<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nIf you learn only one phrase, make it this one. Kolay gelsin<\/em> (koh-lie gel-sin) is what you say to anyone who is working: the man sweeping the street, the woman at the ticket window, the waiter balancing nine tea glasses, the police officer, the pilot. You can say it as a hello when you walk into a shop and as a goodbye when you leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\nThere’s no English equivalent because English doesn’t have the idea. It isn’t “good luck” and it isn’t “keep up the good work”. It’s a tiny acknowledgement: I see that you’re working, and I hope it isn’t too hard today.<\/em> Say it to a shopkeeper and watch the entire transaction get friendlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\nEline sa\u011fl\u0131k \u2014 “Health to your hands”<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nSaid to anyone who has made something with their hands, most often food. Your host brings out a tray of stuffed vine leaves: eline sa\u011fl\u0131k<\/em>. A street vendor hands you a perfectly assembled wrap: eline sa\u011fl\u0131k<\/em>. The plural-polite form, elinize sa\u011fl\u0131k<\/em>, works for restaurant chefs and mothers-in-law.<\/p>\n\n\n\nThe cook traditionally answers with afiyet olsun<\/em>, which brings us to…<\/p>\n\n\n\nAfiyet olsun \u2014 more than “bon app\u00e9tit”<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nLiterally “may it be wellbeing”, afiyet olsun<\/em> (ah-fee-yet ol-soon) does the job of bon app\u00e9tit<\/em>, but it’s far more flexible. You can say it before a meal, during a meal, and after a meal. Waiters say it as they clear empty plates, which confuses visitors who think they’re being told to enjoy food that’s already gone. They’re not. They’re wishing that what you ate sits well with you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\u0130yi u\u00e7u\u015flar \u2014 the traveler’s send-off<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nother a good trip. When someone is heading to the airport, friends will wish them iyi u\u00e7u\u015flar<\/em> (ee-yee oo-choosh-lar)\u2014literally, “good flights.” If you are embarking on a longer journey, you might also hear hay\u0131rl\u0131 yolculuklar<\/em> (may your journey be auspicious). Try saying kolay gelsin<\/em> to the cabin crew as you board your plane to Istanbul, and watch their faces light up.<\/p>\n\n\n\nGe\u00e7mi\u015f olsun \u2014 “May it be in the past”<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nThe all-purpose phrase for anything unpleasant: illness, a fender-bender, a terrible exam, a dentist appointment, a delayed flight connection. Ge\u00e7mi\u015f olsun<\/em> (getch-mish ol-soon) doesn’t say “sorry that happened”. It says something more hopeful: may this already be behind you<\/em>. Mention to a pharmacist that you have a cold and you’ll hear it before you’ve finished the sentence.<\/p>\n\n\n\nCan\u0131n sa\u011f olsun \u2014 \u201cAs long as you\u2019re well\u201d<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nSomething gets broken, lost or goes wrong and the person responsible apologises. A Turk may answer can\u0131n sa\u011f olsun<\/em>: literally, \u201cmay your life be well\u201d. It means the person matters more than the thing that was lost or damaged. A cracked glass, a missed errand, a small mistake \u2014 never mind. Can\u0131n sa\u011f olsun.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\nHo\u015f geldiniz \/ Ho\u015f bulduk \u2014 the welcome that needs an answer<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nEveryone learns ho\u015f geldiniz<\/em>, “welcome” \u2014 literally “you came pleasantly”. Few visitors know it has a conventional reply: ho\u015f bulduk<\/em>, “we found it pleasant”. It’s a two-part handshake in words. When the hotel receptionist says the first half and you deliver the second half, expect raised eyebrows and quite possibly a complimentary tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\nG\u00fcle g\u00fcle \u2014 “Go laughing”<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nThe person leaving says ho\u015f\u00e7a kal<\/em> (“stay pleasantly”). The person staying says g\u00fcle g\u00fcle<\/em>: “go laughing, laughing”. Hard to think of a nicer way to be sent out of a shop.<\/p>\n\n\n\nIt also appears in one of the most charming constructions in the language. When you buy something new, people say g\u00fcle g\u00fcle kullan<\/em>, “use it laughing”. New shoes? G\u00fcle g\u00fcle giy<\/em>, “wear them laughing”. New apartment? G\u00fcle g\u00fcle oturun<\/em>, “live in it laughing”. Your purchases at the Grand Bazaar will very likely be blessed this way as they’re wrapped.