Deepish Thoughts

Back in the 'Bul, Baby!

2009-08-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

Oh my, it HAS been a long time, hasn't it? Back in Istanbul, and I've come to the realization that the magic is chipping away like the paint on an old house. I am glad to be back, but at the same time I feel like I didn't quite get enough America on my recent return. There a few things that I miss immensely, and they are reason enough to return at the end of the school year; namely, baseball, expansive city parks, easy access hiking, my three wonderful nieces and one nephew, daily bike rides through the country, Sunnywood and my grandparents, and that matter of fact take it or leave it American attitude that helps us all enjoy life just the way it is.

Having said that, I did miss a few things here. Working (and collecting that envelope of cash), Turkish lessons, my few Turkish/Turkey-based friends, and the prospect of great holidays in far away places.

And while we're making lists, I'll enumerate those those books sitting on my shelf that I plan to finish:
The Pickwick Papers
Denisen's Out of Africa
The Brothers Karamazov
Hemingway's Short Stories
T.C. Boyle's Stories
Three Cups of Tea
Paul Bowles's The Sheltering Sky

Today was filled with meetings. Actually, just two long ones. I despise meetings and so I decided that the only way I'll be able to avoid meetings for the remainder of my life is to become a famous writer. That is still, as it always has been, in the works.

Lastly, my wonderful uncle John Riley behooved to me his digital SLR, replete with three lenses to boot! I will be using that this year as my side arm in my ventures around this city and country, ala Henri Cartier Bresson!

Ancan anone tell mewy it i that some buttons work onmy omputer while I type into this blo and some don't. This is an exampleof te trouble I'm having withturkish internet. What the hell!

Holiday in Iraq

2009-07-15T06:59:00.000-07:00

News flash: Iraq is hot. And it's kind of boring. I took a minibus from Hakkari all the way to the border near Silopi, hopped in a taxi at the border and got the driver to do all my paper work for me. Took about two hours total, and in true Turkish fashion (Turkish Kurds are still, in my mind, thoroughly Turkish), rather than staying in their cars and arrive at passport control in an orderly fashion car by car, everyone jumped out of their cars and sprinted to the passport control window. They pushed and shoved and raised their palms in the air to emphasize how angry they were when they yelled at each other.

I arrived in Dohuk and stayed at a crap hotel. After I'd paid for it, I went in and pulled the curtain aside only to find a cement wall staring back at me. Sleeping in what was basically a closet wouldn't be so bad, except this is Iraq, it's hot, and the power in the city gets shut off at night. So, the hotel generator kept dying, which meant I woke up every time the ceiling fan stopped. The place was run by a kid who had to have been a good five years younger than me and at least five inches shorter. The bathrooms reflected his youthful devil don't care attitude in that they were disgusting. Of course, squatters will never be inviting, but these were absolutely repulsive.

Nonetheless Dohuk has a bustle to it that's hard not to like. I came to Erbil today and althogh it's big there is nothing to do here. There is a large citadel but it's closed off save for the main road running through the center of it. I ate two felafel sandwiches today at two different places, mostly to kill time. I also spent a whole hour in a rug museum only because it had AC. Now I'm in an internet cafe and updating my blog because I might otherwise go insane from boredom. Although, I am meeting up with a friend of a friend of a friend tonight, so that might salvage my Iraq experience. Whether it does it not, I'm still out of here tomorrow morning, making a B line straight for Istanbul and then American on Monday!

I will write more on Kurdistan and what Kurds think of this place later.

Travel plans

2009-07-04T05:19:00.000-07:00

So about those dogs. My landlady had Annabelle (the big, furry one) shaved. I didn't see her for two days because she was apparently hiding in embarrassment. Ostensibly comfortable enough with her new look to make herself public, she finally came out last night on to my terrace while I was watching a movie with a friend. I heard my landlady laughing and calling to her. I came out and before me was a skinny, hairless, quite pathetic looking dog. I started cracking up and tried to pet her but she ran away from us to the outdoor stairs. The neighbors came out to see what all the hub-bub was about. They took one look at her standing on the stairs and just started laughing hysterically. At that point the poor dog probably thought, "Forget these assholes," and she ran off to the park across the street. I haven't seen her since.

Anyway, I'm traveling to a place I've wanted to go for a while. Tonight I leave for Eastern Turkey. It's the land of Kurds, and most Turks as me why on earth I want to go there. I'm excited to see what this other side of Turkey is like, especially after hearing so many things (good and bad) from so many people for the last two years. My itinerary is as follows:

Istanbul to Trabzon
Trabzon to Erzurum
Erzurum to Van
Van to Ani and Dogubeyazit to Van
Van to Hakkari, Sirnak, Siirt and Mardin
Mardin to Diyarbakir and Mt. Nemrut
Diyarbakir to Istanbul

I'll post some thoughts after the trip, as well as some photos. Herkese gorusuruz!

Dogs

2009-06-28T02:15:00.000-07:00

Turkey has a dog problem. Anyone who's come to visit me knows this, especially those who visited me last year at my old place in Ortakoy. Surely, you can't have forgotten the eight or ten dogs that sauntered out into the street below my apartment at midnight like a sketchy 1950's era New York gang and proceeded to yap, bark and howl at absolutely nothing. They all seemed to have decided that the middle of the damn night was a perfect time to flex their vocal cords, barking at the ground, the stars, one another, and wandering in concentric circles, or weaving slowly around cars and garbage cans like clueless, empty-eyed dementia patients who'd inadvertently escaped the grounds of the mental hospital. Trying to sleep through such a pointless raucous is enough put one into a mental hospital of one’s own.

My tactic for combating the noise was to chuck water balloons from my window, which rarely worked. I also visited a gun shop several times to price bb-guns, but I was too cheap to shell out two hundred lira for one. At one point I came across a story by Paul Bowles, in which he describes how he didn't have it in him to poison his neighbor’s incessantly barking dog, so he fed it a concoction of medications for seven straight nights to give it the appearance of being rabid, with foaming mouth and all. On the seventh day the owner shot it, and Mr. Bowles slept in peace from then on. I googled "medication to make a dog appear rabid" but my search proved fruitless. My solution: I moved.

At my new place in Etiler, there are two dogs that sleep all day on my terrace and protect my complex from intruders at night. They have Turkish names, but my friend Patrick and I gave them English ones: Annabelle Lee and Gertrude. One is very cute, fluffy and big. The other is short, fat and ugly. You can guess which one is named what, I'm sure.

One night I came home at around 3am, and as soon as my head hit the pillow a dog began barking: non-stop. When I say non-stop, that is very much literal. The only pause it took was the half second it needed to take a breath between barks. Thinking it was Gertrude—she is always the culprit—I stormed out on to my terrace muttering curses and chucked a glass full of water in her face. She jumped up to her feet and skittered off the terrace. I returned to bed and the barking continued. "Shut the hell up!" I yelled out my window. The barking paused for a second and then resumed with more intensity. As I slammed the pillow over my ear, I suddenly remembered a dog being left on the top terrace of the building adjacent to mine back in the fall. I removed the pillow and strained to hear for the source, and sure enough, it was coming from that building and it was echoing everywhere, which made the dog sound as if it were no more then several feet away. I marched down to the building where the dog was and proceeded to press repeatedly every buzzer panel for every flat. I went back to my place and the barking continued.

The next day my landlady and I did two things: we visited the kapacı (a sort of door man/caretaker of an apartment building) and explained our grievance. We also called the municipality. Thankfully the barking stopped after two or three more nights. Apparently the owner of the dog was in America and the kapacı was left in charge. Not knowing what to do with it while it barked and kept him awake, he threw it out on the terrace to keep the whole rest of the neighborhood awake. When the owner returned he stopped this inconsiderate practice.

True to form, the municipality people showed up two weeks later, long after the problem was solved. They noticed Gertrude barking and tried to take her and Annabelle away. My landlady, not far from tears, implored them to leave the dogs alone.

“But someone had complained,” they'd said.

“Yes,” she said, “it was me! But it wasn’t about these dogs, and now there is no problem anymore.”

“But this dog is barking,” they said. “Don’t you want us to take it away?”

My landlady managed to convince them that Gertrude and Annabelle were not a nuisance, that although they did bark occasionally, it was nothing like the dog we originally complained about, and that if they took these dogs away everyone in the complex would be very upset because we all love these two dogs very much.

They had her sign a paper saying that she approved of the dogs remaining and they let Gertrude and Annabelle stay. And although they bark from time to time at night, they give me plenty of pleasure when they wag their tales and run to me when I come home from work, enough to justify a lousy night of sleep now and again.

Futbol

2009-06-25T13:40:00.001-07:00

Two things I learned about soccer tonight: 1) South Africa, simply put, is tough as hell. They're almost impossible to knock down, they keep running when they're supposed to fall and draw a foul, and they don't do that rinky-dink-pussy-footin'-"I'm-in-so-much-pain-because-you-touched-my-shirt-sleeve"-rolling-around-on-the-turf-acting bullshit. And 2) Brazil is good, always has been good, and will continue to be good. Nevertheless, South Africa played a great game--no, an amazing game--against the favored Brazilian squad and although they lost in the last five minutes 1-0, I'm predicting that they'll go deep in the World Cup next year. Good for them. I'm sick of European and Latin American teams named Brazil and Argentina winning all the time.

The U.S. plays Brazil on Saturday in the Confederation Cup final. And in case you hadn't heard, the U.S. beat Spain, the best team in the world, last night 2-0. If the U.S. can pull off a victory I might shit myself. That would not be good because I'll be in Taksim at a bar, and I certainly don't want to get caught with a load in my pants that far from home. But you know what? To see the U.S. beat these arrogant Brazilians would be worth the $5.50 I'd have to shell out on a new pair of undies.

Go Yanks (no, not the ones from NY)!!!

