Deported

.
In mid-November, 2010, my Turkish Residence Permit expired. Due to a clerical snafu, several teachers found themselves in the same predicament. We were told by the school that the only solution was to deport us at different times, so that we could re-enter the country as tourists for three months, during which time our Residence Permits would be renewed. Since then we have all been teaching in Turkey illegally.
.
On November 11, a school day, Amy Feeley and I were deported. Amy is a Londoner, 20-something, who teaches biology. We climbed into a 15 passenger school van and were driven by Savas Bey (Mr. Savage, how comforting) to the city of Edirne, the capital of Edirne province, which has over 400,000 occupants, most of whom appeared to be employable males sitting along the sidewalks, smoking, drinking sweet tea and playing backgammon. Edirne sits at the borders of Turkey, Greece and Bulgaria, and its name is derived from Adrianopolis, from back when the Greeks had the most guns. It is reputed to be one of the best preserved Ottoman cities, but were not able to stop and investigate. I plan to go back. I did see its famous mosque, built by the greatest of all Ottoman architects, Selim, the Greatest of All Ottoman Architects, who also architected the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. Edirne is the also center of the national sport of Turkey, grease wrestling, the championship bouts of which take place on an island between two local rivers. June, 2010, witnessed the 649th grease wrestling championship. I was in Turkey then; if I’d only known!
.
We drove through the city and down a beautiful cobbled lane that ran straight for over a kilometer -- Roma (Gypsies) passed by on two-wheeled, horse-drawn carts -- small, careworn , dirty faces, adults and children huddled together against the cold -- beautiful, orange leaves fell from the trees -- Puccini rang from the radio -- a very cinematic moment. We crossed a river over a beautifully conceived stone bridge and onto a country lane that led us to the border with Greece.
.
Our driver walked us to a window and conversed with the occupant of the booth who was sitting in a uniform behind a pane of glass. Amy and I fidgeted. Uniform Guy asked for our Residence Permits. What!? Why should I have brought an expired Residence Permit? It seemed incriminatory: “Yes, Officer, here is undeniable proof that I am definitely living and working in Turkey illegally.” I turned in astonishment to Amy, who had brought her expired Residence Permit, and she said, “Didn’t they tell you?” (I think “Didn’t they tell you?” must be the most famous of the infamous Famous Last Words -- Brutus to Julius Caesar in the Forum; John the Baptist to Jesus in the River Jordan; Jim Bowie to Davy Crockett at the Alamo: “Didn’t they tell you?”) Savas Bey muttered, “Problem.” My guts turned to jelly.
.
Luckily, since it was a school day, the office secretaries were at work and were able to find the necessary photocopies of my document, the numbers from which satisfied Uniform Guy. Savas Bey pointed us to a fenced alleyway, and told Amy to call him on her cell phone when we had returned from Greece so that he could pick us up for the return trip to Istanbul. We set off warily, passing gates guarded by soldiers in full combat gear, bearing semi-automatic weapons, passing machine gun nests protected by barbed wire and sand bags, passing silently through a no-man’s-land of wire fences topped by concertina wire. No birds sang. The only sound was the crunching of gravel under our feet. I turned to my favorite mental channel -- Martin and the Luthiers. Amy felt uneasy enough to call Mr. Savage. That’s when she realized she had left her phone in the van. Talk about feeling alone ...
.
At the end of no-man’s-land was a simple barricade. A kid on a skateboard could have ducked under it easily. We handed our passports to the young, uniformed guard who stamped them without compunction. We entered Greece. It was like being in an episode of Twilight Zone. Empty apartments and offices lined a single street that seemed to lead to nowhere. The buildings looked new or refurbished, but there were no vehicles moving or parked. No faces peeked from behind curtains. No cats or dogs. Just us.
.
We walked for half an hour before we encountered any living thing -- four men engaged in a game of backgammon. They stared at us. I stared back. They didn’t back down, nor did I, even after we’d past. I’m stubborn at stupid times. We had both been given $25 for expenses. Once we found an open restaurant, they would not take USD. So, after walking into Greece for an hour, we turned around and walked out, not having seen a single ancient ruin. We re-entered Turkey, got our passports stamped with tourist visas and were driven home, after a delightful lunch at a riverside café in view of the aforementioned beautifully conceived stone bridge.
.
Amy and I are now legal aliens teaching in Turkey illegally.

The Prisoner of Mustafa, Part 2

.
The next day, the heat wave that had been building since the beginning of July finally sat down on Istanbul and decided to stay.
.
The situation was perfect for what happened next: the telephone and internet connections went down, and the water service stopped. I was now stuck with no water, no telephone, no internet, no TV, and I could only leave the apartment at considerable risk of not being able to get back inside because the outside lock would not accept my key. All I could do was read, nap and sweat inside in solitude.
.
I discovered the water problem after having done my morning ‘business.’ I depressed the flush button and heard ‘klunk’. Klunk? I pushed again. Klunk. I pushed again, harder. KLUNK! Obviously, there was no water in the tank. I calmly arose, closed the lid and walked away. I called Mustafa several times. No answer = no Mustafa = no key = no food shopping and no water = stinky everywhere = PRISONER!
.
The following morning, Mustafa called, asking about the lock. I was less than cordial when I explained my situation regarding the toilet and lack of personal hygiene. He responded immediately.
.
Eight hours later I could flush the toilet and take a shower.
.
The next day, clean but hungry, desperate for human contact since I had not been able to communicate with anyone without the internet since the telephone was connected to the same infernal device as the TV and internet, I developed a cunning plan by which I would be able to get out of the building with a fair hope of being able to return. ‘Forget the toilet paper, it’s too visible,’ read my thought bubble. ‘Tape down the lock with several layers of that sturdy packing tape you used in the move from Kurucesme!’ This worked great for one day, just long enough for me to get trapped outside on a Saturday night. The Kuafur was closed. No Kuafur = no keys, and after several calls, no Mustafa.
.
I sat on the warm bricks again, tired, humid and unable to read because Mustafa’s building had no entrance light. After about an hour (during which I began seriously entertaining thoughts of smashing out a pane of glass in the door, grabbing enough stuff to survive and disappearing into the night), a man’s head, unlit cigarette in mouth, popped out of a window two feet from where I sat. Our eyes met. We nodded and exchanged greetings in Turkish. He lit up. I returned to my escape fantasy.
.
He finished his cigarette and ducked back inside. Soon he came out a door a storey below where I sat, accompanied by another man who was carrying a knife. They politely shooed me aside, and the guy with the knife started cutting away at the molding around one of the smaller panes of glass in the door (the one I had been fantasizing about breaking). Cigarette Guy asked me if I would like some tea. I innocently declined the offer.
.
(Note: Westerners like to drink cold drinks when they are enduring hot weather. Such drinks cool the palate but not the body. Turks drink hot tea during such times because it makes them sweat, by which every slight breeze becomes a heavenly breath of relief.)
.
After several minutes of scraping, Knife Guy was able to wedge his blade under the pane and pry it up far enough to get his fingers under it. Then he slid the pane up within its ornamental wrought iron frame, reached under it with his left arm, flipped a toggle which he somehow knew was there (invisible to me), then swung the window casing open far enough that he was able to tilt the pane horizontally and pull it out. Finally, after handing me the pane, he reached through the opening and popped open the lock. Greatly relieved, I shook both men by the hand, whereupon they walked back downstairs. I never saw either of them again.
.
The following afternoon, while napping during the enervating heat, the apartment was lashed with a sudden flurry of wind and rain. I was awakened by the slamming of windows and doors throughout the building. I lurched to my feet and ran around closing windows against the driving rain. (Note: This was the only rain Istanbul experienced in the entire month of July, one violent gasp.) Then the electricity went out.
.
Most of the electric devices I needed for amusement, communication and enlightenment were not working anyway, but I still needed refrigeration and light. My prolonged imprisonment due to the faulty key had left the refrigerator bare, and now the stairwell had become a spiral pit of blackness - slippery marble steps, no matter what the hour of day. Luckily, I had purchased a pocket-sized flashlight while in Kurucesme to accompany me on my nightly meanderings with Rufus, and this became my saving grace.
.
My last days in this apartment were spent reading, negotiating the steps by flashlight to buy necessities, and missing my wife.

