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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.
Never let it be said that I’m a recluse.
First things first, Bogazici University is perhaps one of the worst run institutions with which I have ever had the misfortune of aligning myself. And I go to Columbia. There has been no information given out, no orientation, no real aid given to any of the exchange students. Michael and I were lucky to be put in (bleak looking) suites with some amazing people. Beyond them, however, we were struggling to find anyone. We got to the point that I put up a sign in the lobby, “Yabanci? Exchange Student? Feeling overwhelmed? Want to meet other Exchange/Overwhelmed people? Come to….” We had a nice little meet and greet during which our little gang of French/American/Greek/Turkish miscreants was formed.
Anyone who has known me for more than… say… 10 minutes, knows that I go a bit crazy if I can’t play music. So after one month of traveling without a guitar, I needed to find myself some kind of hit (heroin, schmeroin… I jones for Gibsons). I went down to the end of Istiklal Cadde near Galata Tower where all of the musical shops are clustered and, off of a slightly sketchy back road, I found my fix. The young, long-flowing-dark-haired guy who runs the shop repairs old 1940s guitars and makes his own dense bodied electric guitars. I went in and found the most amazing, beat-up, worn-in, well-loved classical guitar I have ever seen. He hadn’t finished repairing it but I fell so in love with it that he sold it to me for very, very cheap. My broken turkish made communicating quite hard and at one point, both of us frustrated by our inability to communicate our mutual interest in music, picked up guitars and had an impromptu blues session in the middle of the shop.
I took the guitar home and promised to bring it back for repairs.
In order to add a bit to my wallet, I decided to look for a job playing music in some of the swankier restaurants behind Galatasaray Lisesi on Cezayir Sokak. This steep ally is crowded with restaurant piled upon restaurant catering to tourists and Turks alike. I went to one restaurant and met Adnan, the overexcited and slightly sketchy old owner of many of the eateries. He apparently took to me and decided to introduce me to the rest of the restaurant owners. I went back the following day with my guitar, figuring it that I would audition for them and then see about getting a semi-regular gig.
Oh but I am not in Kansas anymore apparently and things are run a bit differently.
I walked up to Adnan’s restuarant where I was met by about ten people who promptly ushered me over to a nearby table where all the restaurant owners are sitting, smoking and drinking tea like something out of the Turkish Sopranos. They shook my hand, sat me down, asked me if I wanted a drink, and proceeded to ask my performance price. I shook my head and said, “Wait. Don’t you want me to play first?” Apparently not. The appeal of having a Yabanci (foreigner) Female singer is enough to get me hired on the spot. After negotiating my pay (which, let me tell you, is NOT NYC rates… alas), Adnan said, “Okay. So you start tonight?”
What?
“Yes. Tonight. 3…eh…4 hours…?”
What?
“….”
Tonight? Really?
“Yes. Come back at 7.30. We’re all family here. You’re family here.”
Realizing that my beautiful guitar is not electric, I ran back to my friends at the guitar shop and explained my problem. Gasping, sweating, and generally looking like a crazy woman, I tried to explain that this was not how we do it in NYC. Apparently, the word “audition” doesn’t translate. My friend, the guitar maker, grabbed my guitar, told me to relax, and left the shop.
He came back 20 minutes later with all of the necessary electronics, took my beautiful guitar, and electrified it in his shop in 2 hours. I was so taken aback by his generosity. I spent the time sitting in one of the back rooms with his two female friends who took a liking to me. I went and bought them all 2 bottles of wine (very cheap but shhh!) and they worked on teaching me more Turkish. When the guitar maker was done, we had an impromptu jam session once again in the studio and I thanked them all again profusely.
Before I left, one of the guys came up to me and said in Turkgrish, “Anna. You and two of us have a gig on friday or saturday in Eminonu. You should come back to practice sometime this week.”
So now, after 2 weeks in Istanbul, I not only am apparently part of the “Family” of Cezayir Sokak but am in a band?
Oh! And I nearly forgot!
After the Onun Hafta Parade on Sunday, Michael, Alex, and I went to get a drink. Being my mother’s pushy daughter (notice I didn’t say “pushy mother’s daughter”. Once again, Hi, Mum!), I introduced myself to a group of women sitting at the table next to us who had some of the signs from the march. I asked if they spoke English and what they thought of the parade and they asked us to join them. 2 Norwegians, 2 Turks, and a Swede. We carried on a wonderful conversation about philosophy, politics, history, and everything in between. When I told them our age, they laughed and adopted us as their çocuklar (children).
