Anna in Istanbul

You look so YOUNG for 85! I can barely see any wrinkles… well… You can get work for that kind of thing, you know? I know a great doctor. He’s totally reliable.

Ataturk is everywhere. Taksim Square looks like a patriotic giant got food poisoning and was flag-sick all over everything. I’m not anti-Turkish Patriotism. I’m anti any blind patriotism (July 4th anyone?!). That being said, I can’t help but feel like an excited, little kid with all the pomp and circumstance. Distract me with your flags! DO IT!

So last night I was having a discussion with my roommate about the choices we make with money; how to get it, how to keep it, how to make the most of what you have, etc.

Now, I have to say that most of the time when I’m talking with her, I end up nodding and agreeing because it’s very hard for me to understand her mumbly, fast-paced Turkish. It always takes me a moment to translate in my head–my seconds of silence always followed by her rant about how I need more Turkish friends because I know nothing. (In my own defense, I DO have Turkish friends and I speak more Turkish on a daily basis than most exchange students. I’m sorry if I don’t automatically know how to translate “So my friend who was over last night is dodging his compulsory military service and I need to take pornographic pictures of him with another man to submit to the military in order to get his dismissal on the grounds of being homosexual. Can I borrow your camera?”)

So I’m standing there, leaning against the peeling-paint covered doorway, and my roommate says, “We all make our money in different ways in order to get by. Like the woman who owns our apartment building. You know she’s a prostitute?”

Automatically, I respond, “Oh yeah. Biliyorum. [I know]“.

3….

2…..

1…..

“WHAT?!”

So if this entire adventure is teaching me anything, it’s how very important different perspectives are. I’m not talking perspectives in the Politically Correct “I love [insert minority]s! I have a friend who is [minority]” way. I’m talking about a real, day-to-day understanding of what it is to NOT be coming from inside the folds of “normal society”. Okay. I may be different than some of my family, I may be different than some of my friends, but I am still PART of normal, upper-middle class culture. My difference is not beyond the pale of acceptance. I can say that I support X, Y, and Z but I don’t know what it is like to BE X, Y, Z. Before I knew the abstract concepts of “escaping compulsory military service” and “prostitution” but I didn’t know what it was like to wake up in the morning and have that be your reality. Those worlds had not touched me via interaction with people who actually live in those realities.

I feel like I’m getting a better picture now. I’m gaining empathy through experience. Even if it takes me a few awkward seconds of silence to get it.

….but seriously. What?!

When I was little, I was dictatorial on my insistence on having the window seat and, even now, I can count on one hand the number of times I have strayed from my position of choice.

Now, this isn’t without a good reason. I am notorious for my motion sickness on everything from kayaks in Dubrovnik to cars driving down desolate Manitoba roads. In fact, I wonder if there is any form of transport in the country of Austria on which I did not contemplate or execute epic evacuations of my lunch. My mind loves to travel more than anything and yet my body, decidedly, does not.

I find that if I am able to look out the window–to see where we are going or at the very least orient myself to the passing scenery–I can survive most treks. In order to distract myself, I used to play visual games in my mind–counting clouds, breathing in time with passing buildings, making my fingers skate along the telephone wires as they slipped passed. It got to the point that I became a bit obsessive compulsive. I would get into cars, put on NPR to distract my mind, and go through my mental exercises to keep my stomach squarely where it belonged.

Perhaps it was how sullen and moody I got when my routine was disturbed or perhaps it was the lingering memory of my past public motion sickness, but my family was always very good to me about giving me my space. Especially my sister, who I am sure would have loved to–every once in a while–have had the chance to watch the world go by as opposed to reading another book, always made sure I was alright and well positioned. I like to think she was motivated simply because she is such an amazing sister–not out of fear of the phrase “Oh Jesus. Richard, pull over. Anna’s going to be sick again.”

It’s because of this that I found myself strangely out of place when, on my flight out of Istanbul to Stockholm, my preassigned seat was on the aisle. I know this seems like such a frivolous thing but, again, I am slightly OCD about the non-vomiting routine that has continued to this day. Feeling drunk on the prospect of breaking out of an old habit (and a bit of overpriced airline beer), I sank into my seat feeling oh-so-undeservedly mature.

Before my flight, the morning had been hectic; running errands, picking up a jacket from Anne’s apartment in Harbiye, accidentally flooding my already disgusting, cat-litter caked bathroom and selfishly wondering whether or not I could just leave it because I was in a rush but no that’s so unfair to my roommate but they are HER cats but Anna, you need to grow up and not leave a mess…etc. etc. Realizing I was running a bit late, I took at taksi from Cihangir to Ataturk International Airport and arrived in enough time to get myself a coffee, read a bit, and then suddenly realize that I was, in fact, at the wrong airport.

Typical.

With an hour to spare, I grabbed another taksi and pleaded in Turkish for the driver to break whatever taksi driver code of conduct he holds to always screw over yabanci and get me to the OTHER Istanbul airport as fast as his cigarette-strewn cab could. Sensing my desperation and wondering why this potentially insane girl was using her fingers to mime jump over the dotted white lines on the road, he did not fail me.

Now just a bit on Istanbul Airport geography. To get from Ataturk Airport to Sabiha Airport, one must go through the following: Aksaray, Fatih, Sultanahmet, Karakoy, Tunel, Taksim, Beskitas, Levent, up the length of the European side, to the Bosporus Bridge to the Asian continent, across the river Kai, into the 3rd dimension, directly to jail without passing go, over the hill and through the woods to grandmother’s house, and THEN you get to the airport. Luckily, my perhaps equally mad driver did get me there (but, of course, for the same amount of money that it cost to buy the return ticket from Stockholm. Funny thing is, I’m not joking. 96 lira. Really?! REALLY!?!)