The Prisoner of Mustafa, Part 1

.
For most of July, I lived alone, free of charge in an apartment in a small row of buildings welded together by years of corroding cement. This apartment is rented by a married couple of fellow MEF teachers. The husband is French, the wife English; they have a boy toddler, and are spending the month in France with family. They offered their apartment to Nancy and me since our lease in Kurucesme ended at the end of June, and we could not move into our new school-provided apartment until August.
.
Nancy left for the US on the 7th, and all I was expected to do was keep the apartment clean, stay out of trouble, and water the plants. Reduced to bachelor status for the first time in decades, I am proud to say that I kept the plants watered, I think.
.
We were given a single set of two keys, one to open the door to the building, the other to open the apartment, which is quite lovely, sitting on the top floor above two others, with a partial view of the Bosphorous, and a soothing cross breeze whenever the breeze decides to cross through, which was rare, as it has been very hot in Istanbul and the building is not air-conditioned. But I am long-suffering, not one to complain about such things, especially when the lodging was free, and all I had to do is keep the place clean, stay out of trouble and water the plants. (Note to self: don’t forget to water the plants.)
.
Immediately upon moving in, we began having difficulty with the outside lock. The key would enter the lock but not engage, rotate left (which did nothing) then resist until it eventually turned right (after much urging and under-the-breath cursing) and usually get stuck again, so that the whole process had to be repeated (as the cursing became less and less under-the-breath) until eventually, for whatever reason, the lock gave that reassuring ‘click’ that admission had been gained. We thought nothing of it; after all, why complain about a sticky lock when you’re living rent free?
.
As soon as Nancy left, however, the apartment sensed my vulnerability—the telephone became unreliable, the television (which boasts hundreds of channels, including international rugby, my favorite) would only give me international news, and the internet went down. ‘Fine,’ I thought. ‘I’ll just read, play Bach on the electronic keyboard, and watch TV as Al Jazeera, BBC and CNN try to convince me how exciting the Tour de France is, wait for Nancy to call and, if there’s time, maybe read.’ Back to the lock.
.
(Note: Greg is a patsy for any frustration created by his inability to manipulate simple, inanimate objects, like can openers and screw drivers. In the past, this lock problem would have turned him into a frothing, profane lunatic. Wait, isn’t that in his resume?)
.
The lock would seize up the minute I began coming up the steps. I could hear its gears linking arms and muttering, “OK, boys, scrum down and hold fast.” I was apparently the only person living in the building, since no one ever answered my door buzzings. For the first week though, the lock eventually gave in to my efforts and epithets. Inevitably, one afternoon the lock would not budge. My impotent struggles eventually got so bad that they began to attract the attention of the neighbors.
.
First to approach were the street boys. As I slumped physically and emotionally exhausted in the July heat on one of the brick shoulders of the porch, one boy after another would drop his bike on the curb and go up to the door without making eye-contact or saying a word, grab the keys that I had left dangling from the lock, pull them out, invert them and jab at the keyhole. They all thought I was an idiot who didn’t know how to put a key in right side up. One by one, they would struggle with the key, shrug, reinsert it and walk away to give the next guy chance to turn the key over and repeat the routine.
.
Next came the teenage girls, usually having to abandon younger children in their charge. They always had the courtesy to murmur a shy a greeting, then commenced heaving on the door and pressing the apartment alert buzzers before trying the key. Unsuccessful, they apologized and left. Last were the mothers, who had been observing and discussing the street theater from a distance. Once convinced that their children’s efforts had been thorough, they went into action.
.
The first time no one could force the door open, a mother descended some stairs to an adjacent building. She returned smiling, followed by a young woman who waved at me and said, “Come.” I was soaked in sweat, smelly (what’s new?) and embarrassed, so I waved and deferred. ‘I’ll just wait until the other lodger comes home,’ I thought. ‘There’s a bit of a breeze now, and some shade, so I’ll just sit here and read.’ (I always carry a book, for just this kind of emergency.)
.
The girl shrugged and went back inside. By the time I had opened my book, she was back and insistent. “Come, come,” she waved irritably. I returned the book to my satchel and followed. We passed through a few domestic back rooms and emerged into a beauty parlor (kuafur): five padded chairs facing a wall of mirrors, and a side room with two chairs and sinks. Three women were being colored/quaffed/ shampooed/manicured, etc. by two men and one girl assistant. The proprietor, a middle-aged, bleached blond in a white, tight, sleeveless top and jeans, sat smoking beneath a no smoking poster.
.
All conversation stopped when the large, defeated, sweat-stained stranger entered.
.
One of the women, having black goo swabbed unto her hair with a small brush by a small man, spoke broken English, and asked why I was there. After my answer and her translation, I handed the proprietor the phone number of the building owner, Mustafa. She dialed, connected and handed the phone to me. Mustafa spoke enough English that he could understand that my key did not work. He said he would call me back and everything would be OK. I remained in the Kuafur, reading and sweating. The goo-haired women eventually asked me why I was still there. I told her I was waiting for Mustafa to call back.
.
Mustafa did not call back. After an hour, I went outside, played with a cat and then walked around the block, back to my former perch. Another mother noticed my return, descended into the Kuafur and soon the small man who had been dabbing goo on the English-speaking woman’s head appeared with a ring of keys. His black-stained fingers immediately opened the door. He could have done this at any time. ‘Why,’ I asked myself, ‘if they had the keys all along, had I been sitting there all this time?’ It still makes no sense to me.
.
Inside, I immediately called Mustafa and told him of my frustrations. I can imagine his thought process: guest = no money for me = give him just enough service so as not to alienate the renters. He light-heartedly explained that he had misunderstood -- he thought the key problem involved getting into the apartment, not into the building. His solution was simple: tape some toilet paper over the male end of the lock so it would not engage when I left the building. I had thought of that, of course, but didn’t want run afoul of the law by leaving the building open without permission. “Thank you, Mustafa!” I said, setting down the phone. I could now go outdoors safely and get some groceries.
.
The next morning, my wad of toilet paper was still taped neatly in place, so I decided it would be a good opportunity for me to stroll around Istanbul while the temperature was still cool. No problem -- when I got back, the door swung open and everything was good. ‘Let’s do this again tomorrow,’ we said to ourselves in the royal plural. It was not to be.
.
The next morning, my wad of toilet paper had been ripped loose, dangling from the lock mechanism like an orphaned Kotex. Was this the result of deliberate action or merely an accident? I will never know. I called Mustafa but there was no answer, neither did he have an answering device. ‘What kind of landlord doesn’t receive messages?’ my mind fumed. From the moment on, I did not dare leave the building. I felt trapped, an uninvited, unwelcome prisoner of Mustafa.