We met up with one of them, Anne, last night and she has reassured me that she’ll introduce me to all of the Ex Pats and intelligensia in Istanbul so I have a good home base when my dear Michael and friends leave.
Sometimes having no concept of Anna-What-Are-You-Doing?-Seriously-Mind-Your-Own-Business works out for the best!
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Michael Michael Michael.
Yesterday Michael was telling me how excited he was about a sign he saw advertising a festival of liturgical music. I wondered, “really? a choral music festival in Istanbul?” Michael reassured me and visions of
ran through my head.
Last night, while out at a bar called Badehane, I saw an advertisement for this so-called Masstival in the line for the restroom. Right away I thought–this is not Latin Mass choral music, this is featuring Alanis Morrisette
Masstival: Music FOR Masses.
……Not Music FROM Masses.
I will never tire of traveling with a man whose first thought is always the finer things in life.
“Who would associate something called MASStival with Def Leppard and Alanis Morrisette?”-Michael as I’m writing this. Who indeed, Michael. Who indeed.
And if you see a guy in a button up holding an “I love Bach” sign at the Masstival. Don’t worry-it’s just Michael.
Now that Michael and I are relatively settled in Istanbul, I’ve had time to face the reality of living in a completely foreign culture for 9 months. I think I’ve just been ignoring this fact and continuing on as if I would be back haunting 112th and Amsterdam as soon as this vacation finishes.
Scared is not the right word. My family mantra of “Buck up, little camper” snuffs out any kind of self-pitying homesick complaining I might otherwise indulge. This is an amazing experience but what I’m most worried about now is directly linked to one, Mr. Edward Said.
June is Pride month worldwide and tomorrow, in the infamous Taksim Square, there will be a march in favor of LGBTQ rights down Istiklal Cadde to the Galata Tower. At the same time that I know it’s a bit of a travel-security faux-pas to go to large demonstrations, I really feel the obligation to go out and support a universally struggling minority. (Plus, I’m sorry but futball games are SO much more dangerous than anything political).
Today I went to a panel discussion hosted by the Turkish branch of Lamda about Queer identity in the Muslim world. There were two panelists from Lebanon, one Turkish man, one Pakistani man, and the first publicly out lesbian in Palestine. As each person spoke, it always came back to the same point; we don’t want neo-colonialism in the form of pity or inorganic western policies and conceptions of Queer rights. The representatives spoke of the difficulties for the Queer community within Islamic societies face because of their perceived ideological alliance with the West. They struggle with the conception of being both intrinsically tied to the tradition and culture of their homelands and their reality as Queer men and women.
And there I sat.
Privileged. Ivy-League Educated. White. Middle class. American.
I can’t even take a drink of water without second guessing that I am somehow being an Orientalist.
Unfortunately, this identity crisis. This inability to separate the good intentions of progressive Westerners with perceived colonialism and the tangible, horrible legacy of overt colonialism. This seemingly insurmountable wall of suspicion on both sides. This mess makes me lose my will to engage.
If, as the panelists seemed to be arguing, I will just never understand what it is to be Queer and Palestinian or Queer and Muslim or Queer and not-White, what is the purpose of me trying? If my actions and motivations are continually questioned by myself and the people with whom I want only to connect with, how can I ever do anything of real value? If my opinion or perspective will never be looked upon with anything but distrust, will all the work I put in to educate myself about what Middle Eastern culture is/was/can become be in vain? I posed this question to the panel.
Are we doomed to live our existences confined to our own latitudes?
Right now I really don’t know the answer and it makes me scared that I am wasting my time trying to understand something that I cannot/am not allowed to understand. Perhaps I’m doing more harm than good and I should have stuck to understanding and commenting on my own culture.
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Allo!
Sorry for the brief lapse in updating. My computer has finally made it into my hands (thanks to the wonderful, other Anna) but alas, my internet connection isn’t working.
Very quickly because I’m about to start class:
When we last left our heroes, they were wandering around the ruins outside of Aleppo with an old, New Zealander (whom Michael lovingly nicknamed Kiwi) and a few Austrian post-grads.
AHH! 41 False Starts! Class is starting. We are not dead! We’re just adjusting to not moving every 2 days!
Wish Turkiye good luck tonight in the Euro Cup (otherwise we’ll be in a city of very depressed and probably conciliatory-drunk patriots)! OH Turkiye! La la la la la la la laaaa!
