Did you know that Santa Claus is Turkish?
In the 4th century, an orthodox priest named Nicholas became the bishop of Myra, a small town near Turkey’s Mediterranean Coast. He was known as unfailingly generous and pious. Legend has it that he performed numerous miracles and that he was present at the Council of Nicaea. Later he was canonized.
St. Nicholas’ petite Byzantine Church still stands in Myra, and we visited it in October. It is architecturally lovely, and inside we joined visitors from all over the world, among them Russians, for whom he is their patron saint. I was inclined to take the phenomenon a little lightly, but I was touched when I saw several Russian women, eyes closed in prayer, learning against their saint’s crypt.
Given this history, what is the Christmas season like in Turkey? In a ninety nine percent Muslim country, I expected nothing at all, but my expectations here are often wrong.
Last October I was eating lunch in a tiny park adjacent to Turkish school with my European classmates. A grocery store sits opposite the language school, and as we ate in the sunshine, we watched workers hoist snowman-shaped lights atop the store’s sign. We chuckled at what looked like early holiday preparations.
I don’t think snowmen can be built in Istanbul. Last year in late January, on our first visit to the city, a few inches of wet snow came down on bright green grass, tying up traffic something ferocious, only to melt away by late afternoon. From the comments we heard, this much snow was unusual.
In November I heard reports of artificial Christmas trees for sale, and noticed red and green reindeer-motif placemats at a home store. A few days ago I walked through the Istinye Park Mall and passed a three-story Christmas tree decorated with red poinsettia-like shapes. It appeared rather flat, and as I got closer, I could see that it was actually a huge conical wire structure to which fake greenery and poinsettias had been attached.
I also noticed the same kind of poinsettias, hundreds of them, adorning the edges of the mall’s various levels.
These are commercial displays designed to attract expatriate business. I wouldn’t have expected a Turkish municipality to join in. But today, while driving through a tunnel on the way to the health club, I noticed grids of tiny white lights similar to those Americans use to blanket their outside trees or roofs, lit and hanging from the sides of the underpass, forming a sparkling, festive curtain.
“What are they for?” I asked.
“Christmas and New Year’s,” came the reply.
