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.