Let me start off this post by saying that I am currently recovering from a food coma triggered by Syria’s unbelievable street food. Excuse me if my language is a bit more labored…I can feel my arteries clogging as we speak. And, oh how I love it.
Damascus-
Michael and I spent a good three days wandering around the Souqs in Damascus; exploring, bartering, drinking more tea than necessary. Here are some highlights:
I have established that Michael is secretly in cahoots with the Syrian Board of Commerce to make me spend more money than I intend to by “accidentally” leading me into situations where I can’t say no to a good purchase. The plot usually unfolds thusly- Man comes up to Michael and I and asks where we are from and if we would want to see his shop (because apparently “looking is free” HA!). Michael smiles and, in his nice Mid-Atlantic way, engages in conversation with said Shopkeeper. Michael refuses to look in shop but accepts Shopkeeper’s offer of his card because it can’t hurt, right? Shopkeeper gets us to follow him to get a card which ends up being down an alley and three flights of stairs. Michael looks at me, shrugs, and seems to say “whoops”. Shopkeeper takes us to his basement shop where his wizened (toothless and obviously respiratory-infection-y) uncle is sitting, chain smoking. He offers us a seat and some tea, since at this point we are wheezing from the walk. The old man then goes on to pull out some (albeit gorgeous) necklaces that his mother, a bedouin woman, makes. Dammit! Not my Achilles’ Heel! Not Enterprising Women! Nooo! Curse you, Women and Gender Studies Major! CURSE YOU!
Anywho, this pattern of Michael the Enabler has come up a few times. Including my most exciting (and cheap, oh loving-and-giving parents of mine!) purchase; a traditional and handmade Oud. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a sucker for interesting musical instruments and my project for the next 9 months will be to become proficient enough on the Oud to bring it into The Kitchen Cabinet (www.thekitchencabinet.net).
On the first day in Damascus, we sat for a while in a cafe next to the Ommayad Mosque–reading, drinking tea, escaping the midafternoon heat. The sidewalk respite was devoid of other tourists and was exclusively inhabited by old men staring out at the street, shishas perpetually balanced in their mouths. I was, per usual, the only woman. They didn’t seem to notice us. We kept our conversation quiet so as not to disturb their steady stream of commentary on the passing people, as if trying to keep a nearby bird from getting spooked and flying away. We couldn’t understand but we were quite content.
The next day, we passed by the same sidewalk cafe and the same group of men were sitting there. The oldest saw us first and rose from his seat with a huge grin on his face. He called us over, took my hand, and invited us to sit with them again. He pulled up two chairs and the waiter brought out a shisha and two teas. And we sat. Conversation was impossible (and unnecessary). We all just watched, nodded, smiled, drank deep, and sighed.
When it was time to leave, I looked in our handy Lonely Planet Guide for a few words. As we stepped back into the street, the old man took my hand again and I said-in terrible, terrible arabic- “Ma’a saalam. Ghadan.” Goodbye. Until tomorrow.
We stopped by the next day but the old men were gone.
Syria’s Sweethearts-
Language is really getting in the way of Michael and I taking our rightful place as Syria’s National Sweethearts.
One of the nights in Damascus, we went out to a bar (a “Pob” read the sign), in the Christian Quarter of the old city. There was a film crew in one of the back alleys-lights, booms, guys dressed in military costumes, and a guy reading lines with a very handsome actor.
In our heads, the follow scene unfolded:
Syrian Director: [In Arabic] Oh my god! Who are those two FINE looking tourists?! Someone get them over here! I will make them stars!
Us: [Not understanding] La, shukrun. Laaa. No, thank you. We don’t want any souvenirs.
Syrian Director: No! You don’t understand! Your faces! Your smiles! Your composure! You will make millions! Everyone in Syria will love you!
Us: Laaaaa. [Points to selves] students. Students. Na’am. Yes. No money. Thank you.
Syrian Director: …………
So yes. Point being: Miscommunication is the only reason Syria hasn’t embraced Michael and I as a new sham-marriaged Brangelina. (Manna? Annael?)
Film sets aside, Damascus is quite quiet at night. Out of the Old City, Michael and I tried to go to three different bars to see where the kids are these days and each of them was awkwardly empty. From the sad, lone bar owner at “Whispers” to the pop-covers-of-classical-songs-reverberating-off-completely-empty-tables at Bam Bu to the “No Reservations Necessary” at Z Bar-we were a bit unnerved. We were probably in the wrong place.
