tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61326920756247980142024-02-20T08:35:07.491-08:00IstanbulletsA literal goes a long wayVancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-86345419061457113752011-06-26T10:05:00.000-07:002011-06-26T10:09:43.386-07:00Upon My Last Visit to Arikan Ranch<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I went to the Ranch twice more, both times as a chaperone for a free day for the middle schoolers who chose that activity. During the last week of classes at MEF, there are no classes. Students choose activities and field trips. So on Tuesday, I was among the teachers overseeing a football tournament in the morning, and a swimming tournament in the afternoon. The football tournament consisted of mixed-gender teams that played in a gym on a basketball court. Each team had five players. There were no off-sides, and balls could be played off of the walls. It is much more exhausting than regular soccer, because there is seldom a time when the ball is not close to one of the four forwards. Tired players would switch off at goalie. Games lasted 15 minutes. The level of play was intense; the sixth-grade boys made it into the semi-finals, losing to the eventual winners. The swimming tournament was just a bunch of silly games.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Next day I was back at the Ranch. I decided to really explore the facility, so I started walking around the perimeter next to the high stone walls. Here’s what I saw (in order of appearance):</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span><br /><ul><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A concrete basketball court</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A rose garden with many different varieties</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A double tennis court</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A man-sized chess board</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Staff apartments -- the building looked like a two-storey motel</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Flowering shrubs along all paths -- all paths featured large, flat pieces of marble embedded in the ground</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Chickens, ducks, geese and peafowl wandering free</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 16 sheep and lambs in a pasture with 8 miniature deer (4 each by gender)</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 4 fruit orchards</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Several large horse stalls, no horses in sight</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A duck pond</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The concrete lake mentioned earlier, with a fake waterfall that flowed under a stone bridge</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 2 black swans swimming in the fake lake</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 2 large greenhouses. The first featured short, broad-leafed palms, various herb gardens, and potted trees. Two covered women were working in the room, one hoeing around the palms, the other planting herbs. The second green house was dedicated solely to tomatoes. Arikan sells these to his schools.</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A field of grapes</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A cherry orchard</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A crowed artichoke patch -- they grow up on long stems, reminding me of Brussel sprouts</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 2 smaller green houses dedicated to herbs</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A mint patch with brilliant blue flowering tops</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A helipad -- I surmised that this must have been the spot from which I had seen Saturn during my first visit</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A large arboretum dedicated mainly to evergreen trees</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The Arikan Palace, a huge dwelling with a central tower emblazoned with a bold IA for Ibrahim Arikan. Another huge rose garden</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Another guard house, the guards sipping tea and watching me closely in case I decide to storm the Palace</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A man with a weed-eater, buzzing out grass and weeds from between the bricks in the parking lot in front of the Palace. It is clear these people live here year-round maintaining the grounds for a family that lives there only during the summer months.</span></li></ul><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Meanwhile, the kids were running around, playing basketball, football and cricket in the tennis courts, swimming in a square pool in the middle of an open, square entry building. Lunch featured barbecued meats, various salads, and lots of soft drinks. We were there for about four hours. Each of the kids paid 20 Turkish Lira. Arikan made money.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-15495819379785270282011-06-24T09:58:00.000-07:002011-06-26T10:05:14.653-07:00Upon My First Visit to Arikan Ranch<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Ibrahim Arikan is the founder of MEF Schools. He made a small fortune selling supplies to schools, then started building schools so that they would buy only his supplies. Smart cookie. The reason he his so fond of schools, other than as a source of income, is that he attributes his success to a former teacher. Little Ibrahim was a stutterer. He was told that he had very little future of success because of this problem. But one teacher had faith in him and coached him and he overcame his disability. I can look out the window from the room in which I am writing and see a double statue -- little Ibrahim dressed in suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, and curly-haired, professionally dressed teacher lady holding a large book in her left hand while her right hand rests on the boy’s shoulder. Kind of creepy-looking at night.