can’t help but do it. I think we as human beings are looking to understand our world, and we do it by placing our current experience against the backdrop of our previous experience. So in my daily life, Turkey gets compared to France, almost always favorably. And during the course of a normal day in Ankara, I often find myself saying,
That would never happen in France.
My first instinct is to tell you that it’s because the Turks are so much nicer than the French, but that’s unfair, and far too simplistic a statement that doesn’t take into account the cultural differences. But those cultural differences – the role of children in daily life, the strict social rules that govern the French, the Islamic, albeit secular, culture of Turkey that reveres hospitality - add up to a very different daily experience, at least for me.
A day interacting with Parisians would leave me drained. And I was fluent in French, too. I always felt like I had to have my combat gear on to master Parisian life. Either you had to battle the bureaucracy, or count your change, or watch your purse, or coexist with reserved strangers or find a way, anyway, to make someone help you, even if it was their job. No one helped, everyone disapproved. Older women would lecture me about my children (they were too loud, ran too quickly, not dressed warmly enough), younger people would ignore me. People would rush by, annoyed by my stroller. My children in France were an utter liability. The hardest part of my experience in Paris was feeling like my children were growing up thinking that every adult disapproved of them.
People in Ankara are delighted with my children. They smile at them, stop and wave, ask their names. I don’t watch salesclerks stiffen when they see me walk in with small children. We take our kids to all but the fanciest of restaurants here. The Turks, most especially the men, LOVE children. It’s like being in Italy or Egypt. The waiters pull out the chairs for my kids, ruffle their hair, ceremoniously hand them a menu, pour their water and generally fuss over them. The fancy bakery down the street always hands my children a cup of freshly squeezed juice and a chocolate as soon as we walk in the door, while I look on, hoping the kids leave me some.
The waiters in Paris would take one look at our kids and tell us they had no open tables. Or give us a disapproving look (if the other diners hadn’t already) if the kids’ voices rose above a whisper. Oh, and how often did that happen? I didn’t count occurrences per meal, but per minute.
In Ankara, I’m not guarded every time I walk out the door. I feel confident that if I walk into a store and need something, a combination of charades and my 15 words of Turkish will at least start a “conversation.” If they can’t help me, they’ll find someone else who can. The Turks give. A smile, a sample, a cup of tea, their patience. A day running around Ankara leaves me tired, but emotionally energized from my personal interactions. Paris was exhausting, and there were few random social interactions to recharge you.
Some of my criticism is unfair, Paris is a large city, and people are busy and impatient, just like New York, and Hong Kong, and London. You can’t spend the day in New York and come back disappointed that you didn’t soak up any positive energy. Hey, did you get back home alive and with your wallet? Say thanks, move on.
And Paris deals with more foreigners on a daily basis than anywhere else in the world. So I guess we must forgive them somewhat for being tired of dealing with us. While there is a small foreign community here in Ankara, we do remain more of a novelty.
But still I continue to say, That Would Never Happen in France. And every day, it seems, I have a new reason to say it.
Last week I had a friend visiting from CA, and we decided to take the bus to Ulus, the old part of town. I had never braved the bus before, but hey, you need a brand new experience each week just to keep you sharp - or humble, depending on how it turns out. Well, we boarded the bus with a sign in the window saying Ulus which I assumed was the destination. It wasn’t. It was just a stop along the way, a long way. Anyway, we started talking, failed to pay attention, you’ve heard this one before…and when we looked up, there we were, in very northern Ankara, almost off the map. And neither of us speaks Turkish. My friend tried some Turkish out of the phrasebook on the woman next to her. I opened up what had to be a 4’ x 3’ map and proceeded to loudly rustle the huge folio while simultaneously peering out the window searching for a street name. Neither of us was particularly worried – you can always get off a bus, cross the street, and get on the same bus going in the opposite direction. Nevertheless, we must have looked worth taking pity on.
A gentleman immediately stands up and says, “Can I help you?” and proceeded to get off the bus with us, hail us a cab, and explain to the cabdriver in Turkish something to the effect that we were American friends that needed to get to Ulus (the words American and friend are in my 15-word linguistic repertoire.)
That would never happen in Paris. EVER. A number of other ex-pats have said the same thing – that the Turks they’ve encountered have gone out of their way to help them, even though it was inconvenient.
One day my husband and I pulled up to the apartment with a huge box that needed to go upstairs. There happened to be two guys standing on the street waiting for a friend and as they watched my husband struggle with the unwieldy and heavy box they jumped up immediately, didn’t even ask him if he needed help, just picked up the other end and helped my husband carry the box into the building.
That would never happen in France.
But not because I think the French are unhelpful. Their strict social rules truly prevent them from interacting with strangers easily. The average Parisian would consider it intrusive to offer help without being asked. They are all about dignity, and by offering help they are acknowledging an uncomfortable situation that you are in, depriving you of dignity. Plus they don’t know you, so they don’t intrude on your world.
We found that if we had a personal connection to a French person, they were absolutely the warmest and kindest of people. Our French friends truly, truly opened their homes and lives to us very generously. I couldn’t thank them enough. But the average encounter on the streets of Paris makes for a lonely existence.
But there are many reasons I say it. They are repaving the ramp that goes to our underground garage. As a consequence, we have had to find street parking for a week. Last Sunday morning, our family headed out and as we passed the construction, I stopped dead and stared. My husband, a bit concerned, said, “What? What is it? What’s the matter?” because I kept staring. I just couldn’t believe it. There they were, working. On a Sunday. Because it was important and because it greatly inconvenienced the residents, they were working on Sunday to finish it.
That would never happen in France.