Aleppo-
Aleppo is a gastronome’s paradise. Like I said before, still recovering from a food coma. My favorite (literal) bite was hand fed to me by an overly excitable rest-stop attendant somewhere in central Syria. The bus we took from Damascus to Aleppo stopped at, once again, a shady rest area (sidenote: I really hate squat toilets. I hate the word “squat”. I just… I hate.) where I ordered a schwarma after a very funny man grabbed my arm, led me over to the vendor, and insisted that he place a bit of hot-of-the-rotating-and-dripping-spit schwarma meat in my mouth. Admittedly, it was really delicious. Michael did not get the same treatment and was forced to (gasp!) use his own fingers to feed himself a morsel. Life must be tough.
Aleppo has been quite different. We’ve resorted to being Canadian much more than before but my broken french is coming in handy! The souqs are rough around the edges compared to the covered bliss of Damascus but we’re finding it quite lovely. The sadly named “Hotel Tourist” where we are staying is wonderful and the cheeky man at the front desk keeps trying to play practical jokes on me.
“Souqs and Food” says Michael. Yup. It’s a hard life.
Now if only Michael would stop being such an enabler!
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“Where from?”
Michael and I are experimenting right now. When asked, as we invariably are, where we are from, we’ve taken to switching up our responses. Do we say “New York City”? “America”? “United States”? “Canada”? Earlier on the trip we had a discussion of the different words for Restroom–W/C, washroom, bathroom, toilette, etc. Each word-however slightly different-ends up sending such a different message about who you are and where you are from. So when our regionality/nationality is asked–how do we respond in a way that will illicit the best response?
Here’s what I’ve found:
“New York City”–everyone loves the city. Everyone has an uncle, cousin, friend who lives somewhere near it. Post Sept 11th, people are generally pro-New Yorker if only for the NY Crusty-but-Benign spirit
“America”–assumes some united front, like France or England, it carries with it some cultural baggage. I don’t particularly like using America even through it seems semantically insignificant.
“The States”–in the same way that “America” suggests some united front, the States presupposes independent states both politically and culturally. If NYC isn’t an option, I’ll go with this.
“Canada”–Okay. I know. The travel-tip-cum-stereotype of the American donning Canadian flags while globetrotting is a bit ridiculous. BUT at least 1/2 of this travel pair is Canadian so I don’t think it’s too bad. If the conversation progresses past “Where from?”, I’ll normally qualify my nationality with being a duel citizen. It’s a bit of a security blanket. Although liberal Americans can say “please don’t hate me, I didn’t vote for him”, being Canadian is even more distancing from US Politics as if we are subtly saying “We know. They’re the noisy neighbors downstairs.”
Anywho–back to real travel.
Jordan-Syria!
On our last morning in Jordan, the Palace Hotel messed up our transport (read: did not arrange it despite constant pestering). After spending the morning in a fruitless search for the Simit Man (guy who sells bagel-like bread to be eaten with a bag of spices from a cart on the street), we parted ways with Laura and set out of the bus station sans real travel plans. Luckily, we found a wonderful Taxi driver who took us everywhere and went in to make sure we could find a ride to Damascus. At the Abdali bus station, we learned that the buses were sold out and our other option-a private taxi-would cost an estimated 90 dinar (roughly 115 dollars). Having no other choice, we made our way to a private taxi service only to be pleasantly surprised at the asking price of 12 dinar. We gladly accepted, tipped our taxi driver well, and waiting until the end of the prayer service in the nearby mosque to set off for Syria.
We ended up in a car with a driver (who looked oddly like Alan Cummings) and two Jordanian men. I got to sit up front for the first time this trip and I spent most of the time reading Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul, looking out the window to stave off reading-induced motion sickness, and returning to reading (read, wretch, repeat?).
At a reststop just shy of the Syrian border, we got out and wandered around through the most bizarre shop I have ever seen. It’s nice to know that-like death and taxes-sketchy reststops along desolate highways are a cross-cultural constant. The television was tuned to a religious station on which five hijab-clad, ~10 year old girls sat in a semi circle, Qu’ran in lap, singing verses one by one in a slightly – falsetto. As I tried to ignore the soundtrack of the television, Michael pointed to a creepy set of baby dolls including “Bi Bi”–a white, plastic toy baby with its head rolled to the side and mouth agape as if it was mid-scream.