By the time I was seated in the Aisle Seat of False Maturity, I was decidedly exhausted and ordered a drink from a perky, tall, blonde stewardess. Realizing that her disproportionate height and good looks were a signal of things to expect in the land of the Swedes, I contemplated ordering a double G&T instead and wondered if they sold heels in Duty Free.

Once settled, I spent most of the flight reading up on Lacan and maniacally writing; feeling decidedly smug and intellectual. As the plane began to descend and we hit the inevitable bumps, my OCD reared its head and I finally panicked that because I wasn’t at the window that THIS would be the flight that goes down in fiery glory. Lacan and his theories of child development as social theory flew out of my head to be replaced by my 12 year old self screaming “I can’t count the clouds! I CAN’T COUNT THE CLOUDS! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE BECAUSE I CAN’T COUNT THE CLOUDS!”

Of course, as this post is evidence, the plane did NOT break up upon touch down and I wobbled out of the terminal feeling shaky but secure.

Stockholm is, without a doubt, one of the best balanced cities. It may not break any records for being high energy but there is something beautiful in the perfectly cohesive give and take of the cerebral and the organic. Buses that sigh along the clean roads, the jutting natural rock nestled between the sensibly modern buildings, the fashion mostly stylish but refined and climate-appropriate. Anne and I spent most of the time wandering around, at one point stopping in an organic tea garden. It felt like California granola sensibilities with a bit more style. Apparently in Sweden you can have your fashionable cake and have it be local and chemical free too.

Even the playgrounds–sickeningly cute multicultural kids in little pea coats scrambling over postmodern design-inspired jungle gyms while their sweater clad parents look on laughing and oozing understanding for all of their beautiful differences and similarities. I couldn’t help but hear a voice in my head saying “if you just stuck out your leg a teeny bit, you could trip that toddler. Come on. They need strife in their lives. Do it……”

I, of course, managed to get myself horribly sick and spent most of the week wandering around the area of Hornstull–thinking, reading, writing, and generally feeling my biological clock ticking with each passing baby stroller.

During one outing to a cultural center in the center of the city, I saw a familiar face. On an advertisement for a performance of “Faux Femmes”, I saw none other than Ms. Bob–a local legend with my friends in New York City who, during one of her many performances at Stonewall, sat on my lap dressed as Reba McEntyre and sang “And I Will Always Love You” while trying to kiss my friend Maya. This is what happens when your friend is doing an inexplicable documentary on Biological-Women-Who-Do-Burlesque-Dressed-As-Drag-Queens and you get to the show late and then have to sit at the front table. Anyways–emotional kleptomania prompted me to steal one of the posters and its now up in my apartment for all to see.

Otherwise the week was full of philosophical exercises with rowdy PhDs and a few less rowdy Professors for whom the fire of unadulterated Scandanavian liberalism has been turned down to allow for a healthy simmer. I also gave myself brownie points for finagling two free cds out of a Swedish band whose release party we got ourselves into and then only caught the tail end due to our love of conversation.

After an uneventful flight back to Istanbul, I was surprised at how at home I felt with the rhythm of Turkey. I had forgotten to get out cash before getting on the plane in Sweden and quickly became the laughing stock of the entire Immigration staff when I resorted to counting out small change from the bottom of my bag in order to pay for my third (and final) visa. Eventually they were laughing so hard that they didn’t even question why my passport tells a tale of months of “Almost Becoming an Illegal Alien In Turkey”.

Walking through Taksim Square, the smells, the constant yelling, the lack of cohesive organization, the uneven pavement, the bad hairstyles, the crying children, the somewhat soviet architecture…I don’t know if I could live without it.

Now as far as the facts: that’s it for my week in Stockholm but if you care to read on about philosophy, please do.
(more…)

So I admit that this is not the update that many would like to see (I’ll write an actual post later). That being said, I just actually logged in to wordpress for the first time in a while and was surpised to find this hilarious gem.

Apparently WordPress tracks the most used search terms that brought people to my blog. What search is number three on this list?

“ı am looking for one night stand gırl ın ıstanbul”

Notice the “I” without the dot–obviously some Western Keyboard-friendly people are using google for ill! Hilarious though. Hi, people who are looking for a one night stand girl in Istanbul! You have come to the wrong place. Please hang up and try again.

Some days, someone, somewhere is conspiring against you.

Yesterday morning for example. Sick of this Nescafe business, I brought back some wonderful Swedish coffee from Stockholm. I made myself a nice big cup to help shake off the blues of a rainy morning; the stove got extra hot extra quickly just for me, french press worked perfectly, and then enter human error. Turns out the Salt Jar and the Sugar Jar look remarkable similar…

Someone, somewhere…

Last weekend, I took a wonderful trip to Stockholm in order to avoid the wrath of a flawed Turkish visa system. My first flight took me through Vienna where I remembered why I don’t particularly like Austria. Okay before anyone jumps on my back and punches me to the rhythm of Beethoven’s 5th (duh-duh-duh-duhhhhh… duh-duh-duh-duuuuuuuh! How’s that for a visual), we ALL have places that don’t strike our fancy. There’s just something about Mozart being plastered everywhere that makes me slightly sad inside. The city seems to have a more bitter version of the Istanbullu hüzün; that depressed mentality that comes when one lives in a former empire.

Stockholm was cold but beautiful. The cobbled streets, the painfully effective public transportation system, even the air felt like it had been put through committee, cleaned, re-cleaned, made environmentally friendly, given a good healthcare plan, re-approved by committee and then sprayed with a bit of Pine Sol for my breathing pleasure.