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The Arikan Ranch is a huge estate west-south-west of Istanbul in a place called Silivri. It is a fortress surrounded by huge brick walls, and protected by armed guards and dogs. This was my third visit, and I am astonished by the opulence. The reason for the first visit in September, 2009, was a huge party thrown for all the teachers and staff at both the National and International Schools. Hundreds of employees sat with spouses at rows of long tables that lined a large artificial lake, at the end of which arose a small, covered island that featured a band stand. (This looked ominous for the future of the evening -- my apprehensions were proven to be well-founded.) It had been a long teaching day and the drive to the Ranch had taken over an hour. I was hot, thirsty and hungry.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Soon after being seated each person was served a ceramic plate of </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">meze</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> (appetizers: olives, cheeses, tomatoes, cucumbers, different diced vegetables in sauces, with bread, of course -- Turks cannot conceive of any meal without bread, the staff of life and all that). I didn’t know that what lay in front of was just an appetizer, so I ate everything, even the stuff I didn’t particularly like. Since I knew barely anyone at my table, I decided to take a walk and check out the nearby area (I will describe what I saw in another Istanbullet). When I got back, there was another ceramic plate at my seat, and people were lining for the main course. Unfair! I was too full to eat anymore. Wine and beer was served, and after dessert out came the </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">raki</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> (pronounced “rock-uh”). This is Turkey’s national alcoholic beverage. It is identical to the Greek national drink, ouzo, as far as I can tell. Both are strong, aniseed-flavored spirits that are clear until mixed with water, then they become cloudy.*</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Almost everybody got drunk in a hurry. Most Turks don’t drink much, not because they’re Muslims but because the stuff is so expensive. So they get tipsy quickly.** The band started playing traditional music and soon there was a huge line of people holding hands above their heads and undulating around the pool in a counter-clockwise motion. This was amusing to watch until Arikan decided to take the mic and sing cheesy Dean Martin songs, like “When the moon hits your eye like a large pizza pie, that’s amore.” I soon had enough of that and got up for another walk. I found some steps that led up to a path. There were several people moving on up the path so I followed, wondering what the draw was. Soon we reached a flat concrete area where Arikan had placed a large, portable telescope. The skies were perfectly clear and when I got my turn I was delighted to see that it was pointed at Saturn. The rings were clearly visible; I could even detect some color, but maybe that was from my tears. It was a truly awesome sight.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">* I took one sniff and was confirmed in my decision to decline. I had tasted ouzo once when I was a kid, aboard a Greek freighter in the Port of Longview, where I was begging for some Greek coins to add to my growing collection of foreign money. (See, I was already thinking internationally!) I would ride my bike about a mile down to the docks, ask permission to come aboard and then politely ask for spare change. I knew when foreign ships were arriving because it was listed in advance in the Longview Daily News. When the Japanese ships came in, I would sell them carp that I would catch fresh in the nearby sloughs on the way to the docks.</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-size:85%;">** On the way home, well after 1:00 AM, one Turkish teacher was so intoxicated that when traffic slowed to a crawl, which it always does when trying to get into the city, that she got out of the van and walked in the four-lane road, talking to fellow stalled travelers. I never saw her again, so I think her antics were punished.</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-66481924820151476432011-06-12T21:08:00.000-07:002011-06-12T21:15:27.660-07:00Istantidbitx VI<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Turkish Men</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />In Istanbul, they never wear shorts except when exercising, hats and backpacks are rare, and they rarely walk fast. They sit for hours drinking many hour-glass-shaped cups of sweet, hot tea, no matter what the temperature is, smoking, talking, arguing, gesturing, playing backgammon, and another board game featuring bronze dice. They walk or sit with their arms linked or around one another, like lovers. They greet one another with a stylized kiss: press right cheek to the other’s right cheek, then repeat left. (Women do the same, but they make a kissing, “smooch” sound with their lips.) Men generally do not shave for about two weeks, whereupon they have a barber do it. I have adopted this practice. It is a most pleasurable Turkish custom that I will miss very much.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">MEF International School</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Turkish pencils have no erasers. Students must provide their own rubbers (unlike in America, where they are handed out by the school nurse. This is a pun.). Classrooms have no pencil sharpeners. Students must sharpen their pencils with little plastic hand-held sharpeners that they carry in a bag shaped like a burrito, which is full of pens, pencils and, other school related paraphernalia.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Students in the Turkish National School can pass with a 50% average. In the International School, if a student is at 58%, teachers are "encouraged" to find ways to bring the score up to 60%. These kids are worth a lot of money -- we can’t let laziness and stupidity get in then way of them passing. That would obstruct profits!