Back in the car, we made our way to the heavily armed Jordan/Syria border. We waved goodbye to the smiling teddybear face of King Abdullah II to be greeted by the weirdly-Neck/Head-ratio-ed President Assad of Syria. Portraits of political leaders are everywhere in the Middle East. Thank god we don’t have that in N. America because I do NOT want to be looking-as attractive as they are?-our politicians plastered on every surface.
The two Jordanian men helped us quite a bit through the complete chaos of immigration. We had our Syrian visas already so getting approved was essentially an issue of pushing our way through the “lines”. Michael was feeling a bit out-of-sorts so I channeled my inner baboushka and elbowed my way to the front. At one point an older woman tried to push in front of me and I placed myself squarely in front of her. (Okay. I know this sounds harsh because I would always let an older woman cut in any other situation but ‘lines’ are completely arbitrary in Jordan and being obviously foreign makes it hard to actually get anywhere in them). For the rest of the wait, she kept her hand in the small of my back and kept flicking me. Otherwise, the process was relatively painless. We finally got back in the taxi and sped off into the Olive tree-speckled desert landscape of Syria’s southern border.
Interestingly, everyone we saw in the reststop also crossed the border with us. We were a strange caravan, indeed.
We arrived in Damascus and made our way to the Sultan Hotel-popular with hardcore backpackers and international excavation crews. It’s lovely and we recommend it whole-heartedly (thus far, mind you).
We spent all of yesterday (and are currently) wandering around the Souq (maze like markets) surrounding the Umayyad Mosque (built in 704 ad) in Old Damascus. We are two of few tourists but despite our conspiciousness, we haven’t been accosted nearly as much as in Egypt.
Damascus is much more compact than Cairo and much more lively than Amman. I love it. I could live here in a heartbeat. The people, the smells, the snaking alleys and back roads draped in ivy (and sometimes even bougainvillea); it’s no wonder the myth goes that Mohammad, while standing on an nearby hill, refused to enter the city of Damascus because he only wanted to enter paradise once; when he died.
We met up with a dear old friend of mine, Ailya, who has been conducting research in a town about an hour outside of the city. We exchanged some travel tips-including our advice for her impending stay in Cairo.
Upon returning to the Sultan Hotel last night, we noticed two women checking into the hotel. They both had British accents and presented very masculinely (read: pretty butch). Michael and I are hoping we run into them again so we can ask them how they have found traveling in the Middle East as individuals who do not adhere to gender-presentation norms. In a country where homosexuality is categorically illegal, how do travelers do it?
One last note: For every sketchy person we have encountered on this trip, there have been 5 absolutely genuine and helpful people. Whether it was giving us tea while we waiting for the private taxi driver to return from the mosque or the two Jordanian men who helped us through Immigration, it has been truly wonderful to meet and speak with such caring individuals. I bought a few paintings from an artist in the Damascus market and, during our talk, the artists brought up a great point. He said that it was so important for people to come to the Middle East (especially places like Syria) to meet people and understand that the stereotypes and misinformation propogated by a good majority of mainstream media and politics are completely unfounded. These areas are not populated by zealots, rather by kind, open, and wonderful mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, children, grandparents and everything in between.
Jordan! Land of the flags and smiley teddy bear pictures of King Abdullah II. Although I know it may be heretical, I just want to pinchhiscutecheekssuchanadorablemonarch.
But I digress.
Jordan!
We’ve been in Amman now for two days after a very non-eventful trek from Cairo. Upon arrival, the three of us were shocked at how much more temperate Jordan is compared to the unbearably oppressive heat of Cairo. The breeze on the ride to the Palace Hotel from the airport was welcome.
Amman is-as I was warned by a good friend-a bit sedated. Spread out over hills, it’s hard to really get a grasp of the place. Although we’re based “downtown” across from an old Roman theater, there isn’t really a feel of centrality to anything.
The first night we went to an amazing, young restaurant called Blue Fig in the trendy area of Abdoun Circle. It was so strange to be in such a SoHo-ish atmosphere in the middle of Jordan. I stole the placemats.
Petra:
“Our first full day in Jordan, we drove down to Petra and spent the day exploring” (scampering, rather, over rocks and cliffs and old ruins).