Summer, Mousavi and Iran

2009-06-22T11:35:00.000-07:00

After a wet and rainy winter I sort of forgot how f-ing hot it gets in Istanbul. Waiting in traffic on a sweltering bus high above the Bosphorous, my memory was jarred awake by the thick, slightly tangy underarm stench of several swarthy Turkish men who reached up to grasp the bus's hanging hand grips. I briefly wished for winter, but once again recalled how last February I was wishing for summer. Then I remembered that last winter was also the last time I had updated this blog.

Is anyone else wondering what awful fate awaits Mir-Hossein Mousavi after the Iran election protests whither to a whimper? I predict an arrest, brutal interrogation, swift trial and permanent house arrest a la Aung San Suu Kyi. What's important for us Americans to take note of? Well, now you all see that Iran really isn't a country comprised of a bunch of fundementalist Islamo-fascists.

And by the way: over two years ago, I said to a number of skeptical friends, "The US will not bomb Iran before Bush leaves office." No one believed me, but I was right.

Cheers!

Von, Two, Three, Four!

2009-03-07T15:23:00.000-08:00

Last Monday I celebrated a very special day. It's probably a day none of you have ever even given thought to. That day was my 10,000 day birthday. Yes, I had been keeping track of the total days I've been on this earth, and I have to say I am damn proud of being 10,000 days old. Actually, 10,005 days old as of tonight.

In a numbers based society, where those with the highest salary, biggest house, fastest car and most massive breasts get all the fun, one can feel rather inadequate. I have a low salary, a 50m2 apartment, no car, and, thankfully, no massive breasts. If I'm judged based on numbers, then I sure as hell don't add up to much in the eyes of the elite. Even in my cowboy boots, I barely flirt with 5'9", I've never climbed a mountain that was more than 4,000 meters, and, compared to most of my friends in Turkey, I really only speak one and 3/4 languages. So I've learned to take pride in more obscure numbers. No longer am I only 27. I'm freaking 10,000 days old. So back off.

I suggest you do the same. Calculate your day age (don't forget to take leap years into account), and you'll seriously feel a welling pride in legitimate accomplishment. If you're going bald, actually sit down and count every single hair on your head so that the next time someone tells you you're going bald, you can say, "Screw you, I have 73,253 individual hairs. And that's just on my head!" If you are unfortunate enough to speak just one language (that is, if you are American) you should instead boast that you know a grand total of 15,000 words, which you can shuffle around to create an infinite amount of syntactically correct sentences. And if you make only $2,700/month like I do, you should probably tout your monthly salary as 270,000 cents. Better yet, convert that $2,700 to Zimbabwe Dollars and suddenly you're a goddamn billionaire (the figure comes out to $67,500,000,000 ZWD, which is more than Bill Gates's total worth).

Indeed, all those numbers being thrown in your face like countless grains of sand can really bring you down. But remember that it's all a matter of perspective. Once you understand this, then you'll be more inclined to look on the bright side of life. Happy counting.

So What Does "Train" Mean to You?

2009-02-23T13:15:00.000-08:00

Interesting linguistic story: I’d just arrived in Belgrade, on the second to last day of a fourteen day trip through the Balkans. It was 5:00am. I’d slept about three hours on the bus ride from Sarajevo. I was slightly—only slightly—nervous about being dumped off at a sketchy looking bus station in a city I was wholly unfamiliar with. And I have to say, after the unflattering stories I’d heard in Croatia and Bosnia about the Serbs—they were, according to one Croat, “primitive animals,”—and considering the permanent scars left on nearly every Sarajevan building by the heavy hand of the Army of Republika Srpska, I was expecting some sort of unprovoked altercation.

I'll tell you now that nothing dramatic happened. But for a linguist, I did discover something intriguing. I wandered back and forth in front of the bus station, map in hand, trying to get my bearings straight. I wanted to find the train station to get my ticket to Budapest that night, and I wasn’t about to ask. I typically don’t ask for directions, not out of pride, but rather out of the challenge afforded me by finding my way around a new city. But then again, even a minute of conversation about the whereabouts of the train station can reveal quite a lot about the local psyche. So I decided after a few to ask a friendly looking taxi driver washing his cab on the street corner.

I opened my Lonely Planet and looked under the Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian section for the word for train. Vlak. Got it.

“Excuse me,” I said mustering as much geniality as was possible for five in the morning. “Do you know where the vlak is? Vlak station? Vlak?”

I always find it ridiculous when we try to communicate with those we assume don’t speak our language. We typically begin with a syntactically perfect sentence, and then, upon realizing we are not understood, we begin to speak as if our fellow interlocutor is either retarded or deaf. The funny thing is that we look more retarded to him than we think. Imagine someone coming up to you to say, “Blah blah. Blah blah blah blah blah train blah blah?” Train blahblah? Train?” It’s no wonder the world is at war.

The cabbie leaned forward slightly, as if inspecting a crumb on my lips or a scar on my cheek, and said in perfect English, “Excuse me. Do you speak Serbian?”

“No,” I said a little confused. “I speak English.”

The cabbie then turned his palms up, lifted his hands with a jerk, and shrugged his shoulders once. He cocked his head and pouted his lips slightly in a perfect expression of complete apathy. He turned around and continued to wash his taxi.

I stood for a moment, mystified. I wanted to say something insulting, but this was not my land, and nothing clever came to mind.

“Thanks buddy. Have a great day,” I mumbled as I turned and walked away.

A while later I was sitting in a café reading my Lonely Planet. I was still slightly disturbed at my mistreatment at the hands of this surly Serb. I flipped to the language section of the book, explaining all the useful idioms and phrases of the Balkans. I looked again under the Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian section.

train
vlak (C)/voz (B&S) воз

That (C) stands for Croatian. The (B&S), Bosnian and Serbian. Reminder: this was the Balkans. A lesson I never thought I’d have to consider: you just can’t go around using words willy nilly as if they’re not going to conjure up things like, oh I don’t know, hatred, war, genocide, and massive forced expatriation.

Who would have thunk it!