<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bus Duty</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Breakfast and lunch are provided for student and faculty every day. On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, there are snacks at the bus tables. All Primary School students are required to be assembled and led to their 16 passenger bus by a faculty member. I am in charge of Bus 62. I am responsible for the largest group of PS bus riders in the school (kids from China, Korea, Pakistan, Russia, USA). Luckily, Bus 62 is the last in line, placing it right next to a MEF playground with swings, slides, etc., so I let my kids scamper around until the "get on board" whistle sounded. All the other Bus Duty staff had to try and keep their charges corralled in or around their bus.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />This spring, the rules changed, and all Primary School students were to get on the bus, take their seats and fasten their seat belts, then wait for 15 minutes before the buses left. That worked fine as long as the weather was bad. But when it started getting warm, I said "No way," and I let my kids stand or sit outside close to the bus. The other Bus Duty staff resented my action, but my kids were happy, and all the other kids wanted to go home on Bus 62.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Upon Finally Being De-Greased</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />The Middle School production of Grease is now just over three months behind me, and I have finally recovered from Post Traumatic Distress Syndrome. The shows went well, there were few embarrassing moments or pauses, and the students felt good about their performances. The cast consisted mostly of 6th graders.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />I had hoped that the karaoke CD I had ordered the previous spring would serve for the accompaniments of the well-known songs, freeing me up be the vocal coach and prompter. However, the CD worked only for the solos; in the large ensemble numbers, the singers couldn’t feel the beat, so I had to play (i.e., pound on) the piano much more than I had anticipated. In addition, we only had enough boys to fill out the roles of the Burger Palace Boys and the nerd, Eugene. So I became Johnny Casino, sitting at the piano onstage with my back turned to the audience, shouting a few lines and singing “Hand Jive” at the top of my lungs. The music wasn’t difficult, but the playing of it was -- pounding '50s rock. My arms ached after each rehearsal. Meanwhile, "Beauty School Drop-Out" was done in pantomime because our Teen Angel’s voice broke in January and he could no longer sing the climactic falsetto passages.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Check out the names and nationalities:<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Leads: Sandy – Aylin (‘eye-lin’, Russia), Danny – Jimmy (USA)<br />Burger Palace Boys: Kenickie – Anar (‘ah-nar’, Russia), Roger – Danny (Korea), Doody – Kayhan (‘kye-hahn’, Turkey), Sunny – Fuzuli (‘foo-zoo-lee’,Uzbekistan)<br />Pink Ladies: Rizzo – Suzan (pronounced ‘Suzanne’, USA), Marty – Abisheree (‘ah-bee-shree’, Pakistan), Jan – Erin (USA), Frenchy – Ana (Spain)<br />Others: Patty – Joanna (France), Eugene – Atif (‘ah-teef’, India), Miss Lynch – Antonia (Germany), Vince Fontaine – Rashad (Turkey), Teen Angel – Allejandro (Spain)<br />Chorus : Leoni (‘lay-oh-nee’, Holland), Natia (‘nah-ti-ah’, Georgia), Melina (‘me-lee-na’, Italy), Olga (pronounced ‘Olya’, Russia), Lara (USA)<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-58390234015790185892011-05-28T17:03:00.000-07:002011-06-07T17:14:56.770-07:00Upon Walking Along the Golden Horn<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Last Saturday, May 21, I walked almost the entire length of the Golden Horn. My goal was to visit a village of Muslim pilgrimage, Eyüp, and check out some interesting sites along the way. To get there, I would pass through the neighborhoods of Fatih, Fener and Balat. These districts are a reminder that for centuries after the Muslim conquest, Christians and Jews made up about 40% of Istanbul’s population. It was a beautiful, clear day with a light breeze that made the walking easy. (OK, what made the walking easy was because the sidewalk is absolutely flat, free of dogs and tourists, and the traffic was light.)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The Golden Horn looks great on maps, but it is very sad when seen in person. It is a flooded river valley that flows southeast into the Bosphorous, a natural harbor that first attracted settlers over 9,000 years ago. The Horn eventually enabled Constantinople to become a powerful and very rich port. Quote: "According to legend, the Byzantines threw so many valuables into it during the Ottoman conquest that the waters glistened with gold." Now, it resembles the Seattle Ship Canal, polluted and lined by empty, rusting ships, warehouses, bridges and docks. Seagulls perch and preen in serene boredom upon these modern, iron-oxide relics.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I began my walk in Karakoy ("dark village"), on the northern side of the estuary. I crossed the Galata Bridge for the first time on foot. This bridge was constructed approximately where the chain was laid across the Horn to protect the Italian ships during the siege of 1453. It offers a splendid view of Istanbul’s seven hills, each bristling with minarets. It was a good day for fishing -- all the plastic buckets I passed contained suffocating anchovies hauled in by poles stout enough to tame tarpon.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Once I had reached the end of the bridge and turned northwest, and had fought my way through the crowds of tourists surrounding the New Mosque and Spice Bazaar, I entered a shadowy valley created by walls of rusty corrugated tin on my right, mounted by spirals of concertina wire, and over 40 tour buses parked on my left. (Walking Brain: Why the concertina wire? There’s nothing but dilapidated warehouses over there. [Perhaps to keep out the non-existent homeless people.] And why is it called concertina wire? I thought a concertina was a small accordion. [Maybe the wires holding open the folds of the bellows mechanisms are interwoven.] Did Vivaldi compose a concerto for concertina? [Probably not.] But I bet Hindemith did! [Walking Brain does not have a sidewalk to follow, like I do.])