Street Life

The great heat of July is upon us; it is the price we pay  for the glorious months of sunny, warm weather in the spring and autumn. July is the hottest month: the heat of August is always tempered by strong winds blowing from the north –‘Ayvalik air-conditioning’ – but in July, when the temperature is often in the high thirties, and occasionally the low forties, there is little relief from the  heat unless you sit by the sea, or climb up the hill to the woods, in both of which places you can generally find a cooling breeze.

In the old town of Ayvalik, many of the residents are quite poor, and air conditioning units are unusual.  Most of my neighbours simply have to endure the stifling heat , and during the summer months a large part of their time is spent outside, in gardens, on roof terraces and balconies, but also in the cobbled streets in front of their houses.

Many of the people here are recent migrants from villages in the east of Turkey; although now living in the town, they manage an approximation of the village life they left behind, often keeping chickens or, on the higher ground up near to the woods, a few sheep or goats.

The companionable evenings spent sitting outside on the street are a relic of village life and, as the weather gets warmer, pieces of furniture begin to creep outside to make this outdoor living more comfortable. When Freddie and I climb up the hill at 6.30 a.m to walk in the comparative cool of the very early morning, the sofas and chairs lie empty, and look a little incongruous:

In the heat of the afternoon the streets are quiet, as it is simply too hot to be outside, but with the approach of  evening, as the shadows lengthen and the heat begins to abate, people start to emerge from their houses.

Soon the cobbled streets burst into life again, with children playing energetic games to work off the energy accumulated whilst cooped up inside for the afternoon;  their parents, meanwhile,  sit outside their houses and chat with their neighbours.

Children here spend far more time outside and have infinitely more freedom than in England; whenever I feel slightly irritated at the foghorn cries of the little boys who play football in my street, I remind myself that this is what little boys are meant to do.

Hilary Clinton’s dictum that ‘It takes a village’ to raise a child  can be seen in action here: even very small children play outside in the streets unsupervised, as there is always a neighbour around to watch out for them, and few strangers wander around in the cobbled streets and alleys that wind their way up the hill in the old town.

By the time Freddie and I return from our evening, walk, around sunset, the sofas and the front doorsteps are fully occupied:

 

When you walk a dog every day along a regular route, you become part of people’s mental furniture. They look out for you,  exchange greetings, express concern if you have failed to appear for a few days and gradually, although you don’t really know each other, you become friends of a kind.

The woman in the photograph above is called Sardya, although I'm not sure if that's exactly how you spell it. She sits outside her house every evening in the spring and summer, when the weather is good.  Freddie and I have to climb up a very long, very steep flight of steps to get up to the street where she lives, which leads straight up the hill into the woods. One day, seeing me breathless after the climb, Sardya motioned to me sit down and catch my breath, and we talked for a while.

Now we have become friends, across the gulf of culture, language, age and experience that separates us. Sardya has a kind of tranquil beauty which quite transcends age.  I don’t know her life story yet, except that she was born in the house where she lives, and has lived there her whole life.  Her calm gaze seems to be that of a woman who has seen a lot, and come though unscathed. She always looks out for me and Freddie, and I like her very much.