Istantidbits III

.
More Turkish Delights:
.
UNSPED
A delivery service.
.
TOP MODELS
Sadly, a shop featuring remote controlled toys
.
ORGANIC TOPLESS
While I have always preferred toplessness to be organic, this is unfortunately only a fashionable clothing shop for women in Ortakoy.
.
TITIZ
North America has Hooters, but Turkey has Titiz. While Hooters has a large, varied menu, Titiz specializes in chicken, our favorite being slowly spit-roasted birds, scissor-snipped in half before being wrapped in heat-retaining aluminum/paper foil. Clearly, both franchises depend heavily upon breast meat.
.
Random Observations:
.
1. No Squirrels in Istanbul: Whether it is due to the sustained human presence here, the lack of enough large green spaces, or the millions of feral cats, I have yet to see a squirrel, despite my many hours spent reading in the Kurucesme cemetery.
.
2. T-Shirts: These are favored apparel among the younger set. What is striking is that the inscriptions are almost universally in English. The most popular include invented American colleges (Univ. of Cal. South, Texas Univ., etc., but never Notre Dame), and variations on Abercrombie and Fitch: A & Fitch, Abc. & F, A & F, Fitch, usually with dates in the 1920s. The lettering is frequently raised and frayed, to give it that "authentic" 1920s T-shirt look.
.
3. DURACAK: When you are about to reach your bus stop, you struggle your way to your feet, fighting gravity, inertia and overcrowding, and press a red button on one of the metal rails that surround the interior of the vehicle. This alerts the driver of your intention to leave the bus. A lighted panel comes on above his head, reading DURACAK, and gives him an approximation of the exit door nearest to where you pushed the button. It also lets other passengers know that they were correct in waiting for you to fight their way up to push the button.
.
Here’s my problem: “Duracak” is pronounced ‘doo-rah-jock’, so every time I push the button and the little sign lights up above the driver’s head, my brain sings, “Hit ‘doo-rah-jock,’ an’ don’t’cha come back no mo,’ no mo, hit ‘doo-rah-jock,’ an’ don’t’cha back no mo.’” ARRGGH!
.
More Fonetik Spelinj:
.
Akustik = Acoustic
Akvaryum = Aquarium
Biyoloji = Biology
Deterjan = Detergent
Dizayn = Design
Ekselans = Excellence
Etiket = Etiquette
Fisikal = Physical
Ingilizce = English
Kokteyl Sosis = Cocktail Sausage
Konferans = Conference
Konsantre = Concentrate
Lobi = Lobby
Meksika = Mexico
Milyon = Million
Pasifik = Pacific
Portekiz = Portuguese
Promosyon = Promotion
Ritim = Rhythm
Sosyal = Social

Meanderthal
.
He walks at night, solitary, senses on edge. His eyesight, dim during the daytime, is enhanced by the darkness. His occasional companion is a large neighborhood dog (male, Golden Lab-Mastiff mix) that he has named Rufus. The Meanderthal has never given Rufus anything but love. Others leave him food, but shoo him away when he comes near. When the Meanderthal is walking with Rufus and others dogs or humans approach, Rufus growls a deep, menacing warning. Meanderthal has a friend.
.
On a clear night, the Asian side of the Bosphorous looks to the Meanderthal like a huge black opal pendant viewed horizontally through a magnifying glass. The lights from the thousands of artificial light-sources behind the hills (east) create a sparkling, undulating skyline. From there to the water, the sharp colors of daytime blend into the softer hues of beige, orange and blue. Celebratory fireworks from behind the skyline add frequent, silent accents.
.
The Bosphorous Bridge offers a free light-show every night. It is a huge suspension bridge, with an aerodynamic deck hanging on zigzag steel cables. Upon completion in 1973, it was the world’s longest suspension bridge outside the U.S.A. The pillars and all the cables are covered with alternating lights in primary colors. Therefore, the colors can be manipulated to blend into secondary and tertiary colors. The lights can also be flashed or tiled in different sequences, vertically, horizontally, diagonally, or in waves that change color several times in differing combinations of color and direction. All this takes place while vehicles are moving over the bridge at speed. If he were driving, the Meanderthal would not survive due to acute artistic distraction.
.
Rufus visits Meanderthal during the daytime, when he is reading in the cemetery. For such a large dog, Rufus moves very quietly, and frequently surprises Meanderthal when he suddenly appears on a grave above him, snuffling a moist welcome. Meanderthal puts down his book (he’s been rereading Tolstoy's "War and Peace") and vigorously scratches Rufus under the chin. If Meandertahl returns to his book before Rufus feels he’s had enough scratching, he lets Meanderthal know by softly whining and nudging his shoulder with drool. Rufus is never refused more attention.
.
Meanderthal has moved to another temporary shelter, away from his favorite haunts. He still walks at night, but without the black opal pendant, the lighted bridge and, especially, without Rufus.

The Floating Island

.
Almost directly below our hilltop vantage point is a floating island, a large, rectangular, commercial platform anchored to the shale floor of the Bosphorous. This artificial island was constructed by an organization supporting a local, wealthy professional football team, Galatasaray (a compound word with five "A"s!). Galata* is a district of Istanbul on the north-eastern tip of the Golden Horn, originally a Genoese enclave. Saray is the Turkish word for "palace."
.
The floating Galata Palace features four restaurants, a disco (with lights that flash so intensely that I worry for the epileptics), and an Olympic-sized swimming pool (empty in winter, illuminated with blue lights in summer; although I have seen people jogging around the decks, I have never seen anyone swimming in the pool). There must be all sorts of things I cannot see from my perch on the cliffs above. Maybe the Divine Ms. N. and I will make a visit before we move to Ulus (a district closer to the school) in July. All we have to do is make a reservation at one of the restaurants, walk down to the water, climb aboard one of the constantly circling shuttle boats, step aboard the Palace, announce our restaurant reservations (pretending to be tourists), then find unobtrusive reasons to go exploring. (I’m very good at doing this sort of thing very badly, but I apologize and blush well, and have yet to be arrested.) We’ll see ...
.
Now that summer has arrived, the Galata Palace has become the host to frequent, annoyingly loud outdoor concerts. Hundreds of chairs are set up on the Asian side of the floating platform. A stage is constructed during the day and taken down the next morning (unless there is another cacophonausea event scheduled for the following evening). The stage, situated at the southern end of the platform, consists of three walls mounted with huge video screens that show ... what? Flashes of live performers? Videos from a simultaneous off-platform concert? I don’t care ...
.
So many people attend these events that entrepreneurs consider it worth the expense to send out illuminated billboards aboard small motor boats. These craft feature brightly lit signs that scroll up and down with alternating advertisements. I cannot see what they are peddling, but it’s a good guess that chocolate is in there somewhere.
.
.
*Being Christians, the citizens of Galata unsuccessfully tried to protect Constantinople during the siege of 1453 by stretching a heavy metal chain across the mouth of the Horn, preventing the Ottoman navy from entering this vital estuary. The chain worked for the simple reason that the Genoese ships, designed for deep waters and wind power, rose much higher above the water than the Turkish vessels. The Turkish boats had sails but depended more upon oar power (provided by slaves who were chained to their benches). So whenever the Turks approached the chain, the Genoese would rain down a hail of arrows on them that would thwart the attack. This tactic worked until Sultan Mehmet Fatih (Mehmet the Conqueror) ordered that the Turkish boats be hauled overland and refloated in the Golden Horn at its brackish western end. After that, Galata was doomed, the large sailing vessels trapped by their own chain. Pieces of the chain can still be found (and touched) at different museum sites around the city.