</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The district of Fatih was named after Mehmed II, the Conqueror (Fatih). Its crowning monument is a mosque originally built in 1470, destroyed in an earthquake in 1766, and immediately rebuilt in baroque style. It is one of the largest </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">kulliye</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> (collection of buildings surrounding a mosque) in the city, with 8 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">medresses </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">(Muslim theological schools), a </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> hammam</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> (Turkish public bath), a </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">han </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">(office block) and a </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">hastane </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">(hospital). For being such an impressive holy site, I was intrigued by the number of roaming roosters and hens and the amount of graffiti. (Walking Brain: Why is there so much graffiti? One of the first things that struck me upon arriving in Istanbul was the lack of graffiti compared to other large cities. Why here in this profoundly Muslim site? [Perhaps there is neither money nor incentive for removal.])</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I walked on into the Fener ("lighthouse") district. A shoe-shine guy brushed past me and accidentally dropped a brush. I called to him, picked up the brush and handed it back to him. He thanked me profusely, shook my hand, called me "a gentleman," and offered to give me a free sandal shine. I was feeling pretty good about myself by that time, so I thought, 'Sure, why not?' Then he told me that he was a Kurd from Ankara and couldn’t get a break in Istanbul, and that his wife was still in Ankara with his five children, one of whom was in the hospital. Then he asked me to pay for the shine. Duped again! I gave him my pocket change and continued on.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> My next stop was the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate. Nominally the head of the whole G.O. church, the Patriarch is now shepherd to a diminishing flock in and around Istanbul. The Patriarchate is all that remains of what was once a thriving Greek enclave, where many wealthy residents rose to positions of prominence in the Ottoman Empire. I walked up a steep incline and entered the Patriarchate through a side door. The main door was welded shut in memory of Patriarch Gregory V (I am not making this up -- there are famous dead Gregories all over the place), who was hanged here for treason in 1821 after encouraging the Greeks to overthrow Ottoman rule. The Patriarchate centers on the basilica-style Church of St. George, which was built in 1720, but which contains many older artifacts, gilded icons and furniture.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I walked back downhill and visited a really unusual building, the Church of St. Gregory -- just kidding, St. Stephen of the Bulgars. This entire church is constructed in cast iron, even the internal columns and galleries. (I have never been in a church before where, if you flick your finger against a column, it goes </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">'bong!'</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">) The history of its construction mirrors the whole dead Gregory thing. Gregory V was executed at the beginning of the Greek War of Independence, 1821-32. Later, the Bulgarian community broke away from the authority of the Greek Patriarchate just up the hill. The Bulgarians were issued an ultimatum by the sultan: if you want a separate church, you must build it in one week. Pre-fabricated sections of cast iron were created in Vienna in 1871, shipped down the Danube to the Black Sea to the Bosphorous, and St. Gregory’s, sorry, St. Stephen’s was assembled in one week.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> It is really quite an astonishing building, an all-metal church. The echo is perfect for (dare I say it?) Gregorian chant and Orthodox hymnody. The church still serves the Bulgarian community today. The congregation keeps the tombs of the first Bulgarian patriarchs permanently decorated with flowers. The church stands in a park which runs down to the Golden Horn, dotted with trees and flowering shrubs. As I was walking back down to the waterfront, a shoe-shine guy brushed past me. He dropped a brush. I instinctively picked it up. Without me calling to him, he spun around, looked surprised and called me "a gentleman." In the immortal words of George W. Bush, "Fool me once ... uh ..."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I have to report that Eyüp was a disappointment. Historically, it is the burial place of the standard bearer of the Prophet Mohammed, Eyüp Ensari. The wealthy elite established mosques and street fountains in the village but, above all, they chose Eyüp as a place of burial. Basically, Eyüp is one huge cemetery. Yet it is a place of pilgrimage for Muslims from all over the world. I heard many languages that I did not recognize, and saw no casual tourists.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Whereas most Americans consider cemeteries to be spooky places, the Ottoman graveyard is a garden where the living stroll among the dead without morbid inhibitions. The gravestones are often symbolic: from their decorations, one can determine the gender, occupation, rank and even the number of children of the deceased. For instance, the size of turban reflected a gentleman’s status; a differently shaped turban indicated a member of the Sufi order; women’s gravestones have a flower for each child.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I took a ferry back down the Horn, sun-burnt, footsore and oxygen-hazed. The boat zigzagged slowly from one </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">iskele</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> (dock) on the south shore to the north shore of the Horn, back and forth like a giant grandmother doing somnambulant aquatic needlework, until I was finally deposited in Eminönü (umlauts on the, oh hell, who cares?) Trying to get from the ferry dock back to the Metro was actually frightening. A turgid torrent of humanity slowly struggled down the steps that led underground. One hesitant step at a times, I became gradually encased in a lava-like wall of humanity, oozing downward. Anxious shopkeepers tried to serve as foot-traffic cops, shouting and waving, but the living stream had a mind of its own. I was glad I was taller than most so that I could see potential openings, but they always seemed to close before I could get to them. I became worried that if someone were to lose it and start screaming, there would be a deadly stampede. I became worried that it might be me who would start screaming.