<\/p>\n\n\n\nIllustrated Turkish neighborhood with guests, shopkeepers, neighbors and a barber greeting people at doorways<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\nS\u0131hhatler olsun \u2014 the haircut blessing<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nYes, there is a specific phrase for people who have just had a haircut, a shave or a bath. S\u0131hhatler olsun<\/em> means “may it bring health”. If you visit a traditional barber or a hamam during your trip (and you should), you will walk out to a chorus of it. The correct reply is a simple sa\u011f ol<\/em>, “thanks” \u2014 literally “be healthy”. You may be noticing a theme.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\u00c7ok ya\u015fa! \u2014 and the sneeze reply<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nWhen someone sneezes, you say \u00e7ok ya\u015fa<\/em>, “live long”. So far, so familiar. But the sneezer then replies sen de g\u00f6r<\/em>: “and may you see it too” \u2014 meaning, may you live long enough to witness my long life. It’s a sneeze, and thirty seconds later two strangers have wished each other decades.<\/p>\n\n\n\nHay\u0131rl\u0131 olsun \u2014 “May it be auspicious”<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nNew job, new car, new business, new baby, new anything. Walk into a shop that has clearly just opened and say hay\u0131rl\u0131 olsun<\/em> and you will have a friend for the length of your stay. Its little sibling, hay\u0131rl\u0131 i\u015fler<\/em> (“may your business be blessed”), is a lovely thing to say to a shopkeeper as you leave, alongside kolay gelsin<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\nG\u00f6z\u00fcn ayd\u0131n \u2014 “May your eye be bright”<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nFor good news involving a long-awaited arrival: a relative has landed, a baby is born, a soldier has come home. If you’re picked up at arrivals by a Turkish friend’s family, their neighbours may well say this to them about you<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\nSelam s\u00f6yle \u2014 \u201cGive them my greetings\u201d<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nMention that you are about to see someone a Turk knows and there is a good chance you will be sent off with a selam s\u00f6yle<\/em>: \u201cgive them my greetings\u201d. The greeting then travels with you until you deliver it \u2014 sana selam\u0131 var<\/em>, \u201cthey send their regards\u201d. In Turkish, even a hello can have a journey of its own.<\/p>\n\n\n\nBa\u015f\u0131n\u0131z sa\u011f olsun \u2014 for the hardest moments<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<\/audio><\/figure>\n\n\n\nYou’ll hopefully never need it, but it shows how far the system extends. To someone who has lost a loved one, Turks say ba\u015f\u0131n\u0131z sa\u011f olsun<\/em>: “may your head be healthy”, meaning may you, who remain, stay well. Where English speakers often fumble for words, Turkish hands you the right ones.<\/p>\n\n\n\nThe words that carry a whole mood<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\nIllustrated Bosphorus scene with people drinking tea, talking by the water, a ferry in the mist and moonlight on the sea<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\nKeyif<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\nOften translated as “pleasure”, which misses it entirely. Keyif<\/em> (kay-eef) is the art of unhurried contentment: a glass of tea, a view of the water, nowhere to be. Turks don’t just feel keyif<\/em>, they do<\/em> it \u2014 keyif yapmak<\/em> \u2014 and the Bosphorus shoreline on a Sunday is basically a public demonstration. If someone asks what you did all afternoon and you say “keyif yapt\u0131m<\/em>“, no further explanation is needed or wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\nH\u00fcz\u00fcn<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\nH\u00fcz\u00fcn means sadness or melancholy. In Istanbul, Orhan Pamuk famously turned it into something larger: a soft, collective melancholy that seems to belong to the city itself. Think of a ferry horn in fog, a wooden mansion with peeling paint, a winter dusk over the Golden Horn. It isn’t depression. It’s sadness with good lighting, and Istanbul wears it beautifully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yakamoz<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\nThe shimmer on the sea at night. In its dictionary sense, yakamoz refers to the phosphorescent glow stirred up in the water by fish, oars or bioluminescent organisms; in everyday poetic use, it is also widely associated with moonlight shimmering across the sea. In 2007, it was chosen as the winner of an international \u201cmost beautiful word\u201d competition organised by KULTURAUSTAUSCH.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