A Conversation in Albania

2009-02-14T08:03:00.000-08:00

After three days in Tirana, Albania, my two friends, Bader and Noelle, and I hired a cab and hopped the mountains for the town of Librahzd in the east. Librahzd has a population of about 12,000. It stretches out along a narrow, rushing river, ensconced among layers of mountains, the furthest of which are snow capped and often hidden among slowly passing clouds.
Bader had family in Librahzd, and within an hour of meeting several of his cousins, I had a considerable amount of friends of my own. The next day, I was invited to watch the friendly evening soccer match, and afterwards I joined three of the guys for coffee at the nearest café.
I fell into conversation with Ladi, a burly, thirty-something electronics shop owner. He was one of the town’s more successful businessmen and his brother was a senator for Albania’s most powerful political party. Ladi was full of ideas, especially relating to business, but our conversation eventually turned to politics and the inevitable question that I’d been answering since November.
“So what do you think of Obama?”
“I’m excited,” I replied. “I think he’s going to do a great job. A lot better than Bush.”
“Not a Bush fan, are you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “He messed a lot of things up.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, like with Iraq and the economy and all. I just don’t think he was a very good president. I’m really glad to see him go, actually.”
Ladi nodded his head and took a sip of coffee.
“So do you think Obama can fix it?” he asked.
“I hope so,” I said.
“He’s got a lot of pressure on him,” Ladi said. “I feel bad for the guy. I hope he can do all he says he’ll do. But it’ll be hard.”
“It will,” I said. “It will. But he’s honest about the expectations. He says outright that a lot of people will be disappointed because expectations are so high.”
“That’s what I like about him,” Ladi replied. “He’s honest about that stuff.”
Ladi took a moment to translate what we’d been talking about to one of his friends, a professional soccer player from the local team, who nodded in agreement as he sucked at his cigarette. Ladi turned back to me.
“But I think a lot of people criticize Bush too much,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?” I said, only slightly surprised. Albanians, I’d learned, liked Bush very much.
“Yeah. Well, he had a hard time in office, you know. With 9/11 and Afghanistan and Iraq.”
“True,” I said. “It was a difficult time.”
“It wasn’t easy. He had to make some difficult decisions, and I think people forget that. I mean, I know he made a lot of mistakes with stuff going on in the United States.”
“Yeah,” I said, “quite a bit.”
“Sure, like Katrina, and the economy and all. But he had a lot of challenges in the world that he had to deal with.”
“Very true, very true,” I replied. “You know, this is what I keep hearing from Albanians. You guys don’t think Bush is too bad of a guy, huh?”
“Well did you see when he came to Albania, and all the Albanians hugging him?” he asked.
“Yeah, I did. They stole his watch!” I said with a smile.
Ladi suddenly looked away from me and at his friend sitting across from him. He slapped his palm to his forward and dragged his hand down his face as if trying to stretch it out. He held out his hand, palm up and fingers straight, like he was expecting something to be placed into it. He muttered something in Albanian, then turned back to me.
“They didn’t steal his watch,” he said exasperated. “I’ve seen so many videos about this, and they didn’t steal his watch. He took his watch off and gave it to a secret service agent. They didn’t steal it.”
Ladi had begun speaking with both of his hands, and he kept looking at his friend across from him, making comments in Albanian. I immediately realized that I’d committed a serious faux pas, that I had pinched an incredibly sensitive nerve, perhaps the most sensitive one he had.
The watch episode looked pretty believable to me. Bush was greeting a throng of adoring Albanians in Tirana, his sleeves rolled up, reaching into the crowd, grabbing hands and arms and shaking them vigorously. Albanians were grasping for him, hugging him, hanging onto his hands and not letting go. One second you saw the black band of a watch clasp around Bush’s wrist, his left arm disappearing momentarily into the crowd, and the next second, as he withdraws his arm in order to plunge it in again, you see that his wrist is bare. He never even notices.
“So it’s not real, huh?” I said. “It looks real, but I suppose you would know better than me.”
“No, it didn’t happen,” he said pointedly. “He took it off and gave it to his secret service guy. Have you seen any other videos of this?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t. Just that one.”
“Well, the video you saw makes it look like his watch was stolen because it only shows a short part. Believe me, I’ve looked at a lot of videos about this, and I know it’s not true. He takes his watch off and you can see as he begins to greet the crowd he never has his watch on in the first place. Even the U.S. State Department spoke about it later on, and said that Bush absolutely did not have his watch stolen. Even the U.S. State Department said it didn’t happen.”
“Well, you’re the Albanian, and I guess I have to believe you if you say it isn’t true.”
“You know who did this, don’t you?” he asked.
“No, who?”
“It was the Italians. Or the Greeks. They made it look like Bush got his watch stolen.”
“But why would they do that?” I asked.
“Because they’re jealous,” he said. “They’re jealous that Albania and Bush have such a good relationship, that Albanians love Bush and that Bush supports them so much. It’s a jealousy thing. You see how it is when Bush goes to Italy or Greece. People are yelling at him, throwing things at his car, giving him the middle-finger. You see how they protest. But in Albania it was totally different. Even Bush came out of his normal routine—you know, where he’s usually got his coat on, and shakes a few hands and then speaks. In Albania he took his jacket off and just got into the crowd to greet all those people. It was amazing. But he can’t do that in the rest of the world. And the Italians and Greeks, they were jealous.” “Well,” I said, “that makes sense. The rest of the world doesn’t like him very much. And according to that video, Albania really does. It’s too bad that people think he got his watch stolen. I only just saw the video a couple of days ago, you know, so I had no idea until then. But I can see why it makes you upset. I’d be upset too.”
“Who showed you this video?” he asked. “Was it an Albanian?”
“You know, I can’t even remember who showed it to me,” I lied. Bader had actually showed it to me.
“Well if it was an Albanian, if I knew who he was, I’d punch him right in the nose. If it wasn’t an Albanian, then I’d be upset but—if it was an Albanian I’d be really angry. I’m serious, I’d probably punch him right in the nose.”
“Sure, of course, I can see why it’s so upsetting. Albania was there, on the world stage and—“
“And the biggest news that comes out of the Bush visit was that he got his damn watch stolen. Excuse me, but really, this is bullshit. Here we are, the world watching, and the only thing people get out of it was that Bush had his watch stolen. And it wasn’t even true! Really, go online and look up some other videos about this, and you’ll see it isn’t true.”
Ladi clipped off a few more statements in Albanian to the other two guys sitting with us. He took several more sips of his coffee and asked me if I’d like another lemon tea. I said I would, and he ordered one for me. He was beginning to come down from his indignant high.
At about that time, Bader and Noelle entered the café. Happy greetings abounded and they sat down with all of us. The conversation turned to Bader’s business ideas for Librazhd, for which Ladi showed considerable enthusiasm. Ladi then turned his attention to Noelle, and finally back to me. We began speaking of something else, I can’t quite remember what, but Ladi mentioned something about the watch video. Noelle turned toward us with a smile.
“Hey we just saw that video the other day. It’s hilarious. I can’t believe he got his watch—“
“But it’s not true,” I said to Noelle, quickly grabbing her harm and squeezing it hard. “Before you came here Ladi told me it didn’t really happen.” Ladi was staring right at Noelle.
“Really? It looks pretty real to me,” Noelle said.
“No, no,” I said, “not true, it’s not true,” I said. I wanted the subject to change. I wanted Noelle to leave it alone.
“Have you seen the whole video?” Ladi asked Noelle.
“No,” she said, “I haven’t. Just that one part.” She was still smiling.
“Well, you should see the whole thing. If you did you’d see that it’s just not true. It never happened.” Ladi was vigorously spinning his cell phone between his thumb and forefinger.
“Oh,” Noelle replied. “Ok.”
“I get so angry that so many people believe this. Even your own State Department made a public statement saying it wasn’t true. It never happened.”
“Oh, I didn’t know it wasn’t real,” Noelle replied.
“But now we know,” I said. “It’s a good thing Ladi cleared it up for us. Anyway, why don’t we—“
“What are you guys talking about?” Bader said, taking his attention away from rolling his cigarette.
“Ah, nothing import—“
“The video of George Bush getting his watch stolen,” Noelle said.
“Ostensibly,” I said.
Ladi was now staring at Bader, waiting to hear his response. I looked down at my lemon tea, studying the smooth surface of the liquid.
“Oh, we just saw that,” Bader said with a laugh. “That was hilarious. I’m actually glad he got his watch stolen.”
“He didn’t get his watch stolen,” said Ladi flatly. “It’s not true.” He had one of those forced grins and was shaking his head slightly now, looking down at his coffee. I noticed that his right leg had begun to shake up and down like a piston.
“Really? It looks pretty real to me. He just stuck his arm in the crowd and—poof!—there goes his watch,” Bader laughed. “Right into the crowd!”
Ladi continued to stare at his coffee as if he’d resigned himself to some unpleasant fate. He then looked up at Bader, continued to shake his head and said,
“You think this is funny? You’re an American, but of Albanian decent. As an Albanian you think this is funny? You think this ok?”
Bader slowly rolled his cigarette, apparently wholly unaware of the sensitivity of the issue. I watched the cigarette, wondering how he rolled them so thin, and wishing he’d launch into some philosophical discourse on how he did so.
“You know what?” Bader said slowly, “I think if you promise a bunch of people money, then don’t give it to them, you at least owe some guy a nice watch.”
Ladi just sat there shaking his head, lips permanently molded into a disgusted grin of disbelief. He said nothing in response and we all left soon thereafter, making stock salutary phrases before we all went off for the evening.

On Observing the Gaza Conflict from a Jewish School

2009-01-13T14:16:00.000-08:00

I was told recently that I work in the most secure location in all of Turkey.

“More secure than the American consulate?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” my department head replied.

Not only do we have no less than three Kevlar clad security guards outside our entrance throughout the day, as well as a large contingent of police that direct traffic past the school from morning to afternoon, but our in-house, 24 hour security guards check in and around the school grounds every single night for anything conspicuous or out of place. As a Jewish school in a predominantly Muslim country, one would expect high security. With the recent raid of Gaza by the Israeli Defense Forces, our school is now a bit more on edge.

There hasn’t been too much talk on campus about the Gaza conflict. Everyone feels downright awful over the death of the children, but I can’t help but feel like most at the school have resigned themselves to accepting the circumstances of the Gaza conflict as a necessary evil. This, of course, is pure conjecture. Have I taken a poll to find out how everyone truly feels? No. I’m merely reading into what is not being said, rather than what is being stated outright, which isn’t much. And I try not to push anyone into conversation about the matter. For one, I don’t trust myself enough to respond calmly to any countenance of the incredibly heavy handed Israeli response. And two, I’m afraid that my questioning will be interpreted as a push towards argument. Everyone knows how the English department feels. “I just want to hang an enormous Palestinian flag from the Bulgarian consulate next door,” one of my British colleagues announced to us earlier in the year.

It’s all a bit surreal, this going back and forth between two realities. There is the reality of the Jewish State, of Zionism, of an attitude that all is well in the world because, unfortunately, might still makes right. If outright support of Israel isn’t stated, then it is ambivalence that you’ll find. We can’t support the Palestinians, but we sure can feel badly for them. Nor do we dare speak out against the injustice committed by Israel. Of course, when I say unjust, I’m not saying that the crux of the matter, that is, responding to terrorist attacks by Hamas, is unjust. But I am saying that the nature of Israel’s response is so nefarious that it easily warrants sending her leaders to a war crimes tribunal.

Then there is the reality that exists outside my school. When I go home, images of massive explosions, strafing fire, and bloodied children are broadcast into my living room. Protests abound and every single news channel is openly supportive of the Palestinians. As I walked down Istiklal Street the other night, the “Times Square” of Istanbul, I couldn’t help noticing flyers in the colors of the Palestinian flag strewn about the street, stuck in shop windows, pasted to the sides of buildings. Ben Filistin’liyim, they read. I am Palestinian. I took one back to my home and it is hanging up in my hallway mirror. I even bought a white and black checkered Palestinian scarf. But I would never dare reveal these items to my Jewish colleagues at school.

Today, the Turkish Ministry of Education announced that all schools in Turkey would be required to observe a minute of silence at 11:00am, out of respect for the “Palestinian children who have been killed by the Israeli military.” Our school, understandably, did not take part. For one, never mind the principle of the matter, nor what is morally right. For a school director to require a bunch of Jewish kids, some of whom are zealous Zionists, to observe a moment of silence for their enemy, be them children or not, would be political suicide. It is awful, but it’s true. Secondly, this moment of silence was political in nature. Where were the moments of silence for the 650,000 Iraqi dead? For the wedding parties bombed in rural Afghanistan? For the victims of the Rwandan genocide of the 1990’s, or the ethnically cleansed in Darfur? If we are going to observe a moment of silence for the victims of war, we must account for all of the victims, not just those that align with us politically, socially or religiously.

Beneath a picture of Ataturk, the heads of department and admin placed a clock on the wall, turned it to 11:00am, and sat silently for one minute. This was the best they could do, and understandably so. But it is only a superficial act of the most minor proportions. It will not bring back the civilian dead—those who have been reduced to numbers in the context of “collateral damage,” a reprehensible, nauseating term. It will not heal. It will not do anything pragmatic. What it will accomplish will only exist in theory. Yes, we remember the Palestinians, the poor Palestinians. What has been done to them in Gaza is awful but…

A Free Country?

2008-11-02T02:17:00.000-08:00

Last week the Turkish government decided to block all access to blogger.com. They gave no reason for doing so, and in spite of the more computer savy population's outrage, the high court refused to budge. I believe their only rationale was, "It has bad things." You tube has been blocked for over a year now, along with 1100 other websites.

To me, Turkey is like an 11 year old child. She wants to grow up and be like her friends, but she just doesn't know how. Actually, let me rephrase that. She does know how, but she's convinced that her illogical way is best. Yet it's stunting her growth and all her friends who have grown up around her are losing respect for her. Lovely, Turkey. Really wonderful. Please spare the cries of, "We love freedom and democracy!" during your next Republic Day, because they are ringing far too hollow to be taken seriously.