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Then I was hit on the head by the eagle. The shops that line the sides of this sluggish underground passage feature cheap clothes and noisy, plastic battery-powered toys. At ground level, toy police cars, tanks and trucks flash, whiz and whirl, while plastic airplanes and birds circle above, tethered to hooks in the ceiling. One of the circling eagles lost its mooring, fell and hit me on the head. I am proud to report that I did not scream, hence preventing the potential public panic. Being able to write this paragraph is proof of my (if I may so humbly say) heroic power of self control.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-16211091888349732232011-05-24T16:13:00.000-07:002011-05-24T16:20:41.982-07:00Fun with Mavis and Herm: Part Two<span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /> It was the Sunday morning one week after my return from Cappadocia. I was despairing that I may have boggled the dates when Mavis and Herm would return to Istanbul. I thought they were coming back on Saturday, so I had spent that whole time sleeping on the couch in avid anticipation of their return. Come Sunday morning, my only consolation was Total Rugby. Then the phone rang -- it had to be them! I had a difficult choice to make: rugby or ... I chose my friends (= free lunch).<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />It was another beautiful spring day. I charged downhill. (OK, I lurched.) Upon entering the bus, even though empty seats were available, I chose to stand because there was an open window slat above me that drew in the fragrant April morning air. Before we had even reached the next stop, however, a stern hooded woman in a heavy, tan, ankle-length, buttoned-at-the-throat Islamist uniform slammed the window shut with an emphatic bang. She must have felt the dreaded coolness of the air and had courageously acted to prevent its threatening the endangered Turks behind me.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /> I knew it was going to be a fun day when the driver honked at an errant motorist and the horn stuck, blaring at the impassive walls of the ill-fated Ciragan (Turkish ‘g’) Palace, a restored residence of the last Ottoman sultans, now a 5-star hotel. Both Driver and Change Maker leaped heroically through the front door, thrust open the hood and yanked at random cables until the horn stopped, but we passengers could not know this because of the cacophony of car horns protesting from behind our vehicle. During this distraction, I reopened the window, and enjoyed fresh air until I disembarked in Besiktas, whereupon I met the Hermodsons.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />Our first stop was the Dolmebahce (pronounced Dole-meh-BAH-jeh) Palace, meaning filled-in garden. The palace was constructed in 1856 in what had been a garden created over land recovered in the 16th century. The line of tourists was huge, and after a short wait (made shorter when an usher informed the crowded line that it would be at least an hour and a half before we even made it to the entrance booth), we decided that this was a site we would not be visiting today.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /> We caught a bus to my neighborhood, Ortakoy, and visited the Saturday open market and took pictures of the neo-baroque mosque, then caught a taxi up to Kurucesme and visited the neighborhood where Nancy and I had lived for several months (described in loving terms in previous Istanbullets). We walked downhill to the church built over the dry well from whence the village derived its name, and M & H scrambled through the ancient tunnel to the underground source of the holy water. We then walked along the Bosporus to Arnavutkoy (“Armenian Village” -- I’m sorry that I originally called it a Greek settlement). This is where I go to get my hair cut by Adil, but my favorite restaurant, Abracadabra, was closed for renovations. We walked around until we found a place that was open but not crowded, and was sending off a lot of take-out food, which meant the locals liked the cooking there. (Busy restaurants in Istanbul maintain small fleets of motorcycle serfs who will speedily deliver their culinary products to your doorstep, wearing unfastened helmets while smoking en route.)<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /> After lunch, we continued our walk along the water and passed through Bebek (in Turkish, “Baby”). This place reminds me of Rodeo Drive (“Yeah, baby”) -- international high-end shops abut one another, while yacht-brought wealthies jog along the sidewalks with their designer dogs. Once we reached the northern end of the village, we caught a taxi to Rumeli HisarI -- Rumeli (meaning Roman, but really meaning Christian, the enemy the place was built to thwart) Fortress.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />This huge fortification was constructed in 1452, under the direction of Sultan Mehmet II Fatih (“The Conqueror”), one year prior to the conquest of Istanbul. Mehmet II’s aim was to block any support which might have come south from the Christian nations that nestled along the northwestern shores of the Black Sea to assist the Byzantines. It was erected on the narrowest point of the Bosphorus, facing another smaller Ottoman fortress that already existed on the Asian side. Amazingly, in an age lit only by fire and powered only by slaves and animals, Rumeli HisarI was completed after only 4 months: Mehmet II designed the first tower and created a competition between his Pashas (Generals) to complete a tower each and a connecting wall to the next tower.