How to Park a Boat Along the Bosphorous

.
Nancy and I have lived in a cozy apartment in a cliff-top hamlet (sans ham) above the Bosphorous for almost nine months now, and we have watched many boats and ships slip beneath us in the world’s most famous trans-continental waterway. We have crossed above the channel on its two great bridges many times (always slowly -- traffic is horrible here), and churned over its turbulent surface aboard ferries.
.
In addition, I frequently walk along the European shoreline between the bridges, and have even ventured into the Sea of Marmara on an unplanned visit to the Prince’s Islands. Based upon these observations, I am now prepared to declare that there exists no such thing as a marina along the Bosphorous between the second bridge and the Sea of Marmara. FACT: boats along the Bosphorous must park perpendicularly.
.
Huge vessels such as international tour ships (those gigantic, floating castles that, like bloated seafaring fairy godmothers, appear and disappear in the night) are allowed to sidle up to the shore and park in a parallel fashion. Also, the many state-run ferries and some gigantic yachts are permitted to park parallel to the concrete shores for two reasons: 1) If they parked perpendicularly, they would jut out too far into the Bosphorous and endanger other water traffic; and 2) I don’t know, but I’m sure a lot of money is involved.
.
Boat Parking Procedures
.
1) Small Boats (mostly independent fishers, but some serve as private water taxis; composition -- wood with cabin; crew, 1-2)
.
Slowly approach the concrete shoreline until the bow makes a soft contact. Leave the motor running and the rudder straight. Carefully climb off the boat and tie it to the shore using the ropes you left there near the ancient, rusted cleats jutting from the concrete. Make sure your boat has a few sealed plastic bottles almost full of filthy brown water hanging from both sides; this will avoid lateral damage from the other small boats next to which you have parked when the winds increase. Climb back aboard, turn off your motor and then disembark the vessel, leaving it to the stasis of barnacle growth, mold, wood rot, and the curious currents above (carrying the cormorants and gulls), and below (carrying the jellyfish and plastic pollution).
.
2) Medium to large-sized boats (almost always for rent from waterside agencies) or privately-owned motor launches, but including many multilevel, double-masted sailing vessels with bars on every deck, flat-screen TVs, and cheerfully seating more than the law permits; crew size is determined by the number of bars/renters.
.
The following scenario takes place at night:
.
Skipper: Turn on both forward and rear spotlights. (In the really cool boats, the rear lights include submerged black-lights, operating whenever the boat is ‘on.’ When such a boat is stationary, the jellyfish make a spectacular, southbound, luminescent parade of palpitating parachutes.) Slowly approach the rented buoy assigned to your parking slot. (The buoy is a metal, brightly painted, cone-shaped bobber larger than a 50-gallon oil barrel anchored to the floor of the Bosphorous by a thick metal chain).
.
Deck Hand: Stand poised at the prow wielding a long pole with a hook at the end. Once the buoy is in sight, alert the Skipper.
.
Skipper: At the Deck Hand’s call, shift the engine into neutral gear.
.
Deck Hand: Carefully lunge for the clasp until you snag the buoy. This may take several passes, considering the winds and currents. Eventually attach the bow rope to the buoy. Remove the hook from the buoy clasp and replace the pole to its secured position.
.
Skipper: Carefully begin backing the vessel toward your rented niche, pulling up the slack buoy rope.
.
Deck Hand: Scamper aft, heaving the large, attached plastic bumpers overboard on one side. Wait until the boat is close enough to the shore for you to leap off safely. Jump ashore. Attach the stern ropes to the shore clamps. Jump back aboard before the Skipper shifts forward.
.
Skipper: Shift forward and tighten the stern ropes.
.
Deck Hand: Scurry forward, heaving the bumpers overboard on the other side, then pull in the slack from the bow rope.
.
Skipper: Shift into reverse and tighten the bow rope.
.
Deck Hand: Scamper back and tighten the stern ropes.
.
Skipper and Hand: Repeat this procedure until the boat is securely triangulated between the buoy and the shore clamps.
.
Deck Hand: Lower the gangway.
.
Skipper: Turn off the engines, but leave the black-lights on so the departing guests can enjoy the jellyfish parade passing between the boat and the concrete shore.
.
Skipper and Hand: After the guests have left the vessel, drink raki and smoke cigarettes. Don’t forget to turn off the black-lights.

Istantidbits II

.
Two interesting Turkish products I have encountered:
.
1. RASH men’s briefs
2. DROP toilet paper
.
During busy traffic times, sidewalk peddlers will venture into the stalled traffic lanes, hawking their products: roses, bottled water, facial tissue, candy, etc. My favorite was a man I saw last summer while I was still living on the Asian side. He was selling pigeons. The birds were contained in a large cage balanced atop his head. Above that were strapped small cages for the individual birds, should he find an interested buyer. I could not see what sort of cage liner, if any, protected his head.
.
We live at a bus terminus, and our school is at another terminus. This is very convenient, because we do not need to watch for our stop. We just wait until we get to the end, which is very comforting in a land where you cannot ask a question because you will not understand the answer.
.
There is a very strict anti-smoking campaign in Turkey. According to the ubiquitous posters, anyone caught smoking indoors will be fined 67 TL (Turkish Lira). Caught by whom? The cigarette police? (My proposed uniform: red shoes, long grey socks, white Capri pants, jacket and gloves, tall beige hat with lipstick stain.) Why 67 TL? Why not 65 or 70? My guess is inconvenience. There are no 1 TL bills, only heavy 1 TL coins. Once fined, the shamed and repentant offender must now lug around a pocket full of heavy change. Boy, that’d make me think twice before I smoked indoors again!
.
Anyway, the bus drivers, having been denied their nicotine fix for the duration of their route, will start smoking one or two stops before the end of the line, depending upon the number of people still on the vehicle. Why not? There are only a few civilians left on the bus, and the driver can easily detect a cigarette cop by his distinctive uniform. So, it’s light up time! My advice: don’t sit behind the rider when the horse can smell the barn.
.
More Fonetik Spelinj:
.
Advantage = Avataj
Amateur = Amatö
Auto coach = Otokoç
Barrier = Baryer
Buffet = Büfe
Carriage = Karaj
Clarinet = Klarnet
Energy = Enerji
Gooey = Guy
Guarantee = Garanti
Gymnastic = Jimnastik
League = Lig
Lilac = Laylak
Maneuver = Manevra
Maniac = Manyak
Off side = Ofsayt
Option = Opsyon
Porcelain = Porselen
Season = Sezon
Social = Sosyal
Technology = Teknoloji