Despite the Turkish high court's fight against freedom of information, there is a proxy server which I use to check otherwise "dangerous" websites. In fact, I think just about everyone knows about this proxy server, which renders the Turkish court's decisions to block websites completely obsolete. So thanks to that, I am still able to access blogger.com and write my scathing posts.

I returned from Wales and England a week ago, and it was lovely. I took some pictures and, as usual, have posted them on my facebook. If you copy and paste the link below you'll be taken to facebook. Enjoy!

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2090833&l=f06a3&id=26310454

Posted by my Aunt Becky from Laos, interesting - which country is supposed to be more free???

2008-10-03T10:10:00.001-07:00

Been two months since I posted anything. Anyway, this week I had a wonderful traveling experience. I saw Turkey in a new light, and I have to say it made me feel a little closer to this country. I traveled with three friends out into Anatolia to Safranbolu, Amasya, Bogazkale and Ankara. We rented a car, so we got to see the beautiful, rugged landscape. We also met some very friendly small-town Turks.

I was desperate to get out of Istanbul, especially my neighborhood. In two weeks I'm going to Scotland, so I'll have some great photos of there posted soon. Just check back. As always, copy the link below and paste it in your address bar to see my photos.

http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2088543&l=cf459&id=26310454

Manny Can Be Manny Now and I Just Don't Care!

2008-08-02T06:49:00.000-07:00

Let's talk baseball. The other day the Manny Ramirez era of Red Sox baseball came to an abrupt end, as he was traded to the Dodgers in a three team deal. The Sox got Jason Bay, a 29 year-old left-fielder from the Pirates. With the exit of Manny, everyone took to lamenting the impossibility of the Red Sox making any substantial playoff run (including me). Manny's and Bay's stats at the time of the trade were almost identical, although Manny had a batting average a good 20 points higher. The issue was that while Bay is a good player and can hit the ball over the fence, Manny is the most feared hitter in the game, reducing the opposing team to shakes, jitters, and sudden bouts of diarrhea each time he steps into the batter's box. ESPN also cited Manny's .400+ average with runners in scoring position, while Bay's is somewhere in the low .200's. "The Red Sox," ESPN's Peter Gammons said with stone-faced conviction, "will not make the playoffs without Manny."

Fastforward to last night. Jason Bay stepped up to the plate, stepped out of the batter's box twice (on account of the Fenway Faithful's ecstatic ovation), and he got on base on a walk. In fact, he got on base four times in the game (two walks, hit-by-pitch, two strikeouts and a triple). Even though the walk was a bit anti-climactic, you could very well see how excited the fans were to finally have a hardworking professional who will ACTUALLY run out ground balls. Hell, he even ran to first base on the walk. He RAN! Bay scored the first run on a sac-fly, and in the 12th inning, with two outs and nobody on, he hit a high fly that bounced off the Green Monster, just a few feet shy of a walk-off home run. He made it to third and scored the winning run on a Jed Lowry grounder. Thank God Jed Lowry runs out his ground balls too. Sox won the game 2-1, and you want to imply, by citing RSP averages, that Bay isn't clutch? Sure, numbers don't lie, but given this guy's performance in a game proceeding a string of Sox losses, a guy coming from a non-contender to the World Series Champions, in Boston of all places...I have to say, he doesn't seem like one to choke. Bay also made a brilliant sliding catch, one that I could never have seen Manny making.

I say after one game, yes only one game, the Sox are clearly the winners in this deal. The energy is there, and I'm a believer in Bay. Red Sox WILL make the playoffs, and they'll go deep.

Oh, and what did Manny do last night in his first game with the Dodgers? He did get two hits. But in the 9th inning with no outs and one man on, he grounded into a double play and the Dodgers lost.

Red Sox - 1
Manny - 0

In Israel I hath suffered from divine sunburn

2008-06-01T14:45:00.000-07:00

Two links to two new albums of my recent Israel trip. It was short, but filled with all sorts of religious experience-ness, yeah...

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2072743&l=445ea&id=26310454

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2072790&l=398fb&id=26310454

Just cut and paste in your address bar, people.

Jesus Christ vs. Nancy Pelosi

2008-05-24T11:49:00.000-07:00

As I walked through the dark corridor in Jerusalem's Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which houses the places where Jesus was crucified and entombed, I saw several stern-faced men in suits walking towards me. As they turned to walk down the stairs to the Saint Helena Chapel, footsteps echoing off the stone walls, a dignified, older woman emerged from behind them. She was listening intently to a monk cum tour-guide, and while my friends stuttered in their efforts to place her, her face immediately registered in my mind.

"Holy crap, it's Nancy Pelosi!" I whispered.

I've had kind of a weird older-woman crush on Nancy for about two years now. I was ecstatic at my golden opportunity to make an impression, take a chance, get her number... I forgot where I was going and what I'd come to Jerusalem for, and followed her down the stairs to the chapel. We waited several minutes for her tour to take her back up the stairs. My friend snapped a few odd-looking pictures of my head in the foreground and Ms. Pelosi's hair in the background. I only wanted to shake her hand, and my waiting paid off. She and her entourage took to the stairs, and I asked an aid if I could shake her hand. She heard me ask, turned her head and smiled wide. I reached my hand over to her, shook hers and said, "Ms. Pelosi, I just want to shake your hand and say that I respect you very much." She thanked me and asked my friends and me where we were from. We told her, and she thanked us again and moved on.

This is the first famous person I've met. Unfortunately, she didn't offer me a job or even her phone number, so I decided that Jesus, at that moment at least, would take precedent over Nancy Pelosi. I didn't follow her, but rather continued with my tour of the church. My thoughts for the rest of the day, however, were with Nancy, not Jesus. Sorry JC.

2008-05-13T12:42:00.000-07:00

If I felt like my life was worth writing about, I'd be updating this thing way more than I have been. Actually, I won't even venture to say that I'm updating it now. It's more of a courtesy message, because I can't help but feel guilty that I'm keeping friends and family so in the dark.

I can't stand reading those blog messages that detail people's every boring minute, every trivial purchase, every uneventful venture out of the county (that's county, not country). Unless you can be funny about it, then I'll read it. But I don't have the talent to make a trip to the local Islamic supermarket seem even remotely interesting. Maybe if the cashiers there would do something more entertaining than laugh their asses off whenever I try to speak Turkish with them, I might have some decent material. I'm not even initiating the conversation with them, by the way. They ask me a question, I respond, they laugh. Real nice.

Well anyway, here's a bit of news for ya: I'm going to Israel this Saturday. Some friends are coming from the States to visit me, and we're all gonna go get a look at land-apartheid first hand. Maybe I shouldn't say that. The Israelis may be reading my blog. Anyway, it will be amazing. I'll upload some pictures when I get back and maybe I'll have a story or two. Shalom (that was so cliche, but I couldn't resist).

Holy Crap, I Am So Happy

2008-03-10T15:11:00.001-07:00

Latest results from the Turkey Happiness Survey. Click here to view it. It's actually quite revealing, and I can't say I was all that surprised about some (but not all) of the results.

A Word Is Worth 1000 Pictures

2008-03-10T13:52:00.000-07:00

There's something mildly appalling about the newspapers of some of the countries I've visited. Not all, but many. Spain's was good, especially El Pais-those one euro weekly Spanish classic from the likes of Miguel de Unamuno or Lorca made a loyal reader out of me-and even Mexico's little papers weren't all that bad at conveying important information with a minimum in frills. But two nations stick in my mind as having the worst: Costa Rica and Turkey.

I'll be the first to admit that I love pictures. I'll draw them, stare at them, sometimes even cut them out and hang them on my mostly bare, white walls. But when they are so large and domineering that they micrify the actual newspaper text, that's when I begin to find them intolerable. The photos of these bogus newspapers aren't boring, that's for sure. Well, not at first. The cleavage of a female ass barely shrouded in an elastic string is what it is, and I'll gawk at it for just as long as the next guy. But when the center page of a country's most popular newspaper features 36 passport size photos of that very subject (as I saw in Costa Rica), not only does the aesthetic beauty of a shapely female butt lose its novelty, but it just wastes paper. At some juncture, you've got to ask yourself, are people really buying this boring shit every day?

Turkish newspapers are especially good at underestimating its readership's ability to synthesize ideas found in a lengthy text. The transmitting of information is largely left up to blocky graphics and cutouts of the human subjects the articles are about, creating the impression, for example, that a smiling, waving 50-foot Erdogan (Turkey's PM) from one article has unwittingly wondered beyond his boundaries and is about to trip over a pie chart and impale himself on a Dubai cityscape from another article. I wonder why Aydin Dogan, Turkey's biggest media baron, doesn't just fire the journalists, chuck all of the text, and turn his papers into veritable picture books with screaming headlines.

Sabah, which means morning, is Turkey's most popular legitimate newspaper (I use the word legitimate loosely) but it is by far the worst (can someone say correlation?). A typical front page might feature a combination of any of the following photos: the red, sweat-drenched face of a drunken celebrity; a surly looking Turkish soldier leaning on his gun (yes, the entire barrel is included); a prominent politician caught making a silly face; a mountainous pair of breasts crammed together in a skimpy, black braw like two jelly fish stuffed in a glass jar (I can't be overly indignant about that one, though).

On any given day, the front page of Sabah will feature no less than two large visual aids per story. A maximum, and I am not one known for hyperbole, of two small paragraphs can be found wedged between the photos. Take, for example, a story about the incursion of Turkish ground troops into Northern Iraq: an adulatory photo of a line of soldiers lying in snow, clad in white; another 50-foot Erdogan looking very, very severe; a bar graph showing the monthly increase of Turkish troops at the Iraq border. Oh, wait! I almost forgot about the text! Let's see...PKK, USA, terrorists are evil, everyone is pissed, got a little snippet of a quote from the PM. Next story!

Tonight I bought a copy of Sabah to see exactly what is the proportion of space occupied by graphics to space occupied by non-headline text. I focused my study on the front page and I found that in a total area of 2,128 square/cm, only 259 square/cm of space was occupied by non-headline text. One article about Talibani's recent visit to Turkey, a relatively historical event, received a scant 86 words. The continuation of the article on page 21 was a meager 100 words more. Granted the front page should be an eye popper, and the health and dating sections are nowhere near as skimpy. But the articles still lag far behind what you'd expect from, say, a U.S. News, let alone a NY Times.

