Anna in Istanbul

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.

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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.

Daily life, it seems, is a collection of little things I should do but have no motivation to do. Case and point: getting my student visa. I know it’s there, looming over my head, and yet I can’t bring myself to go to the embassy to figure this business out. In all fairness, it’s Bogazici’s fault I wasn’t signed, sealed, and delivered before I arrived. Regardless, oh the small things that keep me grounded.

I’d like to talk a bit about family.

Last night my boys, Alex and Kean, and I had one of our infamous late-night conversations. All of my friends know about my obsessions with ironically-bad Pop icons (Lindsey Lohan, Mandy Moore, Britney Spears to name my favorites), the Northwest Passage, and babies. Interestingly, it’s the last obsession that surprises most people.

I grew up in perhaps the most dysfunctionally function family a girl could ever ask for. Although we each maintain our own peculiarities, my parents and sister have been my best friends for my entire life. Every bump, turn, and complete overhaul we’ve encountered has been handled with the same awkward, stuttering grace that makes us love each other more; simultaneously wanting to smack and hug each other.

But as I grew older, I learned that our family was an exception. When I was in high school, I used to cite the divorce rates and number of children in foster homes as an indicator of the decline of the nuclear family unit. I saw friends I love, couples I adored, people I cared about, be hurt and thrown off by failed marriages, estrangements, and anything in between. I used to wring my hands and wonder what the world was coming to. Where were we going and why were we all in this handbasket?

I don’t worry about that anymore.

As I grow older still, I am realizing that the “family” isn’t in decline at all. Instead, it is changing its face and its the attempts to stay static that creates the most conflict. Like a woman hell bent on plastic surgery to maintain her youth, marriage and family do not want to age gracefully.

Kean surprised me last night by saying that he wanted to be a single dad. He wants to be the one in charge of his child’s upbringing-from cradle to college. The strange thing is that I know he will make an amazing father and that child will never want. And yet, this alternative family he envisions will most certainly be scrutinized at every turn.

Many so-called pro-family writers (even Garrison Keillor!) argue that without the white-picket fence, Mother/Father, Bread-Jam-and-a-Minivan upbringing, children grow up stunted. My response to these kind of arguments is; so what? Everyone is stunted in some capacity and growing up with one mother and one father alone ensure that you will grow up “normally”. Rather, it is the presence of a loving, organic, breathing support system that prepares children for life. And that support system could take the face of Kean alone or gay parents or any other combination.

The argument that the nuclear 50s family is the truest form of “family” is entirely constructed. The hardship the children of alternative families will face is cited by conservative pundits ad nauseum to support their rickety moral imperative to act “for the children”. Well, where is said hardship coming from? Certainly not from the supportive families themselves. The taunts aimed at children of gay couples, the subtle jabs at children of divorced or single parents are perpetuated by a society obsessed with the constructed ideal of the family.

Well, let me put on my Sally Struthers hat and say “Think of the children! Won’t ANYONE think of the children!”

My mother used to say that, when you have kids, it is the first time in your life that you love something more than yourself. Kean and I both have constructed views of what our future alternative families will look like but regardless of how different my family looks compared to his, they are united by one simple imperative; unconditional love and support of new human beings. Neither of us will ever be able to shield ourselves or our families from life but, if we try, we can handle ourselves with the same awkward, stuttering grace that made us come out pretty well.

But enough about morals.

July 4th! Happy Birthday, America!

Last Friday my dear nation celebrated another year of existence. Despite living as Ex Pats in Istanbul, we decided to celebrate in our best American-but-Skeptical form. Alex, Eva, and I made a beautiful baby watermelon and tattooed ourselves with slogans like “1861-1865: The War of Northern Aggression”, “4 More Years: McCain 2008″, and “:) America Everyone Else”. By the time we were done with this, we realized that we could not show our faces in public despite our obvious tongue-in-cheek approach to nationalism.

I love America. Let me say that outright. I love where I come from, the life I have there, and I even *GASP* really believe in the American political system. I am not part of the Green Party-nor will I ever be. I love Air-Conditioning at every store. I do read Perez Hilton. I enjoy the guilty pleasure of consuming much more than I should. So sue me.

This being said, it is difficult to be constantly studying and, more importantly, observing first hand the impact of American Exceptionalism abroad. How can I wave a flag and shoot off fireworks when I see the Iraqi refugees living in squalor in the harder parts of Istanbul? How can I love my American co-patriots and ignore my fellow humans who happen to live in different parts of the world? How can I celebrate George Washington and forget Sitting Bull? Okay. I know I am sounding like a bleeding heart, kumbaya singing liberal right now but thats not quite what I’m trying to get across.

I like to celebrate the 4th of July for what it is; a celebration of a great society that has come and will continue to come at a huge cost. American patriotism isn’t free.