Now that I’ve had a taste, I’m excited to go back for a week in October to explore a bit more. So many reasons to love Stockholm. (Plus, that whole “Viking” Empire has been dead and dusty for so long, I think they’ve kind of gotten over themselves unlike SOME other countries I might mention COUGHAUSTRIATURKEYCOUGH).

I recognize that this former-Empire-Blues-hating is complete hubris on my part. Especially being from the current Empire that, thank you SEC, is finally noticing the sand in our foundation. I probably dislike Austria because I see my country’s future; desperately hawking Bob Dylan schwag at airports to haughty tourists from China or Brazil.

On arriving home in Istanbul, I was greeted by a few electrical storms around the city. I’ve never seen so much lightning as I have in the past few days. There is something so theatrical about stormy weather over the Bosphorus especially given the city’s history. Even the contentious name of Mehmet the Conqueror’s taking of Constantinople (”The Sack of Constantinople” or the “Conquest of Constantinople” depending on your side of the Crusades) indicates how the city’s sense of melodrama goes hand in hand with its weather patterns.

The following day, with thunder claps still threatening the city, I made my way over to the Asian side to the house of one of my English students. After spending so long in Southern California, I wasn’t sure if Istanbullu followed the LA approach to weather commonly known as One-Drop-Of-Rain-And-We’re-Calling-FEMA. I sent my student a message asking whether or not the ferries still ran during thunderstorms and she sent me back the adorable, T9-mistake riddled response, “Don’t Worry. Fries are very successful in stormy weather…”

On the bus ride over to the ferry stop in Beşiktaş, I saw an old man standing on the street, surveying his domain. A little boy making his way from school was walking hand-in-hand with his father and I saw the old man smile warmly at the boy, not in a familiar way but like someone appreciating youthful exhuberance. As the boy passed, the old man patted him on the head.

At the ferry stop, my Akbil (metro pass) was out of money. The boat was just about to leave and the man behind me was waiting to use the turnstile as I tried in vain to make my pass work. He looked at me and said, “here you are, sister” and used his Akbil to let me through.

I found myself a spot on the top deck of the ferry. The benches were wet from the rain and as I was about to just deal with wet pants, a middle aged woman came over to me with a newspaper. She said, “Come. Sit here.” and spread out the paper over the bench for the two of us to sit. We rode the rest of the way in silence with wonderfully dry bums.

From the Üsküdar Ferry stop on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, I took a Dolmuş to my student’s house farther inland. The Dolmuş system, essentially a shared cab, is wonderfully personal. You get on the small bus, hand the driver your money depending on where you’re going, and avoid sitting at the front. If you end up in the seat closest to the driver, you are responsible for collecting money from everyone else and getting change. Interaction with strangers is not optional.

When I the Dolmuş got stuck in traffic, I got out to make my own way. Stupidly relying on my directional skills in this new neighborhood, I quickly became hopelessly turned around. I grabbed a cab to take me over to where I needed to be. On our way, the driver and I started talking. He asked me all the normal questions; where are you from? what do you do? which futbol team do you support? I said–and I know there are a few people who are going to be very smug when I say this–that I support Beşiktaş. He was ecstatic, threw his hand into the backseat to shake my hand, saying “Yes! Beşiktaş!” He then went on to tell me about all the mascots of the big teams here in Istanbul. The Galatasaray Lions, the Beşiktaş Black Eagles, and the Fenerbahçe Yellow Canaries. It’s the last one that always gets me in trouble. I learned, early on, a very offensive name for the Fenerbahçe Canaries that essentially translates to “submissive canary”. Forgetting that I was in a cab with a stranger, albeit a Beşiktaş supporter, I said in my ridiculous Turkish “Yes! yes! I know the mascots! They call Fenerbahçe…” The cabbie almost crashed he started laughing so hard that this small, foreign girl who was going to give an English lesson had just said something ridiculously offensive. When we got to where I needed to be, he didn’t charge me. He just laughed and sent me on my way.

After the lesson, I made my way back by double decker bus to Taksim. Sitting in the front seat on the top deck, I had a panoramic view of the road stretching out before us. We made our way over the colorfully lit Bosphorus Bridge (as Rufus Wainwright said, a gay bridge which was followed by a collective indignant sigh of Turkish pundits). I could see the lightning still striking behind Sultanahamet, flashing the outline of the iconic skyline every few seconds.

I like this city in the rain. There is something so communal about it. Each mode of transportation forces you to interact to the point that you can’t help but feel responsible to a greater community.

I’m not sure about Fries but Istanbul is, indeed, very successful in stormy weather…

I’m escaping like Steve McQueen!

…except not running to Switzerland but another Northern Europe, “S” country with an overwhelming number of blondes. Oh and not while running from the Nazis, on a motorbike, after digging myself out of an internment camp. And hopefully, I’ll succeed without getting shot as I try to navigate a barbed wire border wall…unlike Mr. McQueen.

But otherwise, JUST like Steve McQueen!

So it looks like I will be taking a quick jaunt out of Turkey to renew my turkish visa. The debacle unfolded thusly.

Bogazici University, being the beautiful institution it is, failed to give me the paperwork I needed before I left the US that would allow me to obtain a student visa. Instead, I entered turkey on a tourist visa which allows me to stay for 3 months but no longer on risk of 6 month expulsion and a hefty fine. Currently only 9 days stands between me and the wrath of the Turkish bureaucracy with whom I have spent so many precious hours of my life with recently (I want them back by the way! I’m looking at YOU, Ataturk!)

The final answer from the Yabanci Polis Ofis, the American Embassy, and Bogazici University was that I could not get a visa now that I am in the country. I was informed, so nicely, that I should have done that before I left the United States whichiwouldhavedoneifyourturkishuniversityhadgivenmethestupidpaperwork!