The whole thing got me thinking: are Turks really that averse to reading, or does Turkish media, and the politicos who dictate to it much of what is reported, simply refuse to deign to thoroughly inform them? Or perhaps there is really no clue among the media as to what makes for good reportage. I, for one, believe that if you gave Turks a Turkish equivalent of the NY Times, they would eat it up. I mean, they would just tear through every political article, memorize the facts, and then go argue the thing with each other in the local tea house. They'd be like an under-nourished child who suddenly finds a plate of hot beans and soft bread sitting beneath his nose. I think the people are looking for substance, and the only way to fight the conspiracy theories, for example, that run rampant here is to provide not only accurate information, but enough of it! Maybe at some point it will change. For now I'll keep my newspapers in the bathroom in case I run out of toilet paper.

Violent Fantasies

2008-03-02T14:09:00.000-08:00

The kids outside my flat won't shut the hell up. They also enjoy throwing things. Snowballs, stones, soccerballs, even the occassional basketball, cumbersome but heavy enough to cause significant damage when thrown or kicked properly, glance and bounce off my windows at least once a week. They put a two meter crack in one girl's window last fall.

There are two of them, brothers, nearly indistinguishable. One is slightly fatter than the other and has a high voice, as distinct as a spoon stirring a glass of tea. I can here him all the way down the street. When I leave my apartment he calls out, "Abi! Abi!" in a desperate squeel. I don't understand the point of his addressing me with the respectful Turkish designation of "sir." I know he's cursing at me after he says hello. His friend several times told me in English that he "fucked my mother." I told him that that was nice because I fucked his too. I doubt he understood.

A week ago I caught the two brothers throwing a soccer ball against my windows. I waited by the door and came out when they were right in front. They bolted like cockroaches caught in the middle of the cellar floor when the light's turned on. I followed one into the supermarket and read him the riot act in what little Turkish I knew. Two days later, as I entered my flat they kicked their basketball at me, missing by a long shot but hitting the side of the building. I didn't get a hold of the ball, but my violent fantasies began.

This is how I envision it: I will get their ball-soccerball, basketball, whatever-while they are playing with it in front of my flat. I will hold it up for them for just a few seconds, like one might hold a trophy, admiring it, making sure they take in the perfect beauty of a round, inflatable object. I will then do one of two things. I will step up to the edge of the hill, down from which cars, shrubs, winding roads and paths, and ramshakle houses stand-wonderful nooks and crannies where one would never find a lost ball-and I will boot the ball with all my might. I will toss it before me, and just pound the hell out of it with one shot of my right foot. It will travel far, bounce off a roof, deflect off a tree branch, settle beneath a car. It will be a bitch to find. Option two, the more favored of the two: the boys will be bouncing the ball off my windows again. I'll come downstairs with a pear-knife in my back pocket and five lira in small change in the front. I will ask the brothers if I can play too. They will kick me the ball. Again, I will pick it up and hold it admiringly. I will then cradle the ball between my forearm and chest, remove my pear-knife and with one strong jab I'll pierce the ball, driving the blade in as far as it will go, right in front of their eyes. I'll throw the emasculated, airless piece of leather at their feet, not saying a word, and, like Michael Corleone in The Godfather II, I'll stick my hand in my pocket and I will remove the money (not bills though). From shoulder level I'll just drop it all on the street. Every little five and ten cent piece will gracefully fall from my palm and land on the ground, rolling around at their feet like little subservient dogs. I'll then turn around and walk back to my flat. And that will be the end of my problem with the brothers.

The Headscarf

2008-02-09T06:25:00.000-08:00

Today the Turkish parliament approved a constitutional amendment that relaxes the ban on the wearing of the Islamic headscarf. Specifically, it allows women to leave their headscarves on upon entering university campuses and classes. Ever since I learned of this law, I've strongly believed that it should be overturned. The newspapers quote some Turkish lawmakers who believe, however, that the relaxing of the headscarf ban will plunge universities into "chaos and lead to the disintegration of the state." Such hyperbolic rhetoric, mind you, is typical of nationalist and secular Turks, especially many of the elite do-nothings in parliament. For the entire life of Modern Turkey, power has been in the hands of the secular elite, and now they're scared shitless of permanently losing that power to the populist, mildly Islamic party occupying the prime ministerial and presidential positions, as well as holding an overwhelming majority in parliament. In spite of, or perhaps I could say because of, their Islamic roots, they have enacted changes that deal fairly with both the secular and Islamic population. I believe it is a victory for democracy and the freedom to practice one's religion in a non-confrontational manner. Nonetheless, many see the headscarf as just that-political confrontation. To some it is a symbol of a perceived threat of Sharia law, and many secular Turks are so paranoid that they've declared, just as they did in the mid 90's, that Turkey has begun its slide down the same slippery slope that doomed Iran to Islamic theocracy.

I couldn't disagree more. I recently read a book called Star and Crescent, by a journalist named Steven Kinzer. In one chapter he talks about the headscarf ban, and he interviews some female PhD candidates who had dropped out of university because they could no longer go to classes wearing their very customary and very meaningful headscarves. He remarks that he thinks Ataturk would much rather see young, devout Muslim women clamoring for PhD's than clamoring at the nearby McDonalds for lunch because they can't go to class. Ataturk, in fact, wanted the uneducated Muslim population to advance, which begs two questions: (1)Why, in an effort to advance a nation, should a large amount of its population be barred from higher education because of a simple piece of cloth, and (2)If those students choose to remove their headscarves, how does such an action at the level of higher education teach a nation acceptance of religious and cultural diversity, a cornerstone of every successful, modern democracy?

An anecdote: tonight I went to Starbucks in Ortakoy to study my Turkish. There two covered girls came in, which happens far less than it should. In fact, I couldn't for the life of me remember when I'd last seen such an occurence. I watched them from my seat above, and judging by their wide smiles and giddy chit chat, I decided they had come out for a celebratory frappuccino. Their faces were filled with hope, with vindication, with a new sense of possibility. They began taking pictures of each other on their cell phones, leaning their covered heads over the screen, laughing and pointing. I thought about how common the headscarf was during my two years at CUNY Hunter in New York, how nobody judged another for his or her religious devotion. In fact, Hunter and the entire CUNY system thrives because of this religious and political harmony. I'm happy to see that Turkey seems to be coming around, however small those steps towards progress and tolerance are.

Christmas Thoughts

2007-12-24T14:11:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve. I think if I tried hard enough I could remember every Christmas Eve. This Christmas Eve I won’t forget. I went to a Catholic mass in Beyoglu, but left early because it was too crowded, and the choir sounded like they were choking on birdseed. I exchanged gifts with my girlfriend, and went alone to a coffee shop to read the new book she’d gotten me about Istanbul. All day I had been trying to delay the loneliness, keeping myself busy with errands, emails, anything that might take my mind off my family, who was together back in New York.

When I got home the loneliness began to settle, like the snowflakes that land quietly outside your window on Christmas. It’s a small pang, easy enough to brush away, but come back to it ten minutes later and there’s a fresh dusting. So, like most lonely writers, I write. And when I write, I am happy. There’s something about sitting down in an attempt to write the perfect sentence—concentrating on the appropriate syntax, listening for subtle assonance, selecting not a good word, but the word—that makes most of one’s problems go away. Or perhaps writing augments them. When you read that perfect sentence, you remember your subject matter, and typically the writer’s truest material is derived from sadness.

Oh, you are sad, you ask? No, not sad. Just… I have an anecdote. I bought eggs tonight, because tomorrow I am making cheesy eggs for my flat mates. We’re going to spend Christmas morning together. We call ourselves orphans because we’re all stuck in Istanbul for Christmas.

There was barely anyone at the supermarket. I remember a man taping boxes together with packing tape. There were two men talking quietly in the egg aisle. The man behind the bread counter paced back and forth with his head down, as if he were waiting for news he knew would be devastating. I waited for the cashier to insert a new role of tape into the register. My mind began to wander.

I imagined that I was back in New York. Mom, ever prescient about possible, impending food debacles, realizes at 9:45pm that we have no eggs for tomorrow’s breakfast. She hands me five dollars and sends me off to Stewart’s. I leave everyone chatting in the living room, or watching television, or eating cookies and drinking wine or cider at the scarlet clothed dinner table. At the supermarket, I leave the car idling in the lot with the heat blasting furiously, like how Old Man Winter blows cold air and freezes whole lakes in those old cartoons.

I can’t help but notice that the place is empty, save for a hefty cashier who wishes me a Merry Christmas and inquires after my sudden presence on Christmas Eve.

“Oh, we forgot eggs for breakfast tomorrow,” I tell her. She remarks that it’s a good thing I got there when I did, because she was closing the place in ten minutes. I shoot a look outside to make sure the car is still there.

Although the place is empty, it gives me a distinct comfort because I know there is a warm bustling back home. Soon I’ll step through the back door, stomp my boots, and enter the dim kitchen. I’ll put the eggs in the fridge and go to the living room and sit by one of my brothers. We’ll chat about football, chide each other about some old joke, and then everyone will head to bed. I will stay up reading beneath a lamp. Perhaps I’ll write a little. Then when I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, I’ll go to bed.

The loneliness at Stewart’s, when experienced in contradistinction to that which I’ll experience at home in five minutes, is a lovely feeling. The eggnog cartons stand rigidly in the fridge. The cookie boxes are piled in perfect symmetry, and will remain so for at least two more days. No one will handle them. They’ll all soon be plunged into darkness, staring out the window like paralytics, following the occasional passing car or the whirling orange lights of a snowplow with only their eyes. I have my eggs, but staring at these perishables gives me a sort of comfort. They will be alone tonight, but I will not. While they languish, I will experience the warmest human contact I’ve felt in a year.