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />Now, Rumeli HisarI is a huge museum, displaying many of the ancient stone-throwing cannons that were used during the conquest. It has a large, open-air amphitheater that is used during the summer months for concerts, and the views from the battlements above the Bosporus are among the most spectacular in Istanbul. I always take my foreign guests there. However, I find each visit more harrowing, personally, as I am developing vertigo. To get to the battlements, one must climb ancient stone staircases, each step of which is irregular in composition and height between steps. There are no guardrails, and the steps get narrower the higher up you go. Also, the gusts of wind off the Bosporus get more erratic and forceful. I cling to the walls like a starfish on Haystack Rock, inching upward while my heart and breath rates enter the red zone. But once on top, it is exhilarating!<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><p>Thanks for the visit, Mavis and Herm! I hope to see you at my next international gig!</p><p><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></p>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-21638985548186617262011-05-14T13:07:00.000-07:002011-05-16T13:18:31.046-07:00Upon Attending an Armenian Mass<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I just got back from the first Eucharist in which I have been a communicant in almost two years. I attended Saturday Mass at the Church of St. Gregory the Savior (I am not making this up), an Armenian Catholic church built in Ortakoy in 1839, making it older than the iconic Ortakoy mosque. I have walked past the walls surrounding this church for almost two years and never seen them open. I have pressed the buzzer outside the doors many times and never received a response. Today, I attended Mass thanks to the first friend I made in Istanbul, Gail Chandyok.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Gail lived with her husband and son one floor above me in the apartment complex owned by MEF Schools in Umraniye, on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, where I originally resided; this is where Nancy and I lived before she found the apartment in Kurucesme. During the weeks before Nancy arrived, Gail was my sanity anchor. She is a native Indian and teaches math (they call it "maths" here). She is always well dressed and organized -- my polar opposite. The Chandyoks are devout Catholics, and now live in the MEF apartments in which I reside in Ulus next to the school.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Today was the second time I have participated in worship with them this year. On Good Friday past we, purely by chance, if one believes in coincidences, attended a Stations of the Cross service together in a Greek Orthodox church in Ortakoy. On Friday the 13th (gasp!), Gail and I happened to be sitting across from one another at lunch, and somehow the topic of prayer came up. (Since I am leaving Turkey in six weeks, and do not have a job awaiting me, I’ve been spending a lot of time praying.) Gail asked if I knew of the church mentioned above and I replied in the positive. She told me about Saturday’s Mass, so I came at 3:00 pm and there were she and Francis.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The service took place in an intimate chapel aside from the main church. It lasted about an hour, and was attended by the Chandyoks, seven women and myself. The priest wore an elegant white silk cloak adorned with a beautiful embroidered cross on the back. Since he spent most of the service facing east, away from us, I saw more of his backside (like an audience sees a conductor) than otherwise. Francis passed me his missal so I could read the lesson of the day in English. During the Eucharist, we communicants got the wafer, but only Hayk took the water-mixed wine. One woman came late and left early (I thought only Lutherans did this).</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Afterward, in a shaded area between the church and the walls that protected it from the street, we had a tea party. There were eleven women and four of us of the other gender, including the priest. Slices of bread (of course), and unsweetened biscuits were served with constantly-refreshed small hourglass-shaped glasses of tea. Everyone but the Chandyoks, the priest and myself smoked cigarettes.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I soon realized that I was the main topic of conversation because 1) I am different looking; 2) I am from America; 3) I am Christian -- not Catholic, but still present for Mass; 4) I am associated with Gail and Francis (both of whom speak Turkish), and; 5) I was able to communicate with the priest, Hayk Aram, a handsome 70-something fellow, who happens to speak German much better than I do.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I learned that St. Gregory, according to legend, had been imprisoned in a well for 12 years, and had survived during that time solely on the bread and wine of the Eucharist. After excusing myself, I went back into the church to investigate the architecture, icons and the upper layers of the structure. The building is a small basilica with four faux marble pillars on each side of the nave, all with false capitals. The ceiling frescoes resemble recessed marble hollows such as in the Pantheon in Rome, and were painted by the artists who decorated the interior of the Dolmebahce Palace. In addition to a few representations of the Virgin, the wood-framed paintings that hung at intervals around the nave dealt with scenes from the life of St. Gregory. Interestingly, Jesus only appeared on the processional crucifixes.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The church boasts two balconies, the only such feature of any church in Istanbul, I was told. Both balconies have raised platforms—the first possibly for additional seating, although there were no pews, as there were on the ground floor. The second balcony has two raised platforms, which I would like to believe were intended for a large choir. All the windows, from top to bottom, feature metal bars on the outside, and metal shutters that could be bolted from the inside. Hmm.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Outside, near where the tea party took place, stands a silent wooden belfry with a large corroded bell. Behind the church is a barred stairway that leads to an underground recreation of St. Gregory’s well, now sadly considered unsafe for visitation.