Upon Seeing "Avatar" Twice

.
Soon after it appeared in Turkish theaters, Nancy and I attended a screening of the motion picture Avatar. I don’t know if our experience represented the norm for all movie houses here, but I want to share our first movie experience in Turkey, another slice of the unique pie that makes this place so intriguing. Here is your guided tour:
.
First, you must find a movie theater. Most large shopping malls feature small cineplexes, but some movie houses can be found in older areas that cater to the evening crowd. The former are easy to find, the latter not as easy. We chose the latter, funkier variety.
.
You will enter the theater through a narrow passaji (corridor); above the entrance will be a small, badly illuminated marquee announcing the films currently showing. You will buy a ticket for an assigned seat, as one might expect for a concert hall or opera house. You can expect to wait in a small gathering space with no concessions. Most ticket holders will choose to wait outside, where they can smoke. When the previous audience has exited the theater, you will be allowed in to find your seat. Ushers will guide you. (Since this was a blockbuster film, if you got a bad seat, too bad; every seat had a butt in it.) The screen curtain will open and the film will begin at the advertised time.
.
Exactly 90 minutes later, no matter what is happening on the screen, the film will suddenly stop without warning. The house lights will come up, the curtain will close, and the majority of the audience will arise and leave the theater to pee, check their phones for text messages, but mostly to go outside and have a smoke. Meanwhile, tray-bearing vendors will ply the aisles, selling candy bars, gum, stale, unsalted popcorn, room temperature cans of soda, hot tea, and bottled water.
.
After a certain interval, the house lights will dim, the screen will re-open and the movie (backed up a few frames to help the viewer get reoriented) will resume without notice, whether the audience has returned or not. Hence, there will be a parade of late-returners reeking of smoke, leaving a muttered "pardon" trail as they step on your toes while blocking your view of the screen.
.
At the end of the film, as soon as the credits and digitally-manipulated orchestral postlude begins, the screen will go black and the audience will begin to exit. Want to know who wrote, composed, directed, etc.? Too bad: time to hit the road, Jack. You will leave through an exit different from where you entered. You will emerge on a back street behind the theater and follow the crowd (remember, there is safety in numbers, ask any schooling fish) to the nearest main thoroughfare. You will squeeze past people seated at tables along the sidewalk eating dinner, drinking and smoking, playing backgammon, etc.
.
We attended the same film in Germany two weeks later, this time wearing those uncomfortable 3D plastic eye abominations. Major differences: a huge theater clearly set aside for its sole purpose, giant neon marquees, rows of concession booths (including a variety of beers), sit where you like, small audience, no intermission, and full credits at the end.
.
I preferred the Turkish experience.