“You gonna buy those eggs or what?” the cashier remarks with a smile.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I reply. “Just thinking about what else my mother might need for tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m closing, so unless you want to spend the night here, you better let me ring those eggs up.” I hop over to the register. She laughs.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to spend the night here,” she smiles as she passes the scanner over the cardboard barcode.

“Yeah,” I say. “You’re right about that.”

Yerebatan

2007-12-24T01:14:00.000-08:00

I've had a few days off of work because of the holidays. Yes, the school is generous enough to give us time off for Christmas, but not enough to go home. God forbid we they give us TOO much time off, lest we lose, in absentia, what remaining motivation we have for working for the place. But I digress.

I went to the underground Roman Cistern the other day, which is just underneath Topkapı palace. It was built in the 6th CE by the Romans, but after they left it wasn't discovered again until the 16th CE, at which time the Ottomans used it to supply water to Topkapı palace. It's a bit of an eerie place, which the Istanbul Municipality attempts to augment with some rather contrived, scary organ music. Nonetheless, the lighting is excellent, and the entire cistern is very well maintained. In 1994 they brought fish in in an effort to restore it as closely as possible to its original nature. It leaks in certain places-no one really knows why-and there are two pillars built atop giant heads of Medusa. One lies sideways and the other is upside down. As always, copy the link below to your address bar and you can see the photos I took on facebook.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2059789&l=51189&id=26310454

In other news, I'd like to wish all my family and friends a very Merry Christmas. I badly wish I could be home in New York, especially since you've gotten all that snow already! I have to say, I've been missing New York a lot lately, and I'm looking forward to coming home for a month in the summer. I can't believe I've already been here for five months! Just six more months and you'll all get to see me (well, most of you). Take care...

A Science Exhibit!

2007-12-20T17:10:00.000-08:00

In Istanbul’s Taksim Metro Station—perhaps the busiest in the city—my friend and I noticed a beautiful feline skull sitting on a pedestal just outside a large room. It was smiling, as all skulls do, and seemed to bid us enter the room.

“Let’s see the science exhibit,” my friend said, tugging on my sleeve. Excited that there was a free and public exhibit much like those in New York, I enthusiastically agreed. The New York City Municipality does a great job at educating the public with art, culture and science exhibits scattered all over Manhattan. One can’t help but to feel a strong affinity towards a city that so readily spends its money on its inhabitants’ cultural enrichment. I will never forget the “You are in an art museum” signs all over New York’s subway stations and trains. I honestly can’t remember the works of art plastered on the walls, an obvious sign of my firm belief in the maxim about tossing the cheap gift aside while embracing the donor for their thought, but I will always appreciate the effort. I entered the exhibit feeling a distinct satisfaction. It was now clear that the Istanbul Municipality too placed an importance on my personal betterment.

I shuffled through the first area of the exhibit, which was mainly comprised of beautiful fish, feline and leaf fossils, as well as glossy posters of skeletons. My Turkish is awful, so I read what I could and ignored the rest.

I stared down at a complete fossil of a fish, which looked something like a Perch. Beside the fossil was a glossy photograph of the species of the fish, accompanied by the words, “25 MIL YILIK.”

“Wow,” I remarked to my friend. “This one is 25 million years old.”
I sidestepped to the next, a medium sized leaf fossil replete with the stem and a clear imprint of every vein. 53 MIL YILIK. Again, a modern day photograph of the green leaf. I was amazed at the age of these wonderful fossils, which dwarfed the span of those Roman and Nabatean ruins I’d seen in Jordan to the most miniscule of proportions. Granted, the ruins are the products of human hands and minds, while the fossilized organisms are natural occurrences, vestiges of those things created without first being conceptualized in a mind and drawn on paper or scraped on a sandstone wall.

I wondered, though, what was so special about fossils of organisms that had yet to be extinct. As I pondered this point, I came upon a dark poster of classic Darwin, outsized beard and all, sitting at his desk and staring off in thought. The title said something like, “Darwin’s Hatred of the Turks.” My friend translated a bit of the white text below, which drew on one of Darwin’s letters saying that “an endless number of lower races will have been eliminated by the higher civilized races throughout the world,” using the “so-called Caucasian races’” victory over the Turks in their “struggle for existence” as an example.

I had to admit that I never knew Darwin was a racist. Nonetheless, I initially thought the exhibit was on Darwin and evolutionary theory, but the poster on Darwin’s “hatred of the Turks” didn’t seem to make any sense. But if you’re targeting an exhibit at Turks, then I suppose its success does, to a certain degree, depend on its relevance to a Turkish viewer’s life. But how could anything be more relevant to one’s life than an exhibit on evolutionary theory? I ruminated. I moved on.

I crossed the room and came to a poster positioned at the end of the exhibit entitled in Turkish, “Why Is the Struggle Against Darwinism Important?” Below it another picture of Darwin, but in this one his hat is pulled low over his brows, his wrinkled face is distant but stern, and his beard is as thick and white as God’s in The Donnadio. My friend translated it, her eyes getting wider and her voice getting higher with each new sentence; “Communism, Fascism, Nazism are all based on Darwin’s theories;” “If you still believe in Darwinism you are blind to the truth,” “Darwinism is totally incompatible with the Holy Koran,” etc, etc, etc.

The veil had lifted from our eyes. I looked about nervously for further proof of my worst fears about the exhibit. I found an English poster on the “myth” of the evolution of the horse. I read it over quickly, feeling the heat in my face begin to rise. To my left a well-dressed man with a warm smile and perfect stage presence moved about in front of a large screen with DNA models projected onto it. He lectured a large group of young couples, old men, and mothers with their children. I became embarrassed and I began to laugh.

I quickly moved away from the lecture, stopping in front of a new poster. This one looked more like a horror film advertisement. The title said, “Darwinist Ideology: Communism and Fascism.” Below it was a sea of blood dripping from a large picture of Darwin—bald, bearded, and severe looking—and onto pictures of Mao, Mussolini, Stalin and Hitler. The backdrop featured a pile of naked bodies. At the bottom of the poster three cheetahs pounced upon and sank their teeth into a gazelle. I hadn’t realized that cheetahs were fascists, but considering their dinner time behavior, I could understand how one might draw a connection.

By this point my friend and I were laughing quite loudly. A man who’d heard us speaking English approached my friend to tell her that there was an English speaker there who’d be happy to tell me about the “exhibit.” I gladly accepted.

His name was Altug. He was tall and had a quiet demeanor. I resolved to be respectful and let him do most of the talking. I had a feeling these might be a persecuted people, the type that Darwin hates, so gentleness seemed the best approach. He told me first of their ideas: evolution is a myth; there are no fossils of intermediate species; there were many more species millions of years ago than there are now; those species living today are not related to those of the past.

“As time moves forward, the number of species gets lower,” he told me in perfect English. He formed a triangle with his hands as he said this. I appreciated the makeshift graphic. It made me think, for a moment at least, about where my life was headed.

I had to admit, what with the scientific terminology he threw around, as well as the numbers he put out, it was somewhat convincing to a mind not well versed in science. I took a few notes on his theories and numbers, resolved to check them online at home, and moved on to questions about the organization. There were no posters advertising the sponsors of the exhibition, raising my friend's and my suspicions. Altug told me the exhibit was put on by the Science and Research Foundation, founded by a man named Harun Yahya. Again, vague, yet very authoritative sounding name—my suspicions grew.

He finally said that they were creationists, but did not use God or verses from the Koran, like Americans used the Bible, to promote their ideas. Furthermore, they did their work all over the world, had literature in schools and universities, and their books were translated into 40 languages. I asked him what he thought Darwin would say about the idea that he, as the progenitor of violent political and social movements, is directly responsible for the murder of millions of people.

“I think Darwin would be very sad and disappointed to learn that he caused so much suffering,” Altug said. If I were Darwin, I thought, I'd be pissed at the fact that you people don't use a more flattering photo of me. I shook his hand, thanked him for his time, and said, “Iyi aksamlar.” He wished me a goodnight in return.

At home I googled Harun Yahya. I first visited his website, which is a labyrinth of links, texts, images, and movies dedicated to the refutation of Darwinism and atheism and the promotion of Old Earth Creationism. It would have looked very academic had it not been for several graphics featuring an army of animals, a pair of celestial, golden doors, and a colorful Eden with the words, “Jesus will return,” the last of which might have been inserted by some young, mischevious, Christian creationist hacker.

I went back to my original search and clicked on a link saying, “Who is Harun Yahya?” I found out he is something of a hybrid of L. Ron Hubbard, the Reverend Moon and David Koresh. His real name is Adnan Oktar, but he generally goes by his nom de plume. He never graduated from university, and he has been to court for charges ranging from blackmail, to possession of unlicensed weapons to sexual intercourse with minors. Unfortunately, he and his group hold considerable influence in Turkey. In fact, one website (www.wordpress.com) published an article attacking Adnan Oktar. Oktar took the site to court, charging it with libel, and the Turkish judiciary blocked the entire site to all of Turkey. I tried to access the site and sure enough, a message came up saying, “Access to this site has been suspended in accordance with decision no: 2007/195 of T.C. Fatih 2.Civil Court of First Instance.”

It seems that Oktar is loosely connected with Turkey’s most powerful political party, the mildly Islamist AK party. He has recently published an 800 page Atlas of Creation, a 13 pound book with glossy pictures of ancient fossils and pictures of their modern counterparts whose superficial resemblances are supposed to prove that species don’t evolve into other species; they are created. The book has been sent, rather mysteriously, to thousands of schools and universities all over the world without the name of the sender or a note. The Turkish Education minister hinted a while ago that he would like to see the book added to a list of Turkish textbooks.

I looked up a picture of the imposter Harun Yahya. The many flattering pictures on his website portray him, for one, as entirely self-indulgent and narcissistic, and, two, as if he were a model human specimen himself. In his profile shots, yes shots, he stands rigidly, chest thrown out, eyes squinted ever so slightly. He wears a bright, white suit, dark fashion sunglasses and a neatly trimmed beard. His skin is waxy and oleaginous, and his salt and pepper hair is slicked back. My computer had downloaded 22 pictures, and I still had yet to scroll more than half way down the page. I suddenly became very depressed and closed my laptop.