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-56604117766945350402011-05-09T12:58:00.000-07:002011-05-16T13:07:29.837-07:00Upon Visiting Cappadocia, Day Two<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">On Friday morning, while taking breakfast outside (to the amazed horror of Omar because the temperature was OMG! cool), I was delighted to observe a huge, yellow-and-orange striped hot-air balloon pass overhead, huffing and wheezing. The basket must have held over 30 people. The winds in this area change direction as the air warms, so the balloons follow a circular path over this incredible landscape and return close enough to home for the tourists to land and be driven back to their hotels, while the balloons are deflated and returned by pickup truck to their starting sites.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">When the tour van arrived, it contained two couples from Brazil, another mother/daughter combination (Germans -- mom from Freiburg, daughter from Berlin, a history major), a guy from Nigeria working for a petroleum company in Turkey, two male Canadian companions from Quebec, who conversed in French, a hooded woman from Uzbekistan (who spoke perfect American English and lives with her mother in Doha, home of Aljazeera TV), me and Ali, the guide.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">(SIDE-NOTE: There is a peculiar territoriality that occurs when a group of people first enters an enclosed space, such as a classroom or a bus. Once a person initially chooses a place to sit, that becomes the place where they tend to sit whenever they return. During my school days, and extending into my college years, I liked to disrupt this silliness by taking one of the popular people’s seats whenever I arrived before them. The ensuing confusion was very amusing to observe. But, on a tour bus, where people tend to leave personal belongings on or below their seats, this was not possible. I sat in a single seat behind the Uzbeki woman.)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">After driving past many of the geological marvels I had seen the day before, we disembarked and began a 3km hike up to a plateau above the Rose Valley. (On tours, I like to stay as close to the guide as possible so I don’t miss any information, and so s/he might like me enough at the end to not expect a tip.) I was dismayed at how quickly I was gasping for air. My muscles were fine, but my respiration and heart-rate were desperate. The trail left no opportunities to stop and rest as we trudged upward through towering V-shaped walls of tuff. I was gasping for oxygen, but was not about to suffer the indignity of halting the progress of the serpentine line of tourists following me by collapsing on the trail. (This possibility, however, did enter my mind.) Once we finally reached an open space, I realized that there was no one behind me—I could have stopped at any time. I had been keeping pace with the guides who do this for a living, and the Germans who, like the Austrians and Swiss, think hiking up mountains is fun. Now that I had some time for wheezing cogitation, as the rest of the group finally managed to catch up to us, I realized that I had been scrambling uphill at over 10,000 feet above sea level. Gasping up here is OK.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I was not impressed by the Rose Valley, so-called because of the layers of reddish pigmentation in the sedimentary walls of the cliffs. It was small beer compared to the Badlands of South Dakota. We walked on past, into and through many dwellings and chapels that had been dug out of the tuff, revealed now because of centuries of erosion, or still intact with weathered frescoes inside. Back in the van, we drove to a site that allowed tourists to enter one of the several underground cities created by the early Christians to protect themselves from the Romans and, later, the Turks. These people literally crawled into the embrace of the rock, emulating non-aggressive ants—they were communal, everyone had a specific job to do, and they were hard to wipe out.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">They protected the entrances to these underground cities in a very ingenious way. A large, circular stone was rolled into the entryway--a vertical aperture tall enough for a person of the period to enter easily. This stone was then rolled to the side of the entrance into a space carved out of the tuff, allowing easy access for the inhabitants. When danger approached, the stone was rolled into place and buttressed against ramming.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Along the way, I noticed that most of the mosques did not have domes (autistics like things to be the same). I mentioned this to the Uzbek woman who sat in front of me, and she was similarly puzzled. After a while, she posited that they may be Sufi mosques, Sufis being the Muslim sect from which the famous “whirling dervishes” derive. I asked her how the Sufis had managed to escape the internecine struggles that are still plaguing the Sunni and Shia branches of Islam. She replied that the Sufis believe that they have a unique connection with Allah (the dance of the dervishes is an expression of this spiritual connection) and if others choose another path to Him, that is fine with the Sufis. They only fight in self-defense.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Once we entered the human ant hill, I knew I could not descend deeper than far enough to see what it offered at the upper levels -- defensive ante-chambers, living and storage spaces, temporary cemeteries, wineries and chapels. Every room was teeming with tourants, mostly Japanese. By the 2nd level down, my claustrophobia was screaming and I returned to the daylight. My fellow companions later reported that they wished they had followed my example, because after the 2nd level the dark corridors became smaller and smaller, warmer and warmer, and began to reek of nervous perspiration, and there was nothing new to see but smaller examples of what had been carved out nearer the surface.