The çek-yat: Why everybody needs one

The çek-yat: Why everybody needs one The basement tapes BODRUM - TDN Guest Writer Before I answer the question, “Why does everybody need a çek-yat, I just want to make sure that everybody knows what a çek-yat is. In case you're new to Turkey (and Turkish), çek-yat comes from the verbs “çekmek” -- “to pull” -- and “yatmak” -- “to lie down” -- hence the “pull-lie down” -- otherwise known as the “fold-out bed.” (Every once in a while I slip up and refer to it as a “yat-çek,” which produces a raised-eyebrow look in Turks, some of whom chalk it up to my bad Turkish, some of whom seem to be wondering if lying down before pulling is another one of those strange things that only a foreigner could think of. But anyway...) In Turkey, the çek-yat is more than just a piece of furniture, it is a cultural concept. The fact that I am moving into a new flat and, for some unknown reason, do not feel a pressing need to lay down a minimum YTL 350 for an oversized, unattractive and most-likely scratchy plaid-upholstered seating unit is one of the few things that immediately identifies me as not Turkish. (That, and the fact that the first thing I do when I climb into the car is put on my seat belt...) Of course, Harun, being Turkish (even if he is Kurdish), feels the need. Unreasonably so, I might add. At least to me, it's unreasonable, considering the number of other pressing needs we have in connection with our move (and by the way, please don't mention this to our landlord, who still doesn't know that we're planning on moving. That, I should explain, is a cultural concept identifying people from New York: “Please accept my security deposit in lieu of my last month's rent” is the common method by which tenants inform their landlords of their intentions to vacate the premises; it is totally illegal, but on the other hand, anyone who pays their last month's rent and then expects to receive a nice fat check from their landlord -- their security deposit, plus the interest it earned when the landlord placed it in an interest-bearing bank account under the tenant's name, as required by law -- well, let's just say, anyone who expects that is a fool, and, as the Turkish saying goes, “It only takes one fool.” (Oh wait: that's the saying we use to explain why landlords and developers ask such high prices for their properties here...) Now, I can understand that moving into a new flat provides an excuse for updating some of the old domestic possessions -- a new four-burner stove, for example, to replace the two-burner job with the cheap paint that has started to peel and rust under the oily remains of one-too-many kızartmas (Turkish men may know how to cook, but that doesn't necessarily mean that they know how to clean), and a “real” ortopedik mattress, to replace the six pieces of foam glued together to form a sleeping surface that was a temporary solution to our pressing need for something to sleep on about two years ago. And I also understand that some new purchases are inescapable in Turkey, where “unfurnished” sometimes really means unfurnished (i.e., “bring your own hot water heater”). But if I were Turkish, I would need a çek-yat -- the çek-yat being the ultimate symbol of Turkish hospitality, because owning a çek-yat shows that you are always ready and waiting for guests. And, if I were moving into a new flat together with Harun (which I am), then I would also need “the works”: a çek-yat, two matching arm chairs, a table to go in front of them, a carpet to go underneath them, a full dining room set to go next to them, a new bed (mattress, box springs and headboard) and various and sundry closets and drawers (all of which would need to be done up in matching lamination, of course) to go down the hall. And that's not to mention the new cutlery... “The works,” I have been told, is a Turkish tradition for “newlyweds” (and their equivalents). I was told this by an old friend of mine, Elif, who had been living on her own or with roommates for at least 10 years before getting married, and who in that time had accumulated more than a flat's worth of domestic goods (including a spare hot water heater), yet still felt the pressing need for “the works” -- none of which, by the way, could be gotten second hand, as the point was to get new stuff to go with her -- and her husband-to-be's -- new life). In the United States, a tradition similar to “the works” still exists. But in New York -- in particular, Brooklyn -- we have another tradition when moving into a new apartment. It's usually observed by recent college graduates moving in with other single people (to offset the exorbitant rents), but “newlyweds” (and their equivalents) may also feel a pressing need to observe this tradition as well. It is known as “dumpster diving” -- a “dumpster” being a giant garbage bin, the kind left in front of a building where someone like Elif is renovating an apartment, and “diving” -- well, you get the idea... When I moved to New York after graduating from university (and returning from my “European Tour,” another time-honored American tradition), I answered an ad in the Village Voice and was honored to be chosen to share a duplex in Carroll Gardens with an aspiring photographer and a tax lawyer. I remember very clearly the look of horror on the tax lawyer's face when, as we walked past a dumpster on Court Street one day, I asked her to just hold my pocketbook for a second while I got us some new kitchen chairs. There is a German expression “zwischen zwei Stühle” (“between two chairs”) used sometimes to refer to people like me in the position of adapting (or not) from one culture to another. This comes to mind when I realize that if I ever spied a çek-yat lying inside a dumpster, I would probably begin to develop a pressing need...