So after a long, happy haitus I am back from my writing vacation. I’m going to try to tell a few stories from the last month–the shotgun storytelling effect.

Ahmadine-what?

My dear Catherine came to visit me in Istanbul in mid-August. After a few days of the required Nevizade/Cihangir/Taksim wandering, I realized that she really had to see the touristy sites in Sultanahmet. So on one beautiful summer day, we made our way over to the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofya. It was nearly time for the afternoon call to prayer so I decided that we should head over to the Blue Mosque first to see Sedefkar Mehmet Aga’s masterpiece (I know Michael disagrees with this; he loves the smaller Yeni Camii which was designed by the same architect. If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it, Snyder!).

As we approached the entrance to the mosque, it became clear that there was something going on. Loads of police were lined up along the main road wearing the most serious faces they could muster-an unnerving change of demeanor to someone who is used to seeing young cops swaggering around, hand on gun, yelling at transvestites on Istiklal. We walked up to one of the police barriers where people were gathered and it dawned on me that Iranian President (and in Columbia’s PrezBo’s words “petty and cruel dictator”) Ahmadinejad was in Istanbul on a diplomatic mission. As it turns out, he had just given a press conference at a nearby hotel and would soon be arriving at the Blue Mosque to pray.

We had barely figured out what was going on when the security personnel started forcing all non-press from the area. Not wanting to miss the show, I thought of what my mum would tell me when I was little; “When in doubt, ask. The worst someone can say is ‘No’.” So with that little tidbit of i’m-telling-you-this-advice-now-my-child-but-please-don’t-use-it-to-justify-your-getting-into-a-potentially-dangerous-situation-later-on-in-life motivation in my head, I went up to the main security guy and said in very very very broken turkish “I am with the press. Can I stay?” He looked at me and said, “Do you have a press card?” I broke back into english (clearly identifying myself as a foreigner) and, thinking he just needed a business card not an actual “Press Badge”, began to rummage through my wallet for my old Women’s Media Center card. I didn’t actually have one, or a press badge, or a real job as a reporter but I managed to take long enough and throw out words he recognized like “New York City” “Jane Fonda” “Reporter” that he waved me inside, saying “fine. fine. fine. go.” Catherine started to walk away and I called after her. I told the security man (can I call him my friend at this point? We were so close) that she was my photographer and I saw his eyes flicker to the small digital and obviously touristy camera Catherine was clutching. Resigned or intrigued by these out of place but pushy yabanci girls, he indicated for us to go stand with the other reporters.

I guess it’s at this point that I should describe the scene. There were only about 15 other reporters there from “not made-up” news outlets like CNN Turk, BBC, and Al-Jazeera replete with notebooks, huge cameras, microphones, and so-called “necessary press credentials”. On the roofs of the surrounding buildings, I noticed the unmistakable sign of snipers and there were city mayors shifting uncomfortably on their feet, hands clasped behind their backs. Catherine and I took out our moleskine notebooks and wrote inane things like “Ahmadinejad” and the date over and over again so as to seem remotely legitimate.

As we were waiting for Ahmadinejad to arrive, a hijab-clad girl came over to us. She was an intern for the Moderate-Right Islamic news outlet, Kanel 7. Sitting in the shade of a tree, we talked for a while about politics in Turkey and how ridiculous this entire event was turning out to be.

After over an hour, a stream of police cars and large unmarked Suburbans drove up, lights flashing. One limo with the Iranian flags above the headlights came to a stop right in front of the entrance and a slew of security officers jumped out to surround the car. The door opened and a remarkably short Ahmadinejad climbed out, waved to the reporters only 10 feet away, and walked inside. My intrepid photographer snapped a few pictures of that actually cuddly-looking fundamentalist.

We decided that this was too good a story to leave at the first appearance so we waiting on the grass as the sermon inside was blasted out through speakers. At this point the other reporters were starting to give us weird looks as if to say “who let these two in?”

Eventually, Ahmadinejad and his security reemerged from the Blue Mosque and he walked over to the reporters to give a statement. There was madness. Cameramen climbing over reporters climbing over fences and polis to get a clear shot of this man. Catherine and I alternated trying to climb on top of a fence to get a good shot with our tiny camera. It was complete chaos and all the while my grandfathers voice was running through my head “Jesuschrist! Jeeeeeesuschrist, Anna!”. At one point, we were so close that we could have reached out and touched his scraggly beard (and then been promptly shot or taken down by huge Turkish guards but hey!)

After a few minutes of wandering around and waving his tiny little hands, Ahmadinejad and his cohorts climbed back into the black limo and sped away.

We wandered away, shaking our heads at how ridiculous the entire scene was.

Day to Day Changes

I have officially left my lovely Kebap at James’ apartment and am now relatively settled in my new place with Tümey and our 5 cats (1 mama cat, 4 kittens). Although I’m only a street over from my old apartment, there is a bit of a different feel. My room is right on the first floor overlooking the street and there are always the calls of the street vendors or kids playing coming in through my window. I don’t really mind the noise; it reminds me of home plus a language I struggle to understand.

Tümey is wonderful. 25 and younger at heart, she wanders around the house most days in a unitard. She’s a student and dabbles in making costumes and makeup for drag queens. The day after I moved in, I decided I needed to get her something of a “Hi! I’m your roommate!” type thing. I knew we would be fast friends when she actually squealed at the gift; a 3-lira, naked mannequin torso. I think we’re going to paint it but right now it just sits in our hallway. I was asking what she should name her and referred to the mannequin as “Yarim Kadin” or “Half Woman” because I didn’t know the word for mannequin. Tümey loved it and now that’s her name; Half Woman.

