Settling Into Fener/Balat: Chaos, Curiosity & the Unexpected Education of a Neighbourhood

Post 2 of 3 - first published 2008

Despite the UNESCO buzz and the occasional magazine spread, Fener and Balat were — and still are — beautifully dilapidated. Houses lean into each other at crooked angles. Some crumble without warning. Others, burnt out or peeling from years of neglect, wait quietly for someone to notice them again.

My house stood on a lively stretch of cobblestones near the shore road — restored, polished, a little self-conscious beside its cheerfully mismatched neighbours. And I stood out just as much as it did: English-speaking, timid with my Turkish, armed mostly with vocabulary about plaster, tiles, and floorboards thanks to tradesmen and architects.

I tried to settle in gently. I spoke politely to the women sitting outside on makeshift benches, hoping not to be swept into conversations I couldn’t keep up with. Slowly, winter turned into spring, and as the houses opened their windows, the neighbourhood opened itself to me.

What I discovered was noise — endless, unapologetic noise.

Children ringing my doorbell for no reason. Etching their names into my wooden door. Sitting on my steps as though they were public seating. Parents entirely unbothered. That first summer felt like surviving a toothache that never subsided.

And then there were the women — watchful, curious, unfiltered. They assessed everything: my clothes, my comings and goings, the people visiting my home to learn about Ottoman and Turkish cooking. Their commentary spread quickly, but it wasn’t malicious. It was simply what they did. They talked about me with the same enthusiasm they talked about each other.

It was overwhelming, yes — but also, in its strange way, an initiation.

To be continued…