G\u00f6n\u00fcl<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\nEnglish has “heart”. Turkish has kalp<\/em> for the organ and g\u00f6n\u00fcl<\/em> for the heart that loves, wants and breaks. When something is done g\u00f6n\u00fclden<\/em>, it’s done wholeheartedly. When a host says g\u00f6nl\u00fcnden ne koparsa<\/em> \u2014 “whatever breaks off from your heart” \u2014 they mean: pay or give whatever feels right to you.<\/p>\n\n\n\nVefa<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\nUsually translated as \u201cloyalty\u201d, but vefa<\/em> carries more memory than that. It is the feeling of not forgetting someone who once stood by you, of remaining faithful to a friendship, a place or a debt of gratitude long after circumstances have changed. To be vefal\u0131<\/em> is not simply to stay loyal; it is to remember what and whom you owe your affection to.<\/p>\n\n\n\nMuhabbet<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\nA conversation, but a warm, wandering, affectionate one \u2014 the kind that needs a second pot of tea. The word comes from a root meaning love, which tells you how Turks feel about a good chat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nazar, ma\u015fallah and the blue eye<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\nThose blue glass eyes hanging in many shops, taxis and newborn’s cots are nazar boncu\u011fu<\/em>, protection against nazar<\/em>: the envious glance that can spoil good things. The verbal version is ma\u015fallah<\/em>. If you compliment a baby, a new car or someone’s good fortune, add ma\u015fallah<\/em> to show your admiration comes without envy. Compliment the baby without it and Grandma may quietly add it for you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\u0130n\u015fallah<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n“God willing” \u2014 but in practice, a word with at least three settings. Said brightly, it means “I truly hope so”. Said neutrally, “we’ll see”. Said with a particular slow exhale by a contractor who has been asked whether the work will be finished by Friday, it means something closer to “let us not torment ourselves with specifics”. Reading the tone is half the fun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
K\u0131smet<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\nTurkish has more than one way of talking about fate. Kader<\/em> is the larger course of destiny, while k\u0131smet<\/em> is the particular share of it that happens \u2014 or does not happen \u2014 to come your way. Missed the ferry? K\u0131smet de\u011filmi\u015f<\/em>: it wasn’t meant to be. There’s another one in twenty minutes, and now you have time for a simit.<\/p>\n\n\n\nIllustrated traveler drinking tea and eating simit after missing a ferry in Istanbul, surrounded by symbolic everyday objects<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\nThe small words you’ll hear a thousand times<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n\nBuyurun<\/strong> (boo-yoo-roon) is the Swiss Army knife of Turkish hospitality. It means “here you go”, “come in”, “go ahead”, “after you”, “how can I help?” and “yes, I’m listening” \u2014 depending entirely on the gesture that goes with it.<\/li>\n\n\n\nHadi<\/strong> means “come on” and powers the whole country: hadi gidelim<\/em> (let’s go), hadi ya!<\/em> (no way!), hadi bakal\u0131m<\/em> (alright then, let’s see). Hadi hadi hadi<\/em> is what you’ll hear behind you when boarding a dolmu\u015f too slowly.<\/li>\n\n\n\nYani<\/strong> is “I mean”, “so”, “like”, and occasionally an entire sentence. Shrug, say “yani…<\/em>“, and you have expressed an opinion Turks will perfectly understand.<\/li>\n\n\n\nCan\u0131m<\/strong> literally means “my soul” or “my life”, and is used roughly the way British people use “love”. Your waiter, your neighbour on the bus and a lady selling lace will all call you can\u0131m<\/em> with no romantic intent whatsoever.