This month is also Ramazan, Islam’s holy month of fasting and goodwill towards humans. Unfortunately, this goodwill wears a bit thin between 2 pm and sundown when all the taksi and bus drivers get markedly more irritable. Although I really do like the general atmosphere here in Istanbul during Ramazan, I will not get used to annoying wake up calls. At 3 am every morning, a guy walks through the streets banging loudly away at a drum to mark the time for the first prayer. I am convinced that he lingers outside my window every morning and, if it weren’t heretical, I would consider laying out a trip wire for him. The early bird may get the worm but he might also “accidentally” fall on his face.

Visa, Schmisa or Why Turkey is NOT Sweden

So I finally got all of my necessary documents together to go get my student visa. Needless to say, I had a bit of a panic attack when I dragged myself up to Istinye where the American consulate is only to be told that the website was wrong and that I would have to navigate the Turkish bureaucracy to get my student visa now that I am already in the country. For a moment I thought that I might have to actually FLY to Athens, apply at the Turkish consulate there, wait for a student visa, and then fly back to Istanbul. I might add that I nearly had a heart attack, considered dropping out of school and moving to Sweden where things are organized, and then reconsidered when I imagined being the shortest person in the entire country.

I was actually treated really badly by the American consulate (especially the woman at the visa counter who, after informing me that I was essentially an idiot, switched off the intercom as if to say “See this glass? This glass is here for a reason. So I don’t have to hear you run your mouth. Lalala can’t hear you!”) Eventually I got it out of them that I needed to go to the Yabanci Polis Mudurlugu (the foreign police office) where I can apply for a student visa from within the country. I got the address in Aksaray and set out back down the entire length of Istanbul to Taksim where I planned to grab a taksi to take me the rest of the way.

I got out in Taksim, hailed a cab to whom I THOUGHT I was able to communicate where I needed to go, and was promptly taken to a place that was not where I needed to be. It was, in his defense, A polis station. Unfortunately, not the one I needed. I went up to the guards at this place, ask them if there was a visa office in the building, and then, as with most days in Turkey, attracted a small group of onlookers as I tried to communicate my needs and desires. Eventually I got everything across and it turned out that two of the guys waiting outside the station ALSO had the wrong office. So two Azerbaijani men and I set out to the real Yabanci Polis office.

These guys were very nice and, after walking almost two miles together, I felt like we were friends. Well. That was until they asked me if I had a husband and if not if I would like one. At that point, I switched into “Pepper Spray In the Eyes” mode and told them about my fake bodybuilding fiancee with a fierce temper, an addiction to anabolic steroids, and a pit-bull. I need to work on that.

The fake fiancee was actually unnecessary–they were quite nice guys and one of them took me all the way to where I needed to be and negotiated with the guy at the counter once we actually got to the office. If you haven’t seen a bureaucratic office in Eastern Europe, count yourself lucky. It’s… let me just put it this way; if the Mormons, Christians, or essentially any religion that believes that people can go to hell are right, I will spend an eternity in one of these offices. Endlessly waiting in line, overheated, arguing with apathetic shells of human beings who used to have dreams and aspirations but lost them somewhere between college and the copy machine.

As I was trying to figure out whether or not I had all the paperwork I needed, a skinny guy about my height walked up to me and asked in English if I needed help. He had a very young face and I assumed he was probably a high school student. He helped me through the paperwork and then told me that I would have to come back tomorrow because I needed a few more things. He then took me to the bank to get a statement (this is the stupidest part of the whole process. You don’t NEED money. You just need to show something that says you could, theoretically, get money here). Zakir and I sat in the garden of a mosque during the call to prayer and talked. He told me that he had had his passport stolen which is why he was at the foreign polis office. It turns out that he is a 21 year old Uzbeki immigrant attending university in Istanbul for economics. I tried to fake that I knew anything at all about Uzbekistan but really faltered.

I cannot say it enough times; people here are have the capacity to be so wonderful. Time and time again I get help and hospitality from the most unlikely places (e.g. Turkish bureaucracy hell).

Other Thoughts

Please please please go watch “Anlat Istanbul”. I watched it the other night and it made me cry. The last scene is SO encapsulates my idealist view of Istanbul; a bunch of misfits following a lone folk musician across the Galata Bridge. I don’t want to discourage anyone from renting the actual movie but here is the scene I’m talking about. Oh! It gives me shivers.

And finally, Sarah Palin.

The only expression I can think of to use with her is the one most commonly heard by Turkish speakers when they are feeling incredulous; ALLAHALLAH!

I am so sick about hearing these Fox News pundits play the sexism card when less than a month ago they were saying the most misogynistic things possible about Hillary Clinton. It’s all on record! I think liberals have been rather good about Palin. They don’t question her ability to lead because she is a woman; rather they react to the statements made by McCain in which HE says that Palin’s role as a mother makes her a good candidate for VP (oh and her horrible record as Alaska’s governor). OH god, the hypocrisy. Please if you are in the United States; pay attention. Speak up! Go vote! Get your friends and family to vote! I am so disgusted by all of this-liberals don’t dislike Palin because she’s a woman (it may, in fact, be her one redeeming quality). I dislike her because she is an ineffective, inexperienced, inconsistent, backwards, GOP lackey who has the potential to put civil rights back decades. I hope the progressive people in the US stand up to this conservative media backlash and keep on her records! Put her under the same spotlight they put on Bill and Hillary.

If we are going to have semi-celebrities in office, I would rather have someone use that star power for good.

That’s it for now.

Istanbul. Land of Cats.

