Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Smartening Up

Middle class Turks must be among the least scruffy people on earth. This morning, in Istanbul, I came a step closer to joining their ranks by buying some new trousers. This took me somewhat off the tourist track to an alleyway outside the old Istanbul market. I don't know why, but there is a certain style among middle aged Istanbul men that has caught my imagination: polished shoes, dark cotton trousers, and multi-coloured button-collar T-shirts. For some reason I can see this style working for me.

In the middle of the crowded alleyway there was a stall that specialised in this look. It was oddly empty of any customers. I started leafing through the trousers and the stall-keeper asked my waist size. When I said 34 he looked doubtful and reached for his tape measure. He decided it was in fact 46, and laid out an array of slightly different coloured options. I eventually chose two - dark grey and dark blue - that cost about 8 pounds each. Trousers here are only measured by the waist: the legs are always unhemmed, so you need to take them to a tailor to have them finished.

With no idea where to find a tailor, I asked the stall-keeper to have them measured and finished for me. He was a bit a reluctant but I paid him another 2 pounds and he took me off through the crowds to a nearby street, into an office building and up two flights of stairs. Cigarette stubs lined the marble floor. We walked along a corridor, passed a barbers shop, and went into the tailors' shop. In contrast to the clothes market outside, here there was an atmosphere of industry and calm. The tailors worked in two small adjoining rooms, each with four sewing machines of different sizes, an ironing press, and fans to keep the place cool. There was an Islamic calendar on the wall of each room. The shelves were piled with rolls of material and thread, old newspapers, and cardboard shapes to cut around made out of large Marlboro boxes.

The three tailors were mustachioed men in their forties wearing dark trousers of the kind I'd just bought. They also wore neatly pressed light blue short-sleeved shirts. I felt like I was among friends. They were all quietly at work, two at machines and one cutting material. There was also a bored looking girl sitting at the back of the room. She was about 16, wore a long denim skirt, long sleeved blouse, and no veil. As I continued to sweat uncomfortably from the heat outside, she looked at me and frowned slightly. When one of the tailors saw the trousers I had bought, he took one look at me and shook his head. Reaching for his tape measure he measured my waist and said I needed a 42. The stall-keeper looked sheepish and we returned to his stall.

This time I returned to the tailors' shop alone, having chosen some new trousers and retrieved my two pounds from the stall-keeper. While the tailor got to work, I sat down in the adjoining room, across the table from the girl who was still eyeing me suspiciously. She was eating her lunch - a kebab sandwich and a bottle of pepsi - with a great deal of care, as if she didn't want to drop anything. At one stage she half filled her cup from the pepsi bottle, hesitated a second, then poured in another centimetre or so.

After five minutes the trousers were ready, and I tried to hand over the 2 pounds to the moustachioed tailor. Twice he adamantly refused to take it, insisting that he would take the money from the stall-keeper. I felt a wave a pleasure that I was dealing with someone so obviously trustworthy. It meant I could relax. When I explained in broken Turkish that I had already taken the money from the stall-keeper myself in order to pay him, a smile of understanding crossed his face and he took the money.

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