Petra is basically the capital city of the ancient Nabeteans who lived in the area during the 1st century. Built directly into the rock face, the huge monuments are best known in recent years as the backdrop for the 3rd Indiana Jones movie. (Sidenote: So I understand the Touristy restaurant being called the “Indiana Jones Restaurant” but there was also one called the “Titanic Shop” and my first thought was “icebergs? really? here?”)
We hiked our way up to the monastery-a good 45 minute jaunt up a steep mountain trail covered in the droppings of donkeys carrying the lazier (read: smarter) tourists. The view was well worth it. We even got to see a natural drama unfold as a baby mountain goat got stuck, bleated back and forth with its herd for 15 minutes, and finally made its way back down the cliff. Who says nature isn’t melodramatic?
The following day we went to Jerash to see the Roman ruins. Again, we scampered over ancient structures and were amazed at how few Don’t-Do-That-Seriously-You’re-Going-To-Kill-Yourself regulations there were. The excavation site in Jerash has been a constant site of discovery for over 85 years and archaeologists believe that as much as 90% of the city may still be un-excavated. Most impressive was the almost entirely intact Roman theater in which Laura did a rousing rendition of some godforsaken Broadway musical.
Now if it wasn’t for this horrible horrible sunburn, life would be grand. Poor Michael has a bit of a cold right now so we’re taking it easy before we head off to Damascus.
And I almost forgot: It’s a sad day today. We are parting ways with our dear friend and ever present source of amusement, Laura K. She’s off to bigger and better tents in India. We will miss her climbing on everything, singing Celine Dion, and generally making our lives better.
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After our first day being-scammed-by-a-guy-named-’bob’-in-the-khan, we decided to go back and brave the markets.
The khan is located in the Medieval quarter of Cairo; also known as Islamic Cairo. The streets blend in and out of tourist kitsch and day-to-day necessities. It is also the center of the Cairo’s outstanding Fatimid and Mamluk monuments including several beautiful madrassas and mosques. Among them is Al-Azhar; home to the oldest continuously used university in the world. The neighborhood has a peculiar mix of poverty and tourism.
We wandered around (“labyrinthine is the best word to describe it”) and at one point lost Laura. A really wonderful shop keeper (at the place where we SWORE we had left Laura for one minute. jesusmaryandjoseph we can’t take her anywhere), stood lookout for us as we tried desperately to search in the direction in which she had toddled off.
Eventually we gave up and waited for her at El Fushawi cafe with a shisha and some tea.
At this point, I think we need to point out how many times Michael has had the following comment thrown at him:
“Heeeeey! Lucky man! TWO wives!”
This is a trend that began in the khan and has continued CEASELESSLY since.
He has also been asked-jokingly of course-how many camels he wanted for either Laura or I. [For the record: Laura=10 camels Anna=2 million....BUT in fairness, some guy did say he would "kill anyone" for Laura so I think we're pretty even].
Today we learned that there is a camel market in Luxor every month or so that starts at 6 in the morning and goes into the afternoon. Apparently, red camels are 2 humped and full of bacteria (bad for eating) and white camels are dinner-worthy AND the preferred transport for Tourists. Accordingly, red camels fetch a lower price than white camels.
SO! The new response when asked for a trade:
“Fine! Red or white camels?”
After the bazaar, we decided we wanted to go on a feluqa ride on the Nile. Armed with a box of baklava and a bottle of champagne (which we were prepared to bribe the feluqa driver to let us drink), we made our way to the boat landing. On our way, our taxi attempted to cross an offramp divider and was backed up into by a minibus; causing a slight fender bender “and a not-so-slight altercation”. The taxi driver ripped open his door and went charging out to the minibus driver, screaming and kicking all the way. “In fairness, it was the best cared for cab we had been in” so he must have been protective. Anywho, the driver started punching the other driver and had to be pulled off by the other [gun toting] men in the minibus. This also all happened in the middle of the highway. We watched in horror for about 2 minutes, jumped out of the cab, scrambled to the side of the road, and walked the rest of the way. Poor driver.
The Nile was, expectedly, gorgeous that time of night.
