Turkish words that do not translate
A dhow, a kottu roshi, a khachapuri — words a dictionary can only give as a description in brackets, because the thing is not part of everyday life here. All such Turkish words are collected here: 44 words with an explanation of what it is and what it is for.
Words and what stands behind them
A mid-rise block of five to eight floors, with a kapıcı (caretaker) attached and a shared balcony-court. Flats are counted by rooms plus living room: "2+1" means two bedrooms and a lounge. Addresses go by the building's name, not a number.
Backgammon played in tea houses, checkers clicking loudly on the board while the count is called in Persian — 'düşeş', 'şeşbeş'. Games go fast, one after another, usually for a tea owed by the loser.
Dozens of pastry layers rolled paper-thin, filled with pistachio or walnut, soaked in syrup and cut into diamonds. The Gaziantep pistachio kind has a protected name. Eaten with the fingers, never a spoon.
The keeper of an apartment block, usually living in a basement flat: hauls gas canisters and water, takes out the trash, brings morning bread and knows who came home when. All the tenants chip in to pay him.
The call to prayer, sounded from a minaret five times a day. The times shift with the sun, and the first sounds before dawn. Several mosques answer each other across a city — it is part of the soundscape.
Hand-painted tiles covering the walls of mosques and palaces: white ground, cobalt blue, turquoise, and a special red that only Iznik knew how to make in the 16th century — and that was lost for four centuries after.
The custom of turning the drained coffee cup onto its saucer, letting the grounds run, and reading the patterns. Done between things, half in jest. There are professional readers, and apps that do the same from a photo.
A shop around the corner selling a bit of everything and knowing every tenant. It extends credit against a notebook entry, hauls purchases upstairs and minds keys. It survives next to the supermarkets on exactly this.
A minibus that leaves not by schedule but when the seats fill: the name literally means 'it filled up'. Fares pass forward hand to hand; to get off you say 'müsait bir yerde' — wherever it's convenient.
Painting on thickened water: drops spread into swirls, are combed with an awl, and the print is lifted onto paper. Every sheet is one of a kind. On the UNESCO list.
A passenger ferry across the Bosphorus — Istanbul's public transport on a par with the metro. It runs on schedule, tea is sold on deck, and seagulls trailing the stern catch the simit tossed to them.
Mackerel grilled right on the boat or over coals at the pier, tucked into half a loaf with onion and greens. Eaten standing by the water, doused with lemon. The signature street food of Istanbul's waterfront.
The round marble stone in the middle of the hamam, heated from below. Literally "the navel stone": it is the center. People lie on it for twenty minutes before washing, so the pores open.
Bargaining over price as a required part of buying at a bazaar or a carpet shop: the seller names a high price, the buyer a low one, and they meet in the middle. Not haggling borders on rude — a refusal to talk.
A bath of humid steam, with a heated marble slab in the middle of the hall. You lie on it to warm up, then an attendant scrubs your skin with a rough mitt and lathers you from a cloth bag. The men's and women's sides are separate.
A greeting of the young to the old: take the elder's right hand, kiss the back of it and touch it to your own forehead. Done on holidays, at reunions and when entering a grandmother's house. Pulling the hand away is considered awkward.
The art of Arabic script, in which a line of writing is built into a figure — a ship, a bird, a mirrored pair. It developed in the Ottoman empire as the chief visual art: depicting living things was forbidden.
The henna evening before a wedding, a women's event: henna with a gold coin is placed in the bride's palm and closed in until she cries. Sad songs about leaving home are sung. A ritual of parting, not of merriment.
A festival day, religious or national: Kurban Bayramı, Ramazan Bayramı, the national days of the republic. Schools and offices close, people travel home, and children go door to door collecting sweets and pocket money, kissing elders' hands.
Money given to children on religious holidays after they kiss the hand of an elder. Families and neighbors are visited one by one, and by evening a child has collected a tidy sum. Sweets and Turkish delight are given alongside the money.
The meal that breaks the fast at sunset. It starts with a date and water, then soup, then everything else. Tables are set out on the streets too, and any passerby — fasting or not — is invited.
A pedestrian street in Istanbul running down from Taksim Square, with a vintage tram in the middle, 19th-century arcades and a crowd at any hour. The name means "independence" and was given after the republic was proclaimed.
A coarse mitt of rough silk with which the hamam attendant scrubs the top layer off steamed skin. The result is visible at once and usually astonishing. Sold everywhere, and many scrub themselves with one at home.
A flat-woven double-sided rug, woven not knotted: the pattern is identical on both sides. Lighter than a piled carpet and cheaper, laid on the floor or hung on the wall. The patterns carry meanings — fertility, protection, a road.