In some strange Anna-fulfiling-stereotypes type way, I have become a cat-afficianado thanks to Istanbul. Orhan Pamuk is constantly referring to the gangs of street cats that wander the streets from Bebek to Kadıköy and oh how spot on. Cats on street corners, at restaurants, riling through trashcans, hissing in the streets, and using every opportunity to alternately maim or steal food from unsuspecting Istanbullu.

I’ve moved into my friend, James’ Cihangir apartment while he is in Spain for the month of August. If anyone wants a wonderful distraction, check out his blog at jamesheywoodistanbul.blogspot.com.

Along with the beautiful, New-York-City-Defying apartment, I have become the temporary guardian of Kebap Heywood, a former street kitty. Thank all deities that I had an insane cat growing up because otherwise this cat might have gotten the better of me. He spends half of his time crawling into my lap only to scratch me and the other half wandering the alleys around the Cihangir Cami. Despite my arms looking like I’m some angsty tween, I have undoubtedly fallen hard for this feline firebrand.

This last weekend most of the Norwegian Delegation took off for minibreaks, leaving me in charge of cat duty. I think I’m turning into one of those crazy cat ladies with as much as I think about cats lately. I need to think about something else. I know…Politics!…wait… no. That’s depressing. Better to stick to cats.

In other news, Michael has left us to return to the states and I am bracing myself for a slew of visitors in the next while including my sister and my best friends. After a few months of trying my hardest to act the part of the local, I think putting on my tourist hat will be a welcome respite.

I was recently asked by the wonderful WMC to advise one of their affiliates on the political climate here in Turkey. If anyone is bored and wants to know about the U.S. election in relation to my take on Turkish politics, please feel free to read through this:

(more…)

Last Wednesday, five of us less-intrepid-than-we-probably-should-be took off for a minibreak on the Mediterranian. Little did we know, the respite would take place in tree houses that cling desperately to the side of a cliff face.

I am not an active person. In fact, I spend most of my time teetering between being catatonic and forcing my loved-ones to consider “pulling the plug”. I think a walk from 116th street to 96th is acceptable only in the severest of situations (riots, natural disasters, zombie attacks…and even then, don’t you DARE ask me to go any farther. I’ll take my chances right where I am, thankyouverymuch). So when Michael suggested we stay at the quaintly-named “George Hotel” that only had a 45 minute jaunt to a secluded beach, my first thought is “Well, finally! A chance to show how I, too, can be moderately active!”

Well, indeed.

We set out from Beşiktaş right after class. Stopping for pide and drinks, we inadvertently made the rest of the Metro-bus passengers wait for us to finish our meal before getting on the road (oh to be foreigners!). The minibus drove us out to an impossibly cramped bus station in the outskirts of the city where huge passengers buses swerved in and out of very small loading areas, avoiding people and hitting cars. We tried to avoid the crush of people, autos, and luggage by sitting on a far curb only to attract a small population of street dogs and mangy cats.

When we were finally on the road, the hours passed relatively quickly. Broken up by a string of surprisingly nice rest stops (no Jordanian/Syrian sketchiness here!), the 14 hours were over in no time and we arrived safely in Fetiye, the sad but accessible town closest to Butterfly Valley.

The Butterfly Valley (Kelebek Vallesi) is nestled between two sea-side mountains, just below the unbearably touristy Öludeniz on the Mediterranean. The pristine beach is only accessible by boat or by climbing down the breathtakingly huge cliffs, carved out over thousands of years by freshwater falls. Our lodging, George Hotel (www.georgehotel.net) sits high on the cliffs and is an essentially self-sustaining compound. Run by one family, the home serves as organic farm and hotel (with sleeping choices of tent space, tree houses, or bungalows). We opted for the tree houses (only those who repress their early childhood fantasies would choose otherwise!) The tree houses are essentially glorified platforms; four waist high walls, three higher cloth walls for a bit more privacy, and drooping grape vines in the place of a roof. Every morning and evening, the family serves home-cooked, organic, vegetarian meals made entirely from locally grown produce. Besides the few bugs, it couldn’t be more picturesque.

The first night, we sat around in the still-warm air, talking and listening to the Call to Prayer [adhan] as it played call-and-return with its own echo off the sides of the valley.

The following morning, we made our way to George Hotel’s very own path down to the beach. Marked only by a whiteboard sign with a few tips (”don’t wear sandals!” “falling rocks!” “certain death!” [the last one is not actually there. it should be]), the path immediately forces the hiker to get dirty. Following the red-spray painted dots on random rocks, we snaked our way down the cliff face, sometimes on hands and knees. At certain points on the hike, we encountered precariously tied ropes set up to help you repel down meters of foothole-less rocks. Perhaps most difficult was overcoming the desire to look at the view; gorgeous though it is, any distraction from keeping track of where my feet were would probably have been disastrous.

Between the mountain goats bleating and my own heart pounding in my ears, the sound of the lapping Mediterranean water was a welcome relief when we finally arrived. I pushed the thought of having to trek back up the cliff from my mind and enjoyed the blue waters and mist-covered islands in the distance.

The beach itself is populated by a small commune of young hippies (among whom I SWORE I saw my Gypsies). Every few hours, they all ran out to meet the supply boat that runs from the main beach to Butterfly Valley, carrying with it essentials like kegs of Efes beer and ketchup. Otherwise, like George Hotel, everything is grown in the valley itself. Sun-soaked, shirtless, tattooed, dread-locked, and altogether pirate-like people wander around; making jewelry, drinking, gardening, swimming, and generally living how I would love to if I didn’t have dreams of an economically-viable future.