I felt cheated and duped. What appeared at first glance to be an innocent science exhibit turned out to be a cunning assault on logic, science and the life of the great Charles Darwin. It was manipulative. It was brainwash. It was approved by the Istanbul Municipality, which happens to be run by AK party. Worst of all, I thought, the thousands of people exposed to these factoids and blatant lies, presented albeit with a scientific veneer, will so easily fall for it. I tried to find a silver lining, but could think of none. I decided to simply go to bed.

2007-12-06T10:13:00.000-08:00

I have decided to officially, however that might work, drop all grandiose notions that previously accompanied my blog, and thus lowering my reading public's expectations by making the following three statements:

(i) I am aweful at keeping a blog. I am busy with work, and simply have not had the time nor the energy to put as much of an effort into it as I had promised.

(ii) I will continue to post on my blog, but most likely with the same frequency with which I've been writing these past few months.

(iii) Number three's actually good news. It's the link to the photos I took on my trip to Jordan. Just copy and paste the URL below into your address bar!

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2058459&l=bedcb&id=26310454

General news

2007-11-12T12:48:00.000-08:00

Ok, a new post. Work has been very busy as of late, especially with our final term exams last week, as well as all the hectic preperations preceding our upcoming week off. Honestly, I can't wait to go away next week. I'm heading to Jordan with a good friend of mine, an Aussie named Bed. This is very exciting for me because I've always wanted to see the Middle East. So many people in the U.S. talk about the region as if they're experts, but the longer I'm here the more I realize most people back home have no idea. Yes, Istanbul is in Europe, but there are a number of conspicuous Middle Eastern elements that make Istanbul the unique city it is. Istanbul is a great launching pad for someone who wants to better understand the Middle East, and I see these next two years-actually, a year and eight months now-as a sort of prerequisite for what I hope could turn into a career in Middle East studies. I am pretty fickle when it comes to my future plans, so who knows if or when I'll change my mind. But Turkey and the Middle East, as well as all of the accompanying idiosyncracies, has captured my interest, and I plan to learn as much as possible.

Other news: its getting cold, its rainy, I might get a used couch soon, the Turkish lessons are coming ok-peaks and valleys, as they say. I tend to assess my overall happiness on a numerical scale every three days or so. Tonight I give it a...7. But that's a positive assessment, and it typically flirts around 5 or 6. Why so low? I work too damn much. A solution will come.

Cumhuriyeti Video

2007-10-29T14:53:00.001-07:00

2007-10-29T14:25:00.000-07:00

Today was Cumhuriyeti, which I guess means Republic Day. This year's Republic Day was particularly nationalistic, some friends told me, because of recent attacks by PKK rebels on Turkish soldiers. It was very interesting. The parade, which really consisted of thousands and thousands of people walking down one of the main thoroughfares, began in Ortakoy, where I live, and ended in an area called Besiktas. There were a lot of Turkish flags and a lot of chanting, but overall it was pretty festive. I guess the chants had something to do with their soldiers dying, Turkey remaining a secular democracy, long live Ataturk, etc. The fireworks were actually better than anything I'd seen in the U.S., and it was very cool to see how much Turks love their country. Sometimes I wish young people in the U.S. had such a sense of ardent patriotism, but I suppose right now there isn't much to foster solidarity. Turks seem to see the usefulness in demonstration as well, and I think that's something that we're missing in the U.S. too. The last time I remember so many people taking to the streets were the immigration protests in the summer of 2005. I hope we never forget our right to dissent.

I posted some pictures of Cumhuriyet on my facebook, and you do not need to have facebook to see them. The link is:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2055376&l=429cf&id=26310454

It's basically a bunch of flags and lights. My photos make it look much less interesting than it really was. Also, I posted video on youtube.com but right now the video is still loading, and I need to go to bed. I'll post the link tomorrow. Well, I hope everything is going well with all of you. Feel free to email me any thoughts, comments, criticisms, etc, at chip_hubbell@yahoo.com. Chao for now.

Wow, a post!

2007-10-27T05:05:00.000-07:00

Ok, the blog is back! I have to apologize for not keeping in touch with you all, but I didn't have internet in my apartment until a week ago. So, you're probably struck with a mild interest in what is going on with my life here in Turkey; otherwise, why would you visit this site, right?

Well, work is going ok. I teach 9 1/2 hour days, and it's starting to wear on me. Because of the extraordinary trafic problem in Istanbul, an otherwise 30 minute commute to school in the morning turns into a one hour+ commute home in the evening. I don't get home til after 6pm, and I feel like that's really no way to live. My solution? We will see.

I generally spend my weeknights at home reading a lot, writing a little bit, or trying my hand at traditional Turkish cuisine once in a while. Weekends I spend with friends, but this weekend is huge. Do you know why? Because the Red Sox are back in the WS, baby! I've been getting up at 4am to watch the games, and while I'm dead tired during the day, I'm wicked excited at night because we are just bashing teams all over the field.

News about Turkey: it's hard to imagine Turks being any more nationalistic than they already are, but in the last week there's been a wave of ultra-nationalism that ranks right up there with immediate post-9/11 America. Turkey has recently moved into Northern Iraq to attack PKK terrorist camps, against the advice of the US. That combined with Monday being Republic Day (celebration of the founding of modern Turkey) results in an insane amount of Turkish flags, hanging from houses, cars, lightpoles, trees, skycrapers, bridges, etc. Also, American sentiment is pretty low right now because of the Armenian genocide bill going through the US House.

Anyway, it's Sunday and I'm about to take a walk along the Bosphorus. It's been very cold and rainy lately, so today is a nice change with lots of sun.

That's all for now. Kendinize iyi bakin! Sizin seviyorum!

new photo link

2007-09-12T10:50:00.000-07:00

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2051146&l=47e84&id=26310454

This is the link to my photos. You don't have to be a facebook member, so sorry about posting a link before that only took you to the facebook.com sign up page.

Update!

2007-09-09T10:32:00.000-07:00

Oh my gosh! A blog entry! Sweet mother of Jesus, I can't believe it! Ok, so I haven't had internet in my house, and I only have time for internet fun when I make the trek to the local Starbucks and connect to their wireless. I began an entry on my recent trip to Mt. Olympus in Greece, but it's nowhere near finished. Just be patient and you'll be properly informed in no time.
Anyway, here's a terse narrative of the recent events of my life. This week is HUGE because we start teaching...finally! I've spent the last month preparing all kinds of things (including the curricula for my classes) so it'll be a relief to do some teaching. I met some of the students and their parents on Saturday when we had back to school day. Açı school is definitely a school for the children of Turkey's elite: academics, musicians, artists, writers, journalists, etc.
I started my Turkish classes today (Sunday). I think it's going to be fun to learn a new language. Türkçe seviyorum! Haha What else...the weather has suddenly changed from blazing hot and humid to a crisp autumnal climate. I'm getting very used to İstanbul. The people, the traffic, the city plan itself is all becoming familiar. My life is fairly predictable but every now and again I meet someone new or venture to an unexplored area of the city, and I remember that I'm living in a different country that's not technically my home. I'd like it to feel like home, and as of right now it's the next best thing to New York. When I returned from Greece, I exited the train and walked down the platform smiling because I felt like I was where I should be--in İstanbul.
That's all I can say for now. I really do have an epic tale about Mt. Olympus, but I just need to find time to write the story. In the meantime you can moisten your visual palet with some pictures I took in Greece. Go to

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2051146&l=47e84&id=26310454

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=510082299084

Well, that's it for now. I'll have internet soon and I'll be able to keep you all updated. Kendine iyi bak.

photo link

2007-08-04T14:06:00.002-07:00

For photos of my day-trip to Princes' Island, go to the following link:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2047472&l=608e8&id=26310454

Ataturk and me

2007-08-04T13:46:00.000-07:00

Ataturk on Princes' Island in the Sea of Marmara. In fact, Ataturk is everywhere!

The Ezan

2007-08-04T13:39:00.000-07:00

Cliches simply don’t work. In describing Istanbul, tired phrases like “east meets west,” “very European,” or, “Islamic but secular,” suffice only in reporting what one already knows. Yes, east does meet west, but these directional terms are hollow and make us jump to conclusions at best. When you look at the details, however, at what a superficial observer might call the minutia piled atop these foundational clichés—that is when Istanbul comes alive and transcends the hackneyed phrases that visitors use to classify such a place.

I don’t profess to know anything about Istanbul at all. I’ve been here for one week and have seen so much that my mind has become a muddled mess. I feel as if I’m on vacation, waiting for my two weeks to end, for my plane to bring me back to New York. I don’t feel like I’m going to be here for two years. My mind is constantly trying to grasp and store everything it processes, like one of those housewives who’s won a $5000 shopping spree, careening down the aisle, using her forearm to plow the shelves of all their contents into her already overflowing shopping cart. That is my mind.

While I can’t yet give any definitive description of this city, nor do I think I’ll ever be able to, I can tell you a little about that minutia I mentioned before. I can tell you about the piercing minarets that rise above the smooth domes of the countless mosques, giving an otherwise horizontal cityscape a touch of verticality. They are very tall and thin, wrapped in two galleries where a muezzin would have sung the call to prayer if it weren’t for modern audio technology. They reach up, up and up to the blue sky and taper off into a conical shape at the top.

Earlier, I saw the Blue Mosque, built in 1603-1617 on the site of the Great Palace of Byzantium. It is called the Blue Mosque because of its blue inner tiles as well as the light blue color of the tops of the six minarets and domes. As my teacher friends and I approached the main entry, we saw a few more-devout Muslims washing their feet at the outdoor faucets. Nearly everyone else didn’t bother to wash; we just took off our shoes and carried toted them with us in a plastic bag inside the mosque.