A soft confection of starch and sugar set in cubes and rolled in powdered sugar: with pistachio, rose water or pomegranate. Served with coffee and given as boxes of gifts. The full name is rahat lokum, "a comfortable morsel".
Eggs stewed with tomatoes and green pepper, cooked and served in a small cast-iron pan. Eaten with bread dipped straight into the pan. Whether to add onion is debated: the two camps are irreconcilable.
Cold and hot starters set on the table all at once and eaten bit by bit over conversation: eggplant, garlic yogurt, beans, white cheese, melon. The backbone of a rakı evening, not a prelude to a main course.
A slender tower beside a mosque, with a balcony from which the call to prayer was read before loudspeakers. The number of minarets signals status: an ordinary mosque has one, a sultan's mosque four, the Blue Mosque in Istanbul six.
The water pipe smoked for hours in tea gardens, with tea and backgammon. The tobacco is fruit-flavored, and a separate person tends the coals. It counts less as smoking than as a reason to sit and talk.
A blue glass eye against the evil eye: hung in cars, over doors, on baby clothes, even pressed into the walls of houses. If it cracks, it is said to have taken the hit, and it is replaced at once.
Literally "rabbit blood" — the color of properly brewed tea: dark red, clear when held to the light. It describes a strength that has no measure: not black, not cloudy, not pale.
An anise spirit drunk diluted with water: adding water turns the clear drink cloudy white, hence the nickname 'lion's milk'. Sipped slowly all evening over meze and in company — drinking it alone is not done.
The month of fasting: no food or drink from dawn to sunset. It reshapes city life — quieter by day, streets waking after sunset and staying lively into the night. A drummer walks the neighborhoods before dawn to wake people for sahur.
The pre-dawn meal of the fasting month, around three or four in the morning. People eat heartily and drink plenty of water: nothing again until sunset. A drummer walks the quarters at this hour, waking houses with drumming and rhyming calls.
A two-tier tea urn: boiling water below, strong brew above, simmering on the steam. You pour a little brew first, then top up with boiling water — everyone gets their own strength. In Turkish it is called çaydanlık.
Wide trousers with a low seat, gathered at the ankle, sewn from light fabric. Worn by men and women alike in villages: they are cool and comfortable for sitting on the floor. In the city they survive as cottage clothes.
A ring of braided dough dipped in grape molasses, rolled in sesame and baked until crisp. Sold from red carts on every corner. Cheaper than anything else, hence breakfast on the run.
Breakfast in full array, with the table covered in small plates until no tablecloth shows: up to thirty items for two. Ordered once for the whole party and eaten over two hours. A whole genre of eateries does nothing else.
An open-air market that unfolds on a closed-off street on a set day of the week and vanishes without a trace by evening. Each neighborhood has its own day, and prices drop toward the end: akşam pazarı is the evening haggle.
A tea carrier who walks the quarter's shops and offices with glasses on a round tray hung from three chains. Orders come as a shout from a window or a ring of a bell; pay at the end of the week.
The glass with a waist in the middle that tea is drunk from. The shape is not decoration: the narrow waist holds the heat below while the flare on top lets a sip cool, and the color of the brew shows through.
A small tomb under a dome, often in a mosque courtyard: inside, a sarcophagus draped in cloth and light through latticed windows. People come to the türbe of saints with requests and tie ribbons to the lattice.
Not one dish but many small plates: cheeses, olives, tomato, cucumber, jams, honey with clotted cream, egg, herbs. The word itself means "under coffee" — the meal eaten before coffee. On weekends it stretches for hours.
Finely ground coffee brewed in a cezve together with sugar and served with the grounds. It is ordered not by size but by sweetness: sade is unsweetened, az şekerli is a little, orta is medium. Served with a glass of water and a piece of lokum.
Why such words are in the course
These are a language's ID marks: they cannot be translated because the thing they name is not part of everyday life here, and they are exactly what you hear on day one. There are few of them on purpose — 44 words out of 4057 words in the course. A course where every seventh word is a local curiosity would teach local studies, not a language.
Every word here has its own page, with pronunciation, a look at the spelling and an example of use.
Frequently asked
Why can't these words simply be translated?
A translation assumes the thing exists here too and is just called differently. Not in this case: “a dhoni is a boat” is true and useless — there are many kinds of boat, and a dhoni is known by its tall curved prow and by being the only way between the islands. An explanation answers the question about the thing, not the word.
Do you have to learn them?
Not before everything else. But you will meet them early: local food is offered on the first day, and a festival is named without explanation. Knowing what stands behind a word is more useful than being able to translate it.