I had a very strange moment while sitting down for a drink in a covered area of the beach. The five of us had been talking about the music blasting through the stereo–a strange mix of songs that carry with them the emotional baggage of an overly dramatic and active early imagination. I was laughing about the songs and how wonderfully complete we all felt in this strange place; saying, “God! This whole thing is perfect. It would just be complete if Tracy Chapman would come on.” I had barely spoken when suddenly I heard “Baby Can I Hold You” sung by none other than Ms. Chapman herself. Sibel and I looked at each other and immediately collapsed into an “oooooooo freeeaky….” giggle-fest.

We spent the rest of the four days moving from severe hiking-and-heat-induced discomfort and absolute relaxation. Michael, Taner, and Sibel went paragliding. We took a boat trip from island to island. Michael and I stepped on sea urchins. Alex and I got sunburned. It was beautiful. I’d describe it in more detail but it wouldn’t do the place justice. It is as close as I have come to a perfectly situated alternative world.

However, life is, in so many ways, overly dramatic.

As we sat on our bus heading home from this unreal respite, we got the news. The turkish movie playing throughout the bus was interrupted by a breaking news story about two bombs exploding in Istanbul. I listened intently and tried to translate as much as I could–our two Ameri-Turks were asleep. Alas, I couldn’t figure out all the details from the news so I turned on my phone and texted the Go-To-Girl-Of-Istanbul, Anne. Things were okay. To use the Army term, SNAFU (Situation Normal: All Fucked Up). I could sleep.

Sometimes I wish I could make these things up; these wild stories, strange coincidences, the backward and forward of static and dynamic life. As soon as the break was over, like a needy child, the world demanded attention again. I’m not saying that there is some Grandmaster making sure no one gets too comfortable and forgets about the drama of the world but, Goddamn! Sometimes it feels that way!

Nerd-ily enough, I spent most of my time on the beach blasting through “Fragments of Culture: The Everyday of Modern Turkey” edited by Dniz Kandiyoti and Ayşe Saktanber. A brilliant collection of academic essays, the book analyzes the socio-political landscape of Turkey through cultural anecdotes ranging from film stars, to fashion, to transgender politics, to satirical humor. For the life of me, I can’t get through books like this when I should be immersed in studying but somehow I loved reading it on vacation. I am a card-carrying nerd. I’ve accepted this fact.

In other news, it looks like Michael and my other favorite people are leaving soon for the states! I know I’m getting close to being on my own here but I’ll just forget about it and enjoy the wonderful company I have now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The best (read: most ridiculous but personal) result of this weekend actually came to me when I was dozing in and out of sleep in our tree house.

When I was a 5th grader in California, our entire grade took a trip up to the mountains for outdoor science camp. During one hike, our guide sat us down next to a bubbling stream. He told us to pick a spot somewhere along this picturesque landscape, some detail that we though was beautiful, and stare at it for one whole minute. “Take in every detail you can about this spot. The smell. The sound. The way the light hits it” he said. “Remember every detail and the next time you are upset or worried or too stressed out, remember the calm of this place and it will bring you some clarity.”

I picked my spot; a tree hanging over the water, roots exposed. I stared and stared and stared and tried to take it all in. Just as our 60 seconds ended, I turned my head to see my 5th grade teacher slouching over a rock 50 meters away, vomiting from altitude sickness.

From then on every time I tried to calm myself with that serene mountain-moment like the guide had suggested, the only thing that came to mind was seeing people in authority evacuating their lunches.

Thanks to Butterfly Valley, I think I’ve effectively replaced this memory with an image of natural beauty that can actually comfort me in times of crisis.

For the last week and a bit, I’ve spent a good majority of my time sitting in Brikem’s studio, slowly but surely being covered with sawdust and cigarette ash. This seems to be a universal thing; slightly dirty musicians. I don’t know of too many OCD musicians who compulsively clean. Well, maybe in classical music but definitely not in folk.

Anywho! The Concert!

July 18th, 2008-Parçalı Bulutlu

After four nights of rehearsal, we were as ready as we were going to be to play in front of real human beings. Despite the language barrier and the natural musician tendency towards “Nah. We’ll play it by ear. We don’t need to arrange anything”, the bohemians and I managed to scrape together a setlist of Feist, B.B. King, Tracy Chapman, and The Kitchen Cabinet. The band consists of myself, Brikem the late-20s guitar maker, his younger friend who happens to be a great drummer, and an old, tan man who smiles and plays bass like I’m never heard it before.

Each night would unfold with almost disturbing regularity. Leaving my favorite work-friendly cafe Şimdi, I made my way down the stretch between Istikala Caddesi and Tünel, turned right at the fork in the road onto a back alley, waved at whichever bohemian was looking after the shop (and gave hugs to the little girls who always seem to be there), walked across the alley, up the steps, through the industrial-graffiti-ed door, and into Brikem’s shop/home. Ezgi (Brikem’s girlfriend) always greets me with a smile, 2 kisses, and a “Merhaba! Nasilsin? Çay istiyor misin?”. Brikem is invariably hunched over some guitar schematics or sawing away at some very fine pieces of wood while his friends and business partners wander in and out of the shop, flicking ash and spilling Turkish coffee everywhere.

I sit and fiddle around on guitar or look through Brikem’s collection of music while he finishes up, then the band slowly filters in, sets up, plugs in, and begins to play.

Now when I say these musicians can play, I mean they can PLAY. Thank god I’m the only one who can sing in English otherwise I would be the first one cut from the band! (the 5th Beatle? the 4th Tenor? the Spice-Girl-That-Got-Cut-Because-She-Questioned-If-Wearing-Tight-Union-Jack-Mini-Dresses-Is-Really-What-They-Meant-By-”Girl Power”?)