Upon Being Ozzified

.
Last week, Nancy and I returned to Istanbul from Kansas. In the meantime, we spent a lot of time in Munchkinland, a haunted forest, a witch’s castle, and in the Emerald City (not Seattle). In other words, we were involved in the production of two performances of The Wizard of Oz, with Nancy as pianist, and me as music director. The process began in September and ended April 8. As in any large-scale musical production, staging Oz involved many challenges.
.
To begin with, the musical was offered as one of many Friday afternoon activities for the MEF students, such as art, cooking, football, etc. In other words, the students chose to be in the show, rather than being chosen to be in the show. Hence, auditions took place after the talent pool had selected the directors, not vice versa.
.
Next, most of the cast do not speak English at home. They are all between grades 6-9, and only two of them had ever performed on stage before. Enjoy the variety of names of some of the characters (in order of appearance, of course): Dorothy (Aakriti), Aunty Em (Madihah), Uncle Henry (Andrew), Glinda (Karlina), Wicked Witch (Suzan), Scarecrow (Selin), Tin Man (Cemre), Lion (Melina), Oz (Atif), Coroner (Leonie); Barrister (Pranjal). The company included students with passports* from America, Azerbaijan, England, Germany, Holland, India, Italy, Korea, Pakistan, Russia and Spain.
.
The scripts did not arrive until after rehearsals had begun. Incredibly, they were for a Christmas version (Elfkins instead of Munchkins, Good Witch of the North Pole, etc.) The idiocy needed to send an Xmas Oz to a Muslim country is astounding! Bravo! Let’s all bump chests and high-five the idiots. Therefore, the cast did not have correct scripts (compliments of Michael Muzatko), until mid-October, when Nancy returned from the states following her father’s funeral.
.
Rehearsals usually took place in the performance site, the MEF OkullarI (schools) Auditorium every Friday afternoon from 1:00-2:30. The auditorium is a beautiful wood-paneled, cushion-seated facility, comfortably seating 600. It features a deep stage with a partition that conceals the backstage entryway, a well-placed light and sound booth, a large, fixed projection screen (stage left, next to the booth), a larger retractable screen, stage center, and spot lights located in the ample center balcony.
.
However, both screens are serviced by only one projector, which must be adjusted by hand atop an unsteady ladder propped between the seats. Since there are no hanging mics, only one head-mic designed for singers, and since stand mics in front of the stage are unsightly and prone to being knocked over, the only way to communicate between backstage and the sound booth is via walkie-talkie. In addition, the sound engineer must keep his window open be able to hear the actors. Hence, whenever he needs to communicate with the stage manager, the audience hears the walkie-talkie squawk on and off, and the sound of voices above the actors. Also, there is a giant flag of Ataturk next to the sound booth, so that every time one’s attention is drawn away from the stage by the sound of voices, one gets to enjoy Ataturk’s scrutinizing gaze.
.
The stage is very deep, with no wings nor flys. Hence, all set changes have to be done manually by a crew of six slaves wearing black. There is no room backstage to place the various props and sets, so they are left onstage outside of the central action. For example, the Wizard’s booth, in action, was by necessity positioned beside the gate to Oz, complete with the “Bell out of Order” sign.
.
In addition, we lost several rehearsals, three due to weather-related school closures (snow and predicted floods), others to unpredictable school-related conflicts. Some history: the auditorium is shared between the National and the International schools, separate entities sharing common grounds. The National School was created first, so they frequently use the Auditorium without notifying the International School of their intentions. On several occasions, we had to rehearse in the foyer because the stage was taken.
.
The Witch stole the show. Since she has a good singing voice, it seemed a shame to me for her not to able to use it just because the play did not give her a song. So I wrote her one, to the tune of “If I Only Had A Brain.”
.
I’d be vile and I’d be vicious,
My evil so malicious,
My mission—to abuse.
I would need no rhyme nor reason
To be mean in ev’ry season,
If I only had the shoes.
.
If I had the ruby slippers,
Who’d remember Jack the Ripper?
Ghengis Khan would sing the blues.
I could be another Nero
Burning Rome (he’s my hero!),
But I gotta get the shoes.
.
Making me a tragedy
For all humanity.
They would kneel and bow and beg me,
“Please, no more!”
Then I’d sniff,
And slam the door.
.
By the Winkies I am hated,
So I keep them all sedated.
They got nothin’ left to lose.
There’ll be chaos, there’ll be mayhem.
All my whims? You must obey ‘em,
Once I get those ruby shoes!
.
I was concerned throughout the rehearsal process: rehearsals were too short and too far apart, and several had been canceled or disrupted. As show time drew near, lines were still being dropped, projection was still weak, there were technical goofs, etc. Just what a sensible person would expect of a middle school production, right? In retrospect, I caused myself a lot of lost sleep over nothing. (Ding-dong, the brain was dead. Which old brain? Perfection brain!) The show went well, parents and administrators were happy, and kids’ lives were changed.
.
After all, what do you remember about middle school? The first day, the cool/awful teachers, the victories and humiliations, the first kiss. But most of all, for those of us who were lucky enough ... the first time on stage!
.
For the few of you who have been so burdened by the vicissitudes of life that you may not know one the most famous stories of modern times, here is my plot synopsis from the program:
.
The story begins on the Gayle family farm in the center of the U.S.A., rural Kansas. Dorothy, an orphan, lives with her Aunt Emily and Uncle Henry, and three farm hands, Hickory, Hunk and Zeke, all of whom she loves dearly. Her best friend is her dog, Toto.
.
Act One
.
Dorothy dashes home after having saved Toto from Miss Gultch, an influential neighbor. Dorothy tries to tell everyone what happened, but they are too busy to notice. Aunty Em finally tells Dorothy to find herself a place where she won’t get into trouble. Dorothy walks away and dreams about some place where there isn’t any trouble.
.
Miss Gultch arrives at the farm and produces an official document stating that Toto must be destroyed. The Gayles reluctantly agree. Dorothy tries to escape with Toto, but is stopped by the farm hands. Miss Gultch takes Toto and leaves. Dorothy tells everyone she hates them and never wants to see them again. Suddenly, Toto returns and Dorothy decides to run away with him.
.
She stumbles upon Professor Marvel, a phony magician who reads her fortune and kind-heartedly tricks her into wanting to return home. As Dorothy leaves, a powerful storm develops. Back at the farm, everyone is desperately preparing for an oncoming tornado. Dorothy is nowhere to be found. After they all dash into the storm cellar, Dorothy appears and is immediately swept up by the tornado, losing consciousness.
.
Dorothy “awakes” in vividly colorful Muchkinland, where she is greeted by Glinda, Good Witch of the North, and the Munchkins. Dorothy is celebrated by the Munchkins because her house fell on the Wicked Witch of the East. The celebration is cut short by the arrival of the Wicked Witch of the West who, upon realizing that her sister is dead, seeks to obtain the powerful ruby slippers. Glinda, expecting this, transfers the slippers to Dorothy’s feet. The frustrated Witch threatens Dorothy and exits.
.
Dorothy’s sole desire is to return to Kansas. Glinda and the Munchkins direct her to the Yellow Brick Road which will lead her to the Wizard, for only he has the power to help her get home. Dorothy and Toto depart and soon encounter a Scarecrow who speaks, mocking crows and talking apple trees. After tricking the trees into giving up their apples, Scarecrow joins Dorothy on her quest, hoping that the Wizard will give him a brain.
.
The duo discover Tin Man, who joins them in search of a heart. The Witch reappears, attacks Scarecrow with a fireball, and warns him and Tin Man not to assist Dorothy. Undaunted, the trio venture into a dark forest where they meet the Cowardly Lion, who joins them in search of courage.
.
The Witch again attempts to stop them by placing a field of poisoned poppies in their path. Dorothy, Toto and the Lion succumb to the poison, and Tin Man is frozen in grief. Scarecrow’s cries for help are answered by Glinda, who sends snow to counter the effects of the poppies. Act One ends with the four friends skipping off to Oz.
.
Act Two
.
Dorothy and friends arrive at the gates of the Emerald City, where they are met by a guard (the Wizard in disguise), who refuses them entrance. Once informed that Dorothy is wearing the ruby slippers, the companions are welcomed in and entertained by the Ozians. The celebrations are interrupted by the Witch flying above.
.
Dorothy asks to meet the Wizard and, after some delays, she and her companions stand before the “great and powerful” Oz. The Wizard agrees to answer their requests, but only after they bring him the Wicked Witch’s broomstick. They are aghast, but have no choice but to agree.
Meanwhile, the Witch has sent her flying monkeys to capture Dorothy. They intercept the companions in the Haunted Forest, and Dorothy is carried away to the Witch’s castle. Her friends sneak into the castle and are about to rescue her when they are cornered by the Witch and her armed Winkies. When the Witch tries to set Scarecrow on fire, Dorothy throws a bucket of water in his defense. The water douses the Witch and she melts. The Winkies thank Dorothy for setting them free from the Witch’s spell, and happily offer her the broomstick.
.
Back in the Emerald City, the Wizard again refuses to meet the companions’ requests. After Toto discovers that Oz is really only a humbug manipulating things from behind a curtain, Scarecrow, Tin Man and Lion are granted their desires. Dorothy will have to return to Kansas in the Wizard’s balloon. Before she can climb aboard, however, the balloon carries Oz away and Dorothy is left behind. She is bereft.
.
Glinda reappears, asks Dorothy what she has learned, and tells her that she could have returned home anytime, but that she would not have believed it was so simple. Dorothy bids her friends goodbye, and returns with Toto to Kansas murmuring “There’s no place like home.”
.
.
* To be accepted into MEF International School, a student must have a passport from outside Turkey.

Upon Attending a Christian Men’s Breakfast in Istanbul

.
It wasn’t my first time. I knew the ordeals and rewards that would await me:

I would have to jump out of bed Saturday morning by 8am, grab my umbrella (just in case), throw a coat over a t-shirt and jeans, and rush (stagger-jump-slip) downhill to catch an infrequent bus.

The downhill journey would involve negotiating several steep, serpentine alleys and ancient, uneven cobblestone stairways. My knees would ache. I would pass by a 2000 year old well that is buried under a Greek orthodox church. (Our district derives its name from this well: Kurucesme, meaning ‘dry well.’ Legend has it that St. John visited the dry well and it started flowing again. Devout pilgrims once traveled great, dangerous distances to visit the well, seeking succor for their ailments and the blessings of the saint; now, people fill up their plastic water bottles.)

I would have to try to stay awake in an overheated bus packed with people who felt that the moderate outside temperature was so frigid that they needed to keep the few window slats closed while they tightened the woolen scarves around their necks.

(Side note: Turks appear to loathe any temperature less than warm. When it gets cool enough to produce frosty breath, they will wear ski gloves and clutch cloths to their faces to protect their mouths and noses from the coolness. While waiting for a bus, they will huddle together, stocking caps, earmuffs and fleece-lined hoods pulled tightly around their heads, making smoking and talking on cell phones awkward.)

I would be jolted awake when the bus reached its terminus, Taksim. I would know I had reached Taksim because the wall of bodies that had been holding me upright would begin to yield. I would groggily limp down to the asphalt. I would pull down the brim of my old-fashioned wool hat, stuff my hands into the pockets of my scruffy,flaking leather jacket, then, dodging between the honk-happy cars and buses, cross several lanes of busy traffic, to reach Taksim center.