Coptic Cairo-
Located fairly far south, this center for Coptic Christian heritage and modern life is the oldest part of Cairo. It seems so disconnected from the rest of the city–quiet, covered in Christian iconography, but still no respite from the tourist-baiting. On our way in, a shopkeeper caught our attention when he asked if we wrote in English. He had us come into his predictably stocked shop where he gave us tea and asked us to write a letter to his friend in South Africa. Apparently, his wife Natasha (a russian) had just given birth to their first child; a girl named Nadia. Laura wrote down the letter our new ‘friend’ Tata dictated and then he gushed about his new child. Of course, we were forced to buy something from him (“For the luck of Nadia! For Nadia!”) which made us sad that he might be scamming us. However, inshallah, his wife really did give birth to a beautiful child. Laura graciously gave him two of her bracelets for Natasha (I say “gave” but he kind of “took” them… it was pretty funny) and he offered to give her a massage in return. (Michael is insisting that I note that “he’s a masseur so it’s not quite as creepy as it sounds”. I, however, maintain the creepy factor)
The best thing about Coptic Cairo was BY FAR the Light-Bright Jesus. Just use your imagination.
That night we took an overnight train to Luxor-from which we are presently getting ready to leave.
Luxor-
Located in Upper Egypt (which is really south of Cairo but the Nile runs north so… I got confused), Luxor contains the City of the Living [East Bank] and the City of the Dead [West Bank]. It was the ancient capital of the New Kingdom dynasties and home to the Valley of the King and Queens where all those early 20th century, British, Indiana-wouldbes cut their teeth. Also located near the city is the Temple of Karnak–one of the largest and most fully intact temples of the ancient world.
The ruins are wonderful but the city is a bit of a tourist nightmare-lots of Germans, Japanese, and Spaniards in completely inappropriate garb. This being said, it is worth the ten hour train ride if only for the sheer amount of history in this compact area.
Our tour guide to the Valley of the Kings, Aladin, was brilliant. He knew all of the history and every one of the guards. If you are ever in Luxor, BE SURE TO GO ON A TOUR WITH HIM. We’ll post pictures later.
Now the three of us are unnaturally excited about the sleeping train we are about to take back to Cairo. Tomorrow night we fly to Amman, Jordan.
Parting words about Egypt:
Laura: I know where to find some hash and a husband.
Michael and Anna: Lauuuuuuuuraaaaaaaaa!
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I will never, ever complain about D.C. summers again.
Ever.
Today, the Columbian ex-pats (as I like to think of Michael, Laura, and I) woke up around 6-sun already beating down-and made our way to Giza and the Pyramids. Our cabbie didn’t seem to know how to get to them (…really, sir? really?) and ended up stopping by the side of the road and disappearing for 10 minutes. When we finally made it to the pyramids, he demanded 100 egyptian pounds more than we had originally agreed upon. Taking a tip from Michael’s brother, we gave him the originally agreed price and walked away. He then got the authorities to come up to us and demand we pay him for the cab ride out here. We explained that he had agreed on the original price of 30 pounds, we had paid him, and we would not pay anymore. The uzi-clad authorities quickly changed their tone and I gather that they told the cabbie “sorry pal. bad tourists to pick on.”
We wandered around for a while at the base of the largest pyramid and were “befuddled as to how to find a guide” (that’s Michael again in quotes). ”We eventually gave in to the slightly sketchy little kid pitching a camel-back tour of the site and decided we were willing to get a little ripped off.” The man who must have been their boss used phrases like ‘hi-ho, partner’ and other strange references to pseudo-americanisms. “We haggled mildly, set a price, and were off. Each of us on camels with our own individual child-camel jockey”. Laura, of course, was immediately hit on by the precocious (and NOT LEGAL!) guide who gave her one stone scarab for her and one ‘for her boyfriend’.
“We made our way into the desert for a postcard perfect view of the pyramids that was, along with the heat, truly breathtaking.”
Along the way, our probably-8-year-old-cigarette-smoking guides tried to convince us that the pyramids were ‘over 100,000 years old’ and that ‘the sphinx lost its nose when Napoleon shot it off with a cannon’. The facts are dubious at best.
We will post our pictures later.
Michael is unfortunately afraid of closed spaces so he left the scampering up the inner depths of the largest pyramid. Laura and I found ourselves hunched over, making our way up the steep (but refreshingly cool) inner passageway to the tomb. It was so surreal. Although I have to admit that I was reminded a bit of some theme park ride (especially with the overweight and weezing Americans we met on one of the landings).
Otherwise, we didn’t manage to get much else done today. The heat became absolutely unbearable and we tried and failed twice to get our to Coptic Cairo. Alas, looming heat stroke kept us in our air conditioned room for most of the afternoon. Let me just put it out there than none of us are particularly soft travellers but even we had to throw in the sweat-soaked towel.
“Here’s to hoping for a milder tomorrow”
a & m
