Sinanation

After all the long hours of table waiting, the desperate attempts to talk perfect French, the hugs, the handshakes and the eye contacts I somehow made my way through this small, but incredibly sophisticated French Bistrot. There was an initial “unspoken of” acceptance period glazed in nonchalant French attitude and superficial Uptown credentials. It has been unwelcoming at first: bitter, cold and cautious until we both warmed up to each other. It has been years since I first visited this little France tucked under a red brick British townhouse. It took maybe a million lunches and dinners after the first visit. Only now can I find the confidence to say that I finally became a friend or do I dare say a relative to this very selective family. I keep its name a secret with the guilt of being a little selfish and leave the adventure to you to find out how addictive this place is.

Wake a small child up and push him into a room full of presents and sweets. I am that child here. Each day has a different reason to pull me into this place and I never expect the ordinary from it. Among all the occasions, the roots of my obsession with 63rd & Madison lies within the Saturday lunchtime or as many call it “the happy hour”.

I make my way out of the cab. Girls dazzle with their shampoo commercial-ready hair, guys stand bold with their carefully ironed shirts and blazers: we are all ready for action. The hidden treasure, the bistrot of delicious food, the tiny restaurant with great music grins at us from the corner. Guests push in through the tiny door, hoping to grab onto the next opening table. We walk with determination like soldiers prepped up to win the war. I embrace the expected and smirk for the minimum 1 hour wait.

The room is filled up with tall, thin, beautiful models escorting old, but sleek playboy millionaires. Some arrive in Bentleys, some are fresh out of their private jets and others are sunburnt after their recent ski trip. Luxury items of distinction are comfortably displayed. They are a part of the everyday life on 63rd & Madison. Past 1.30pm, the young say farewell to the old couples who have just finished their quiet lunch. The floor now belongs to us, the young socialites who are ready to go wild while late lunching. The extra large paintings on the walls greet me while I check out the tables. People walking by stare inside, trying to figure out what this place really is and why it is so crowded. I am happy to be a part of the mystery. I get behind the narrow bar, grab as many glasses as I can carry and a bottle of rose. A few glasses of wine always help ease the wait.

Around 2.30pm, Just when the lights start to dim and the music starts to get louder, I settle down at our table. The most delicious tuna tartares, mushroom risottos, poulet cajuns, lobster salads and a few orders of French fries accompany the ridiculous amount of wine consumed. The girls become more beautiful than ever. I can no longer sit straight, hoping to be on higher ground. Chairs and tables flush out Americans, French, Greeks, Turkish, Indians and Brazilians. The napkins become bandannas. I jump behind the bar, guiding the chanting, sweating, dancing, laughing with the crowd that truely responds to my music.

We are the Love Generation. We are the Children of the Sky and we are Rio de Janerio. It is time to forget the chocolate mousse. Nothing tastes better than where I am.

A part of me belongs to 63rd & Madison.

It must be a side effect of the mass consumption in America. No matter how many different tailors or barber shops I try, I can’t get the service I have gotten used to in Europe, especially in Turkey.

Hair please stop growing! The cheap barber shops are like slaughter houses where a random person who has been accidentally given a trimmer jumps into your hair without questions asked. No matter how many times you try to explain or show a picture of the style you want, you always end up with the style I like to call the Bird nest head. Really short on the sides and long on top. It doesn’t get any better with the more expensive “full-service” barber shops. Although you get 2 minutes of peace when they kindly wrap your face with a warm towel, now you have to deal with hierarchy. Do you want to pay up and go for a senior stylist or save a little and go for a rookie stylist? Having tried both, I can tell that it still makes no difference. Cheap, expensive, fancy, old-style or luxurious, you still smile, but cry inside when they show your new hair while they surround you with mirrors. You still go home with millions of tiny hair needling their way into your neck, ear and shoulders. You end up asking yourself again why they wouldn’t wash your hair after they are done cutting it. The irresistible moment of truth awaits you at home in front of the mirror before you jump into the shower, thinking a long shampoo might make the bad style go away. You become the Bird nest head and start praying for your hair to grow back by the next morning.