The night of the concert arrived and, after an hour or so of practice, Brikem called a cab and we packed ourselves and all the instruments in. Sitting halfway out the window with Ezgi perched on both Brikem and my laps was not exactly where I wanted to be the one time we get a taxi driver who believes, much like those in Massachusetts, that driving laws do not apply to him. This includes (but is in no way an exhaustive list of the weird maneuvers he pulled); speeding down back alleys, jumping curbs, and, my favorite, going the wrong way down a one way street and then on to the grass in front of the Blue Mosque.

By the time I found my stomach again (it was someplace around Eminönü apparently), the cab was already unpacked and the boys were setting up. The concert, it turns out, was sponsored by the municipality of Sultanahmet. Sultanhamet is the most touristy part of Istanbul and is home to Topkapi Palace, the Hagia Sofia, and the Blue Mosque. Right at the end of the European continent, it is a beautiful but overpriced area. The stage was surprisingly huge (espeically for someone who was convinced that we were going to be playing in some pub for drunken tourists). Instead, the venue was huge and, even hours before, there were already people sitting on the grass and on steps waiting to hear us.

I remember distinctly looking up over the stage and seeing a sign with the information about the night’s concert. I suddenly realized that the name of the group playing was, in fact, our group. We have a name! It’s “Parçalı Bulutlu” or, roughly translated, the way the clouds look right before its about to rain. This is the explanation Ezgi gave me so I’m going to go with it.

The musicians and I did our sound check and went to have some tea to relax.

When the concert started, I was shocked at how many people were there. Walking up on stage, I was blinded by the lights (”bliiinded by the liiight something something something something like a something in the niiight”) and tripped a few times. I have to say, there is something very comforting about not being able to see an audience. It made me feel much less self conscious and let me focus on the things I could see; Brikem, the drummer, the bassist, and a huge 10 foot tall background sign with the picture of the president of the municipality pointing out and “towards change”. All very comforting.

We began playing and worked our way through “Gatekeeper”, “Give Me One Reason”, “The Thrill is Gone”, “Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps”, and a slew of my own songs. When, at one point, someone yelled something in the audience to me, I responded “Ahh no! Yabancim!” at which point they yelled back “I love you” in english. It’s nice to have Turkish, bearded groupies.

When Brikem would start on one of his guitar solos, I would just laugh. The type of flying solos and long interludes completely escapes me–this isn’t your mother’s Kitchen Cabinet, needless to say. Although I love the music these gypsies play, it’s not really my music. It is, however, fulfilling some weird desire of mine to write and play blues music about drinking (which is, I maintain, the best way to write the blues).

My favorite moment was during our cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Chelsea Hotel”. I suddenly had a moment mid-song when everything seemed so perfect and yet so ridiculously weird. There I was; playing a song about Janis Joplin, singing the lyrics “giving me head on the unmade bed while the limousines wait in the street”, to a big crowd of Turkish people (including a few hijab-clad women) who didn’t understand anything that I was singing, in the park between the Hagia Sofia and Blue Mosque.

Life is strange. Especially when you spend time with Gypsy Musicians.

Okay. I got a hold of myself. After a philosophical knock about the head lovingly delivered by Professor Mercer, I am back on track.

As Anne said: “No more Postmodernism for you! We’re putting you on a strict diet of the Enlightenment.”

An executive decision has been made. Instead of living in Bebek near Bogazici Universitesi for the semester, I have decided to try out living in Talimhane, just off of Taksim Square. This translates to a roughly 45 minute commute up to Bogazici every day and a bit of isolation from the campus community but I think I’m feeling good about the decision. Had I decided to live here in the dorms, I would have ended up with mostly exchange students, speaking English and generally wishing I was in Taksim.

This being said, my roommate isn’t Turkish. He is a lovely older gay man who happens to write for TimeOut Istanbul. I essentially have a private (wonderfully decorated) studio to myself with a shared kitchen. My roommate writes reviews of clubs in Istanbul and is therefore out most weekend nights. I don’t know how he does it. I can barely go out one night a week without throwing off my entire sleep/work/not-pitying-myself-for-having-had-”too-much-fun” schedule. Young people these days. I can’t keep up.

In other news: the Consulate Shootings.

Perhaps it’s my lack of regular internet or my inability to read Turkish, but it took me quite a while to learn about the shootings. I had actually been planning to go to the American consulate last week to demand a job and student visa but my laziness got in the way. Now I’m reading all over about the “implications within Turkish politics” of the attack and how it will have a ripple effect abroad. Maybe I’m just overly simplistic but when is an act of violence JUST an act of violence?

Individuals who use violence as a means to further their own cause think they can get some kind of leverage by force. The act of shooting at the US Consulate is nothing but strained symbolism. The act itself is suicide and the damage that could be caused by four guys with a few guns and no way to get past the outside walls of the heavily fortified consulate is relatively negligible. The guards who died weren’t even American so what would be the purpose of using violence if not to simply stir the pot of Turkish-American relations? These men decided to take their lives and the lives of their own countrymen in a half-assed attempt to push an ideological point. I find this completely disgusting but what am I to do?

The real danger with isolated acts of violence like this is that they get used to give political clout to anyone who can wrap themselves in the flag. Like Ulysses S. Grant’s approach of “Waving the Bloody Shirt” in his post-Civil War election campaign, any pundit can use the memory of violence to interpret, reinterpret, warn, and console their way into power. Sometimes it’s not the act of violence itself that does the most damage but the political and social recoil that comes after.

We can acknowledge the skewed ideologies that led individuals to use violence (i.e. Sept 11th hijackers) without allowing ourselves to justify more violence (i.e. 9/11 to the Iraq War). Sometimes to take the wind out of the sails of the radical ideaologues, we need to say that violence, even politically motivated, is just violence.