(Side Note: Taksim is Istanbul’s international center. It is where all the significant political protests take place. I frequently walk past rows of policemen wearing protective armor, holding automatic weapons, standing in front of large, black vans equipped with bulletproof glass and water cannons. I have even been caught in the ‘bow wave’ of a protest march, unable to find safety until I ducked down a side alley.)

I would now have the choice of either walking briskly down Istiklal Caddesi, a wide, tourist and hawker-heavy street, or catch the funky little tram. If I were to walk, I would march down the middle of the street, inside the tram tracks, because the tourists tend to walk along the sides, looking into shop windows. Those tourists looking up would be easy to spot ahead and dodge. The ones who would suddenly stop to peer into a shop or down a pasaji (passage) would be they that I run into. I would reach my destination within 15 minutes. If I were to take the tram, I would step back in time to the 1920’s, and rattle and clang down the street, while teens would run alongside and hitch free rides until the conductor shooed them off.

Once I reached Union Han, the building where the meetings occur, I would pass through a huge, heavy, black wrought-iron gate, walk down a narrow passageway, climb up some marble steps, pass through a tall wooden doorway and begin climbing five steep sets of stairs. The building dates from the 1880’s, so there is no elevator. (But then, my school dates from the 1990’s and it also has no elevators. I have to climb up exactly 107 steps to get to my classroom, a journey I make at least twice per school day, usually more like six times daily.) At last, winded, I would reach the meeting.

The gathering would involve about a dozen men of all ages. Saturday’s meeting had two Americans, a Canadian, a Namibian, a South African, a Hollander, an Australian, among others I did not meet. Breakfast is prepared by different guys, and usually features some form of that rare delicacy in Turkey, pork. (Fellowship be damned -- I’m there for the meat!) Then a facilitator would lead the meeting/discussion. In all, the whole thing would last about an hour and a half.

Then I would walk out onto the roof terrace and be treated to one of the best views in Istanbul. I would be looking southward. Directly below me would be the Galata Tower, and beyond that the Golden Horn. To the east I could watch the waters of the Bosphorus flow into the Sea of Marmara. Across the water would lie Asia and the Princes Islands. On the European side would rise the opulent Topkapi Palace complex. Scanning west, there would be the magnificent domes and minarets of Hagia Sophia and the huge Blue, Suleiman and New mosques. Dozens of other mosques and minarets would punctuate the skyline. There would be a crisp February breeze, and I would be very happy to be alive in this place at this moment.

Istantidbits

.
Tap Water: Wash body and foods with it, brush your teeth with it, don’t drink it before boiling it. Even the Turks say this. So bottled water is the norm. It can be purchased in handy bottles everywhere, in larger bottles requiring handles in any grocery shop, or you can have a large container (requiring a siphon) delivered. Water sellers frequently drive through our neighborhood, stopping and walking above the “under dwellings” (explanation below), shouting their presence. An older man does the driving and shouting; a younger man carries the heavy jugs up/down the road/steps/path. I once saw a guy driving a moped deftly deliver two jugs, one under his feet, one on his lap.

Under Dwellings: We live in an economically diverse neighborhood. Luxury car owners park their vehicles on the roads and sidewalks above tin-roofed hovels that squat below street level. I daily walk above or alongside some family’s chimney. The roofs consist mostly of rusty, corrugated metal held in place by irregularly shaped blocks of concrete, damaged bricks, broken roof tiles, even cast off toilet fixtures. Broken spaces are covered with tarps, or blankets draped over castoff wood planks. Cautious cats patrol these zones.

Fish Shops: These are small, street-side, open-air shops that offer local fish of sizes from sardines to salmon in iced displays. There are some fish on display that I have never seen in an aquarium, especially a purple flounder-like creature usually displayed bottom out—pink with irregular pimple/nipple-like growths: which parts are edible? The fish are hosed down regularly with the water that must not be drunk. Pedestrians with sensitive olfactory organs are aware of the fish shops well before they reach them.

Onions and Peppers: These are real, not the pale imitations to which North Americans have become accustomed. The onions look the same, but are smaller, pungent, powerful and delicious. Comparing an average American onion to a Turkish onion is like saying that the warm brown liquid they serve you in church is coffee. Peppers come in three varieties: light-green or dark-red bells; light-green/dark-red, long, fat peppers that twist in multitudinous ways; and greener, redder, shorter, thinner twisters. The darker the shade, the more palpable the pungency.

Staring: Because I am obviously not Turkish -- Slavic featured, taller than most, gray-haired, white-bearded, and a male wearing clothes that color-match -- sometimes get stared at. Solution: stare back. They buckle.

Street Cleaners: There are three distinct groups of street cleaners: the sweepers, the pickers and the carters. The Sweepers are the only official street cleaners. They wear uniforms: black work coats and pants with light blue shoulders and arm bands. They are equipped with rough, long-bristled brooms and large, long-handled plastic scoop-buckets. They work in pairs down the sidewalks, sweeping up candy wrappers, cigarette butts and dog shit. They are a team, "litterally." Pickers work alone, each hauling a huge bag made of tough, knitted plastic fibers, carried on a two-handled, two-wheeled contrivance that can be either pushed or pulled. They are pushed only on the rare flat surfaces, for obvious reasons: d’y’ever try to push something heavy and awkward uphill? Pickers work in the streets, filling their giant bags with larger litter, especially plastic and cardboard. They periodically gather and separate the booty into stuff that can be recycled (there is no official recycling in Istanbul because these guys do the duty). The Carters push a flat-bedded, three-wheeled cart, and roam both sidewalks and streets looking for cast-off junk, such as kitchen and bathroom fixtures, microwave ovens, wheel-less bicycles, automobile fenders, broken TVs, wind-mangled umbrellas, etc.

Students: I have students whose lands of origin are: Italy, Norway, Korea, India, Spain, Germany, America, Azerbaijan, Canada, Finland, Russia, Georgia, Sweden, Holland, Indonesia, Pakistan, Ukraine and Greece. I have usually been able to learn student names quickly. In an international school, however, this has been a challenge. Here are some of my students’ names:

Aakriti (Ah-kree-tee), Ad (Add), Ada (Ah-da), Ahmed (Ah-[German "ch"]-med), Alejandro (Ah-leh-hon-dro), Alessandra, Ali, Aliaskar, Anar (Ah-nar), Andhika (Ahn-dee-ka), Andreas, Atif (Ah-teef), Aycan (Eye-jon), Aylin (Eye-lin), Behrouz (Be[ch]-rooz), Bhoomika (Boo-mee-ka), Can (John), Cemre (Jem-ray), Diego, Eda (Eh-da), Emil (Eh-meel), Fabio, Ferit (Feh-reet), Fuzuli, Gal (Gahl), Giorgi (Ghee-or-ghee), Hamza, Hanze, Hee-Doh, Ilaya (Ee-lye-uh), Ishaan (Ee-shawn), Jacob (Yah-kobe), Jens (Yenz), Ji-Wan, Ji-Wu, Kayhan (Kai-hahn), Kaylee (Kai-lee), Laurits, Leonardo, Mahdihah, Mario, Melina, Mert (Mairt), Meryem, Muhammet (Moo- [ch]ah-met), Mustafa, Natia (Nah-tee-ah), Nigar (Nee-gar), Olga (Ol-ya), Olli (Oh-lee), Pietro, Pranjal (Prawn-jahl), Qubaa (Koo-ba), Qurbannali (Koor-ba-nah-lee), Rashad, Rasul (Rah-sool), Riccardo, Samir, Samira, Sang-Wu, Scherzade (Share-zod), Selin (Seh-leen), Semre (Sem-ray), Serge (Sairj), Serin (Serene), Serra (Sarah), Seung-Eon (Sin-On!), Shahan (Sha-hahn), Simin (Sih-meen), Tristan (Tree-stahn), Umut (Oo-moot), Yannik (Yon-nik), Yonca (Yong-jia), Yosun (Yoh-soon), Zuzha (Zoo-zha).