Pants please fit! As if it is not difficult enough to find the comfortable, good-looking pants, the length is always an issue. The tailor comes in. You watch his/her every move as the measurements are taken. With the needles and chalk, the length looks perfect. You give the OK and a few days later you get the pants with the full excitement of wearing them to the next big event. You put them on. Something is not right. Suddenly you look like Charlie Chaplin on the mirror. How the heck can you see your socks when you are standing up? The length is totally wrong.

When it comes to hair and pants, something is really wrong in America. Every episode I have with barbers and tailors makes me go back and analyze the lack of attention and handiwork in the services I get. Hands must have lost their touch and the people who are providing the service must have lost their care in all the speed and mass consumption that surrounds us in America, especially in New York. Maybe it is yet to be perceived in Europe and Turkey, but I hope that when it arrives I will be too old to care about the style of my hair or the length of my pants.

It should be the ultimate example to those distinctive items that eliminate you from the ordinary. It is not the first watch you own nor your first tuxedo. It is the limited edition rose gold watch or the tailored tuxedo. Wallypower is certainly not made for comfort but speed and attention.

The full-glass main cabin can not hide you from the sun. There is surely nowhere to put the tender unless you want to ruin the whole incredible look of this sharp knife on water. The fully visible deck puts you right in front of the people watching you with awe, trying to figure out whether you are traveling on a spaceship or a submarine. You on the other hand are pampered with the pleasure of being the center of mystery and luxury. While your 180 ft Benetti quietly waits in Monaco, you choose to prance around with the 30m Wally on the Bosporus or any other place where you can be stared at. With USD 25m beneath you and a full tank worth USD 15K you deserve to enjoy the merits of cruising on an engineering wonder where design meets modern in full contrast with nature. Check the weather for a sunny clear day, put all your happy hour music together, invite all your friends, get a case of the best Prosecco you can find, put on your white shirt and loose pants, take off the shoes, put on the sunglasses and take your Wally on the catwalk as it is always a fashion show when it is around.

If you ever have doubts on what you should name your Wallypower 118 (if you ever own one), check out the scenes in The Island. You will get a good idea.

Love has been regarded as the purest most natural and peaceful feeling between humans. Yet nowadays it became the reward of an unethical fetish, a mysterious and stressful game we play with one another. We consume all our energy and attention to get the person we love and once we get what we want we are generally disappointed to find out that the reward did not deserve the effort.

The modern cycle of love lies in the heart of a simple story…

An ordinary night. Sitting at home, watching a movie with friends. The sound of a handful popcorn being crashed in the mouth is the only allowed extraterrestrial sound. We share the same couch, but are all on a personal journey to where ever the movie takes us.

I don’t know if it is the over-emotional love scene or the heart-breaking break-up, but a friend leans over and whispers in my ear “when will you meet Girl X again?” I answer perplexed and annoyed “How would I know! Just watch the movie, we’ll talk later.” Why would a friend do this to you? Remind you the fact that has been bugging you since your last date. You let your guard down tranquilized with scenes from the unrealistic over-exposed romance movie. Some love song included in the soundtrack scratches your ears and the dilemma “Why don’t I call the Girl X right now? What is holding me back?” sneaks up to your brain like a poisonous snake, hissing away your peaceful thoughts.

Thank you friend for ruining the movie for me.

I feel like the master of communication, yet I am hopeless like a paralyzed person. I can’t do anything to ruin my chances with Girl X. My phone is peacefully waiting to command all my wishes. A phone call? You got it. Texting? Nothing can be easier and it will show you all the bullshit stuff you sent her before to grab her attention. Email? Right away. Facebook? Can you ask for something more challenging? Like a fat person craving for food, I sit on the couch in the dark shaking, trembling and sweating with the desire to get in touch. My hands are tied.

Like many friends, I have been to too many interviews on Love Street to know that it is not the joy of emotions or the act of love that gets you the girl, but how well you play and handle the whole game. Don’t let 95% of the love movies fool you. Love Actually? Give me a break. Notting Hill? Woman on Top? You really need to put those DVDs away and get the real facts. The whole love scene has evolved and changed to meet the demands of today’s universe. You have to catch up or you will be loveless.

Flirting can almost be written on a few pieces of paper with mathematical equations and a few footnotes. Dating can well be turned into a diagram made up of a few “Situation”, “Reaction” and “Outcome” boxes. Breakup has gotten even worse where both parties started asking themselves “Are we really broken up?” even if one of the parties starts dating someone else.