Say What?

The other day, my friend Güzin and I got on the dolmuş downtown after an afternoon of shopping. Almost as soon as we sat down, a group of sixty-ish women piled in, one after the other, talking a mile a minute.

Güzin was delighted. "They're from Istanbul too!" she whispered. "I can tell from their accents; they sound like they're from my old neighborhood."

I was intrigued. "How can you tell?"

"It's just the way they sound." Her eyes widened and she frowned. "In fact, I can't really tell what language they're speaking," she whispered. "It's mainly Turkish, but it's something else too; I just can't tell what. Spanish maybe...?"

I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the women's voices. Whatever they were speaking sounded just like Turkish to me, though some words seemed more guttural and the sentences had a rhythm that was slightly exotic. "Well, it's not Spanish."

We were both silent for a while, then there was a lull in the women's conversation so Güzin and I started talking about something else: a colleague of ours who recently got engaged. She brought her photo album to work and I was fascinated by the Turkish custom of the bride-to-be preparing her husband-to-be salty coffee. "Does he really have to drink it?"

"Yes, he does."

"Why?"

"Because if he can drink his wife's salty coffee without complaining, her family will know he's patient enough to endure marriage."

One of the women shoppers with the fascinating language leaned forward and tapped Güzin on the shoulder. She said something to her, but all I could understand was İngilizce -- the Turkish for English. Güzin answered her.

"What did she say?" I whispered.

"She wanted to know where I'd learned my English."

The ladies were speaking to each other again and Güzin shook her head. "Do you think it's Catalan?"

I shook my head. "I've heard Catalan and that's definitely not it." We both frowned. "Hey," I said, "Do you think it could be Ladino?"

I've never heard anyone speak Ladino, but I've always wanted to. When Sephardic Jewish exiles settled throughout the Ottoman Empire, they took their language with them and it evolved, depending on what area they settled in.

Güzin perked right up at that. "Ladino? Maybe that's it!"

We listened to the women a little more. I could barely stand it: if the women were really speaking Ladino, I was dying to know. "Could you maybe ask them what language they're speaking?"

Güzin bit her lip and glanced quickly behind her, then shook her head. "I can't."

"But they asked you about your English!" I whispered.

"I know, but that's different."

And for the next ten minutes, we sat there simmering with curiosity as we listened to the women speaking their mystery language. If I thought they could speak English, I swear I'd have asked them myself.

Before Güzin got to her stop, she kindly let me practice my Turkish on her again: fırın n'ın orda, or Near the bakery. When I want to get off at the local bakery instead of the mosque, this line is an absolute must. I've never yet met a dolmuş driver who speaks English, so having this useful bit of Turkish has saved me many a long, dusty walk.

Just after I waved goodbye to Güzin, my mobile went off and I spoke to my daughter in Japanese. As we talked, I became aware of a sudden hush: all the other passengers seemed to have stopped talking. My Japanese suddenly sounded very loud and foreign to my ears. The ladies who might be Ladino speakers were watching me, open-mouthed, as was the driver.

Almost on cue, the driver wheeled around and asked me where I was going. I took a deep breath: I was ready for this! "Fırın n'ın orda," I said loudly and clearly.

The driver knitted his brow and repeated fırın and my heart sank. Because unfortunately, a useful phrase like near the bakery only works when the driver knows where the bakery is. It has been my experience that one out of five drivers don't know where our local bakery is, so this was just my lucky day.

"Where going?" a loud man in front of me asked in English. I stifled a sigh. This happens a lot. I speak my little piece in Turkish, nobody knows where the bakery is, and I end up having to entertain everybody in English. As it happens, the bakery is just down the road from our local cattery, but imagine having to explain that in Turkish. "You England?" the man in front of me shouted, looking me up and down. "You want Turkish bakery? Where you go?"

I had a sudden inspiration. "Pan-ya e," I answered in Japanese. "Karşıyaka ni arimasu ga, dare mo wakaranai mitai. Anata mo wakaranai dessho?"

The man's jaw dropped and I smiled. Russian, I heard somebody behind me say. I smiled all the more broadly.

When the mystery language ladies got off, they gave me a quizzical look. I hope we'll meet again. If they tell me theirs, I'll tell them mine.