This morning I woke early, as we were moving flat. Away from the mosquitos, the dripping fridge, the foetid kitchen sink, the oddly placed shower. Off to Galata, to the same building we lived in when we first arrived in Istanbul, but a lower floor. Also, no hot water, for there was none this morning and I couldn’t shower, which made me feel immensely grumpy. For this reason I also didn’t make myself mix chai, as it just wasn’t worth it when I was feeling grimy.
Then a bit of urgent work, and to packing. Aside from our two suitcases we have accumulated a collection of bags of spices, jams, etc, all of which had to be transported safely. Eventually the GF woke up, and there was a message on the phone: at 11 we had to go to the title deed office.
So we dashed to finish packing. We did manage to collect everything, though I didn’t run the dishwasher or take out the rubbish as I had planned. We called a cab, it arrived, we loaded it, and off we went.
The new flat was still being cleaned, so we hauled all our belongings up and left them in a room, then dashed off down Istiklal avenue to the title deed office. The young red head had found his ID, nothing more remained to be done but to show up with our passports and the cheque.
So we arrived, as did the whole coterie of sellers, the estate agent and, eventually the translator. Then there was a longish wait while something or the other happened, and we were all called into a small room. A small airless room, with about 15 people in it, most wearing their masks incorrectly – no wonder the office had recently had a COVID outbreak. Not much to be done other than take shallow breaths. We were asked to hold up the cheque to verify its existence, which we did.
Then the signings: each page had to be signed by each person, which took a long while. And then we were sent out to wait. The sellers drifted away, leaving us with the cheque. Then someone came out and handed us the title deed, we tracked down one of the sellers to give him the cheque, and that was it, we had ascended to the ranks of the landed gentry, with something of a whimper. The joint owners in four inexplicable parts (9/20 me, 9/20 the GF, 1/20 me, 1/20 the GF) of a 150 year old flat, with coal cellar and a share in 2 ground floor offices and the best rooftop terrace in Istanbul.
We walked out a bit dazed and the agent took us off to the municipal office where we had to register for something unknown to us. This we did. It occurred to us that we should arrange electricity and water etc. Then he took us to the building where our flat is located and introduced us to the building management, also the local optician. They hope not to be management for long, and muttered something about a woman who didn’t wake up early, but I was not sure if that was one of the owners who had to sign off on the new management, or the new management. Anyway, they gave us the key to the roof terrace and the code to the front door. We parted from the estate agent, who was very relieved indeed to be done with this, went to take a look at our new domain.
The coal cellar was locked so we only peeped into it – we hadn’t known it was partly ours till now. The flat was vividly sunlit – strangely, it has always been sunny when we’ve visited, and the roof terrace was beautiful. Yet it all felt flat and unreal, perhaps because we are not moving into the place. Yet the deed was in my bag, so I suppose we own it now.
We went for a quick lunch nearby, then I went back to our temporary abode to do some work while the GF took some photos and videos to send to friends and family. I met him at an outdoor store where he bought a fleece for the coming winter, then we went onward to Taksim Square to arrange the payment for the agent. This done, we came back via Istiklal, running small errands along the way: new shower gel, some produce for dinner, a pack of spaghetti. We also had to get our photos taken for the residency permit so, seeing a sign on a wall we followed its directions into one of the spectacular arcades that lead off the street. This one, Atlas, is being restored, so there were no tatty shops on either side and it looked quite grand. It led, however, into a sort of Zainab Market (in Karachi): alleys filled with small open shops over-stuffed with factory excess. In the back was a photography studio. We had our photos taken by a man who, despite not sharing a language with us, bonded with the GF over the language of football — each reeled off the names of their teams and their favourite players, and much nodding and smiling.
Then, eventually, we returned, absolutely exhausted, part of the landed gentry but also (thanks to the water this morning) the unwashed masses.