When I saw my first mosque here, which couldn’t have been more than five minutes after leaving the airport, I felt a little jolt, like how I feel when I’ve been dreaming about falling and I suddenly wake up just before smashing into the ground. I’ve never seen a mosque before in person, only on television when CNN or the History Channel has some feature on Islam or the Middle East. The Muslim world, in spite of all the attention it gets in the news, is a place so far removed from our minds and personal experiences that it might as well be in a completely different universe. We truly know nothing about that with which we think we are so familiar. Do you think that the seven o’clock news provides all your necessary knowledge of Islam? The news is nothing more than reportage on terrorism and why, ostensibly, the Muslim world “hates us.” I can’t tell you how many people cringed when I told them I’d be traveling to Istanbul—a safe, cosmopolitan city in a free, democratic nation, not to mention populated by an exceedingly hospitable people. I haven’t yet gone to Syria, Lebanon, Jordan or Egypt, and I’m sure those countries are vastly different from Turkey. But I am nonetheless in a Muslim country, and I’ve had to flush my mind of all the preconceived notions I was fed by the media. Now, every corner I turn I find myself faced with that exotic, fairy tail-like image of the mosque, as if I were reading a picture book of Cinderella, and, taking a break, I look out my window and discover the castle from the book cover looming royally in the distance. And I’m now reworking my notions of Islam and the Muslim people simply by observation. Simply by staring at a mosque and listening to the ezan.

The ezan; that seemingly melancholy song of the muezzin, undulating between desperate highs and poignant lows. The call to prayer has become cliché to the West; we hear it in the opening credits of movies, as the camera pans smoothly over sandy dunes or shakily makes its way through the streets of a desert town; or in tourism commercials, where beautiful dark skinned people stroll down white beaches. Nevertheless, it is a beautiful song of supplication, God’s praises washing over the varying notes like rolling whitecaps, flooding the alleys of the city with a sudden piety. The first verse is comforting and slow, like the motion of a cradle rocked by a mother’s invisible hand, back-and-forth, “Allah is the greatest, Allah is the greatest.” Later the rhythm remains the same, but the ezan gains urgency, the high notes fluctuating like the footsteps of a runner gaining speed; “Make haste towards prayer. Make haste towards welfare.” It ends abruptly, and you find yourself waiting by the window, ears straining to make out the next note, but it never comes. Only a car horn sounds in the distance and for a moment you think the ezan has begun again, but it hasn’t.

Shortly after the fall of the Ottoman Empire in 1918, in a fit of Turkish nationalism, the ezan began to be sung, according to a new law, in Turkish. It is interesting, considering Arabic is considered to be the language of God, how nationalism trumped religion, such to the point where Turkish could, in some capacity, replace Arabic as a liturgical language. This was obviously the mild manifestation of an otherwise aggressive agenda that has dictated, until less than a month ago when the Islamic rooted AK Party won a landslide election, much of modern Turkey’s history—that is, fundamentalist secular agenda replacing fundamentalist Islam, the brand of Islam we associate with other Muslim countries, particularly Iran and Saudi Arabia. In 1933, according to islamonline.net, the muezzin Tobal Khalil was beaten and arrested by police after he delivered the ezan in Arabic at a mosque in Bursa. President Ataturk promptly stated through the Turkish News Agency that the question was less about religion than about the language, and that such offenders would not go unpunished. In the late 1940’s Adnan Madris defeated Ataturk’s successor and abolished the provision that banned the Arabic ezan. I'm glad because I can’t imagine the ezan being sung in any other language.

True, today the ezan is played over speakers that sit atop the gallery rails of the minarets like gray pigeons surveying the stone streets and orange roofs before taking flight. But in spite of the song’s lack of authentic delivery, it still sends a sensation of reverence through me. In the early morning, when only the shopkeepers and stray cats populate the streets; in the afternoon, when bronzed shoe-shining boys shed their dull clothes and stern faces and dive from the cement banks into the Bosporus; just after sun set, when the wind begins to blow in my white curtains and a skittish dog yelps in an adjacent neighborhood; all throughout the day, the call to prayer reminds of the reverence with which I am to remember God. Today, the ezan sounded in the evening, and, looking up to the closest minaret, I realized my gaze was overlooking a stone Christian church, whose simple cross sitting atop the peak of the roof was dwarfed by the rising towers. The minarets seemed to grow taller during the song, and I felt as if they were leaning down like a parent and nudging me in the direction of holy ground; their singular voice tried to coax me through the doors of God’s house, be it the stout mosque or the stony church. I remained in the street a while, looking up at the cross and the minarets. I entered neither the church nor the mosque, but I lingered and my thoughts were on God.

Blue Mosque

2007-08-01T09:54:00.000-07:00

Outside the Blue Mosque.

The Blue Mosque

2007-08-01T03:28:00.000-07:00

Inside the Blue Mosque.

Nice view

2007-08-01T03:25:00.000-07:00

A view from my neighborhood (Ortakoy). In the background is the Bosporus Bridge.

On Ortakoy, Teaching and Very Busy Clerks

2007-08-01T00:34:00.000-07:00

This is my blog. Read it in remembrance of me. Yeah, so I envision this blog as being half literary and half not literary. What I mean is I'll post updates on what's going on in my life: school stuff, travel stuff, Istanbul stuff. Things that most of you want to hear--at least, I think most of you want to hear it--minus the boring details. But I'm also going to post essays about my Istanbul experiences, which will contain, as any good piece of writing should, a lot of details. But first, I'll begin with a general update.

I flew in late Friday night and a driver brought me to this beautiful neighborhood of Ortakoy. It's right on the Bosporus, just south of the Bosporus Bridge, and a few miles north of the famous Taksim/Beyoglu neighborhoods. The old section of Ortakoy has narrow, stone streets running every which way, with little cafes, restaurants, and steet vendors. Along the water is an open kind of yard with benches, where a lot of young people sit all throughout the day and evening. I was told that a long time ago, the Jews, Christians and Muslims all lived together in Ortakoy. Even now, as you'll see in my next piece, there are several mosques and a Christian church. Across the main road, the new part of Ortakoy begins, which is basically comprised of hotels, shops and banks. It's nothing special, but it is very central; it reminds me a bit of Astoria. My hotel is in the new section, but it only takes me a minute to walk to the old section. My apartment, which I'll be moving into in a week or so, is another minute or two up the road, further into the newer part of Ortakoy.

Yesterday I went with two of my colleagues (two Aussie girls named Yolandi and Tracy) to the school where we're going to teach. I found out that I'm going to teach fourth grade. I was quite dissapointed, but I consider it a tradeoff. The school is bright, airy, and the teachers and staff are kind and caring. It's also really close to my apartment; I could even walk to the school. The middle/high school (grades 6-12) is very far away, up near the Black Sea. It would take at least an hour to get there by bus. Considering I have to be at the school from 8-5, I'd rather not be commuting two hours a day. Besides, last summer in Costa Rica I taught older students ranging in age from 13-21, but it was a veritable nightmare. I had major discipline problems and the living/commuting conditions were horrendous. Here, I won't be teaching the grades I want, but I'll have ample free time, decent wages, a curriculum (thank God!), and a studio in a beautiful neighborhood. I'm here to live, not to work. Work is just a means to the ends of a fulfilling experience.

I begin my orientation on August 6th, but the school year doesn't begin until the beginning of September. So these days have been a vacation. I haven't gotten out of my "Ortakoy bubble" too much yet. Took a tour the other day of the Golden Horn area and saw the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar, a lecture on carpet making, which was more of a sales pitch than anything, and an old Christian church, which the Ottomans so kindly left us, but not before destroying many of the beautiful iconic paintings and mozaics of Christ, Mary and the Disciples.

Yesterday I got a taste of Turkish bureaucracy. Yolandi, Danielle and I went to the police station to get our six month residency papers. We visited all three floors at least twice, bringing one paper to one clerk, taking another paper to another clerk. Luckily we had a very nice Turkish girl doing most of the work for us. Her name is Nilufen and she is the pre-school director's personal assistant.

The whole six hour bureaucratic experience was entertaining, though, particularly when we began a running commentary on one of the bald clerks. He and three other fat men sat at their desks behind one much younger and skinnier clerk serving the entire line of people waiting for their papers. The four fat men sat hunched on their desks or slumped in their chairs, chatting aimlessly, staring and pointing at the air-conditioner in the window. They finally dispersed to their respective desks, but did no work. The bald one stared at the queue and began taping his fingers, while the others stared at the pile of papers on their desks, at their pens, at the wall, at the queue. This lasted for five minutes.

"Uh, now he's biting his nails," said Yolandi. The bald clerk did this for another five minutes. He then turned his chair, opened the blinds with his finger, and stared out the window.

"He's looking at something," I said.

"Is it a chick?" Yolandi asked. The clerk muttered something and one of the other clerks made the same motion, turning his chair, fingering the blinds, staring out the window. He laughed and muttered something back.

"Yeah, it's a chick," Yolandi said.

We were getting annoyed with the inaction. The line would have gone much quicker if at least one or two of the sedentary clerks hopped up to the front desk and took papers.

"How do you say 'Are you retired?' in Turkish?" Yolandi asked. We both laughed, and I looked it up in my dictionary and wrote it down: Sen emekli misin? I pushed the paper over to Nilufen so she could tell me if the sentence was correct.

"Me?!" she asked.

"No, no," I whispered. "We're talking about one of the clerks." As I tried to clarify, the bald clerk came over and looked at the piece of paper with great interest. I pretended that I was asking Nilufen how to use adjectives in questions.

"And how do you say, 'Are you tired?'" I asked. Sen yorgun musun? she wrote. The clerk stared down at us for a few minutes, but said nothing. I felt myself turning red in the face and I waited for him to tell me off via Nilufen. He returned to his desk smiling, though, and began talking with Nilufen, nodding his head to me, raising his eyebrows mischievously, laughing at his own comments. She looked a little embarrassed, but I don't think he knew we were talking about him. She wouldn't translate, though.

After we left the room, Yolandi smacked my arm. "You bloody bloke!" she cried. "I can't believe he saw what you were writing. Do you want to get out of here with our papers or not?" We did get our papers, though, and had some fun in the process.