.

The Birds of Kurucesme

.
We live in a large district on the European side of Istanbul called Besictas (Besh-ik-tosh), in a neighborhood called Kurucesme (Koo-roo-chesh-may), which sits atop a steep cliff situated between the two great Bosphorous bridges. Our apartment is near a barely-protected, panoramic precipice hundreds of feet above the water. The view includes the lights of Asia across the strait, the huge bridges to north and south, constant international freighter ships and tankers passing north in the morning and south after noon, and busy waterfront traffic below.

Except for rare stagnant periods (during which the neighborhood reeks of coal and wood smoke), the air is in brisk motion, coursing from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara and back, sweeping forcefully up the cliff-face from the water. I frequently stand gazing at the Bosphorous for motionless periods, meditating on “Be still, and know that I am God,” watching and listening to the birds. Though the spectacle I am about to describe is in black-and-white, the choreography is endlessly fascinating.

Gulls: Upon this reliable tide of Bosphorous winds glide the seagulls, their stiff, perfectly aerodynamic wings motionless. Their heads and eyes are constantly in motion, however, scanning for opportunities to eat. The gulls generally circle from north to south along the rim of the cliff in an oblong loop, diving down to inspect the waterfront, then sweeping swiftly up to soar past my vantage point -- we meet eyes, they glide past and dive again. Others fly against the wind, flapping to maintain position, but moving slower; these gulls are able to see better and attack the scrums that occur around food sources along the hillside and waterfront. The males are white with gray-black accents; the females are smaller and have mottled brown camouflage.

Crows: The crows look different from those in the Americas. They are mostly black, but with gray vests that cover the breast and back. The crows of Istanbul are ubiquitous, sound similar, and act alike. They are therefore just as annoying to the humans they depend upon for survival as they are anywhere. Along the cliffs of Kurucesme, the crows are able to soar with the wind for short distances, but their shorter wings and softer feathers require more motion for them to remain aloft. They therefore flap a lot more than the gulls but have better mobility. When an eating opportunity arises on shore, the crows always get there before the gulls.

While the gulls tend to congregate in areas of opportunity, the crows are solitary opportunists. When they see another crow perched on a promising vantage point, they will bluster in and chase it off, only to be chased away moments later by another crow. Promising vantage points are seldom occupied by the same crow for very long. The gulls are more civil about positioning. When one gull sees another gull standing on the corner, watching all the gulls go by, he will land, do some head bobbing, and sidle toward the desired spot. The first gull will usually acquiesce and waddle or fly away. Sometimes they will squabble, but the second gull usually prevails. Moral: the early bird may get the worm, but the second gull gets the perch.

Despite all the competition, there is one time when these two clans cooperate, and that is when a raptor is present. The raptors usually circle high above the gulls’ and crows’ cruising range, but when they drop down low enough, they are under immediate arial assault. The gulls and crows join forces to relentlessly attack from above (they’re not stupid; they know the enemy’s beak and talons are on the bottom side) in an improvised synchronization that is thrilling to watch: single swoops, tandem inter/intra-species engagements, mass assaults. Meanwhile, the falcon occasionally flinches, but patiently continues its solitary hunt. Eventually, it will tire of the pestering and ascend to calmer skies.

I will write another time about the other birds I watch here, the pigeons, sparrows, starlings, cormorants, a beautiful jay-like bird I saw for the first time yesterday, and (my favorite) the parrots.

Real Snowmen Have Three Balls

.
The outlook was not optimistic. Dusseldorf Flughafen, Germany’s third largest airport, was closed due to bad snow and ice conditions; incoming flights were intermittent, outgoing flights were cancelled. This was the night before our flight plans, made months before, assured us that we would be in Essen for Christmas. Bummer.

Next morning, after arguing about what/not to take and how to pack it (a ritual Nancy and I have shared throughout our international adventures, extending back to before we were even married), we awaited a taxi at the top of our apartment driveway. As I struggled up the slope pulling all the heavy stuff, Nancy, astride the crest of the hill, framed in the Islamic mist like a hooded artic goddess in purple, raised a daintily gloved hand and, ever so gently, cupped a tiny snowflake.

.

"A snowflake?" I thought. "If it’s snowing in Istanbul, what the hell’s awaiting us in northwestern Germany?"

Snow-laden, horizontal surfaces awaited us. The evenly regimented highways and roads were clear, but the uniform sidewalks, steps and curbs were treacherous. The snow, however, was of the right variety for creating snowballs and snowmen. I made a snowball and looked around for an appropriate target. There it stood, a snowman! But he only had two balls. He looked sad, dwarfish, deflated. I empathized. I dropped the snowball and walked up the evenly spaced, similarly shaped steps to our host’s home.

Something felt different, and I soon realized what it was: Predictability. With a little scrutiny, I could figure out what the signs meant; I could walk at a hasty tempo, letting my feet fall without having to look down in case I was about to step into a hole or onto a sleeping dog. I had become accustomed to the irregularity of life here in Istanbul. The quirky had become the norm. To my shock and dismay, Germany was boring.

Then there was Bach. In English speaking countries, the holiday season is wreathed in performances of Handel’s Messiah, the composer’s most famous and least typical oratorio, never intended to be performed outside of Lent. In German speaking countries, Bach’s Weihnachts Oratorium (Christmas Oratorio) is the normatorium. Dennis (bass), Margaret (alto), Nancy (soprano) and I (tenor) formed a complete quartet, so we muscled our way into the center of the chorus of 300 or so and sat together at the internal corners of each section.

Bach’s opus is not a real oratorio, consisting instead of six cantatas intended to be performed on feast days between Christmas and Epiphany. We sang cantatas I (Christmas), IV (New Year) and VI (Epiphany), with an excellent orchestra and soloists. The audience was seated around and among the chorus. Some even stood up with us when we arose to sing. Everybody either brought their own score or ‘rented’ one: a deposit was paid, to be refunded at the return of the score. “Jauchzet, frohlochet; erschallet Ihr Lieder” ("Shout" or "rejoice," "make merry" or "be happy;" "sound forth your songs" or "resound in song," whatever). Whatever, it was a spiritual, cathartic experience, singing great music with dear friends in a crowd that loved, knew and could perform Bach’s brilliant music.