<\/li>\n\n\n\nAbi, abla, amca, teyze<\/strong> \u2014 big brother, big sister, uncle, auntie. Turks turn strangers into family by default. A slightly older man is abi<\/em>, a slightly older woman abla<\/em>; older still, amca<\/em> and teyze<\/em>. Calling a waiter abi<\/em> is friendly, not rude. And if people start calling you<\/em> abi<\/em> or abla<\/em>, congratulations: you’ve been adopted.<\/li>\n\n\n\nHocam \u2014 <\/strong>\u201cmy teacher\u201d. Used for actual teachers and sometimes doctors, trainers and other people in informal conversation. Among younger speakers in particular, it can also work as a friendly form of address between people who aren’t actually teachers.<\/li>\n\n\n\nEyvallah<\/strong> \u2014 a relaxed, slightly streetwise “thanks \/ cheers \/ fair enough”, often delivered with a hand on the heart.<\/li>\n\n\n\nEsta\u011ffurullah<\/strong> \u2014 the elegant answer to a compliment or to thanks: roughly “oh, please, not at all”. It looks terrifying and sounds like es-taa-foo-roo-lah<\/em>. Nail it once and you will be talked about at family dinners.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\nThe “no” that isn’t a word<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\nFinally, a warning that will save you real confusion. One of the most useful Turkish \u2018no\u2019s for visitors to recognise is silent, or nearly so: a quick upward tilt of the chin, eyebrows raised, sometimes with a small tongue click \u2014 c\u0131k<\/em>. To foreign eyes it looks like a nod, or like mild irritation. It’s neither. It simply means “no”, “we don’t have it” or “sold out”.<\/p>\n\n\n\nAnd when you offer something and a Turk places their right hand flat on their chest with a slight bow of the head, that means “thank you, but no” \u2014 the warmest refusal you’ll ever receive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A five-phrase starter kit<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\nShort on time? Take these five through passport control and you’ll be fine:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nMerhaba<\/strong> \u2014 hello<\/li>\n\n\n\nKolay gelsin<\/strong> \u2014 to anyone who’s working<\/li>\n\n\n\nEline sa\u011fl\u0131k<\/strong> \u2014 to anyone who’s fed you<\/li>\n\n\n\nTe\u015fekk\u00fcrler<\/strong> (teh-shek-k\u00fcr-ler) \u2014 thank you, or the easier sa\u011f ol<\/strong><\/li>\n\n\n\nHo\u015f bulduk<\/strong> \u2014 when someone welcomes you<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n\n\n\nNobody in T\u00fcrkiye expects visitors to speak Turkish, which is precisely why a single kolay gelsin<\/em> lands so well. You’re not showing off vocabulary. You’re showing that you noticed how people here talk to each other \u2014 with a small blessing for everything \u2014 and that you’d like to join in.<\/p>\n\n\n\nIllustrated traveler boarding a plane with visual references to tea, ferries, barber shops and Turkish street life<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\nOn your Turkish Airlines flight to T\u00fcrkiye, try your first kolay gelsin<\/em> on the cabin crew. Consider it a warm-up. Ho\u015f geldiniz<\/em> in advance.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"First, a 60-second pronunciation rescue This is the first thing to understand about Turkish: it is a language with a small, warm sentence ready for almost every moment of daily life. Someone is working? There’s a phrase. Someone sneezed, got a haircut, bought a sofa, boarded a flight, cooked dinner, recovered from the flu, heard […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":53,"featured_media":66900,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[146],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-66894","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","category-travel-tips"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/66894","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/53"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=66894"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/66894\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":66945,"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/66894\/revisions\/66945"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/66900"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=66894"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=66894"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=66894"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
![\"Illustrated](\"https:\/\/blog.turkishairlines.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/10\/turkish-everyday-blessings-hospitality-illustration.jpg\")