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The next stop was a factory featuring semi-precious stones, but specializing in onyx. We were ushered into a workshop where an elderly smith sat before a stone lathe. He locked a rectangular block of onyx into the device, and then began noisily scaling away layers of stone chips. Eventually, he created a beautiful stone egg the color of thick honey, polished to perfection, standing on a coarse pedestal, this being the only remnant of the original block of onyx. I was very impressed because it was all done manually -- no buttons were pushed other than On and Off.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">After this demonstration, we were herded into a large jewelry store, with precious stones displayed in every fashion -- necklaces, earrings, etc. Our group was led to another demonstration intended to whet our appetites so that we would buy something. My rug merchant antipathy was on high alert. However, after having given her spiel, the hostess asked if anyone could answer the question, “What does ‘Cappadocia’ mean?” Since I had been making taking mental notes for this Istanbullet all day, I immediately blurted out the answer that Ali had said that very morning, “Place of beautiful horses.” I now own the onyx egg described above.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Our last stop was Pigeon Valley. Because Cappadocia is basically a bunch of volcanic rocks, the inhabitants had to create food. To do so, they needed fertilizer. Hence the pigeons. There are thousands of pigeon coops carved into the hillsides. Anyone who has ever visited a major metropolitan area knows that pigeons = poop. In Cappadocia, pigeon poop was encouraged. Now, the wines from Cappadocia are considered Turkey’s finest, all due to guano.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Back at the hotel, while sitting reading outside in the cool (meaning I was alone) fading evening light, two workmen arrived. Their job was to attach rope lights to the metal latticework that held grape vines above where I was sitting. I can imagine that the eventual effect will be quite lovely. During this procedure, Omar brought them tea, then a plate of biscuits, and then a plate of orange slices -- Turkish hospitality. Turks are lovely people I will miss very much.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-24878674414229042132011-05-08T12:48:00.000-07:002011-05-16T13:00:30.954-07:00Upon Visiting Cappadocia, Day One<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It was another solitary Sunday morning. I was listening to, but not watching, the live television broadcast of the opening race of the Formula One automobile competition season in Abu Dhabi, waiting for Total Rugby to come on, while playing Buddhist Solitaire (to win, you have to lose)*, when I remembered that the Australian girl I had met on the first day of my tour in Cappadocia was a fan of Formula One racing and would be at the race I was currently not watching. Also, the next leg of the racing circuit would take place in Istanbul. Therefore, I took these presentiments as signs that providence was telling me it was now time to set down my reminiscences of that trip.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Cappadocia is spelled and pronounced Kapadokya by the Turks. It is a region of fantastic geological and historical wonders in the very center of Turkey, truly unique in the world. (Google “Cappadocia” for images and history -- you will be astounded.) For my Washingtonian readers old enough to remember, the ash-fall from the eruption of Mt. St. Helens in 1980 was mere mist compared to the deluge of ash that covered this region.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I had arranged my time in Cappadocia to coincide with when Mavis and Herm (see previous Istanbullet) were scheduled to be there, in the unrealized hope that we might possibly meet. I arrived at the airport in Kayseri at around 6:00 am on an April Thursday. Kayseri (pronounced KIE-sa-ree) was known as Caesarea during the Roman times. By the fourth century AD, it had become a focal point of Christian life and faith. St. Basil the Great, who defended church doctrine against heretical movements, was once its leading cleric.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Due to the early hour, the only choice for getting to my hotel in Urgup (pronounced with umlauts) was an expensive taxi ride. The Urgup Inn Cave Hotel is a small, family run affair, the kind that Rick Steves advocates. (Sorry, Steve, but I discovered it on my own.) After several inquiries by the taxi driver, it was found up a steep, cobbled, one-lane side street. I was greeted by the owner, Omar (who resembled the villain in Nicholas Cage’s 2010 vehicle, “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”). Omar was so mortified that my travel agent had not contacted him so that I could have taken a much cheaper shuttle van from the airport to the hotel, he gave me the best room in the ancient establishment. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The premises had originally been a monastery carved out of the side of a hill, long since eroded away, of which my room had been the chapel. It had a high, stone, barrel-vaulted/pointed-arched ceiling, and a huge double bed, the head of which abutted the stonework of a small, recessed altar space. The entrance to the bathroom consisted of a small stone archway that required me to duck upon entry. I cannot remember the number of times that I bashed my head against these stones upon exiting, but they were many.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> After a typical Turkish breakfast (cucumber and tomato slices, white cheese, a freshly boiled egg, warm white bread with butter and a selection of toppings, washed down by way of a pot of tea), I was picked up by the tour van for my first day of being a tourist in a long while. Aboard were six Australians,** (two Muslim couples from Melbourne, and a mother/daughter pair from Sydney -- the daughter being the Formula One fan mentioned above), a Turkish couple, a taciturn American woman, a Canadian from Ontario, myself, and the guide, Ali (female).</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Our morning adventure was the Open-Air Museum outside Goreme (pronounced GOO-re-meh). Summarized quote: “The Goreme Valley holds the largest concentration of rock-cut chapels in Cappadocia. Dating largely from the 9th century onwards, the valley’s 30-some chapels were (carved) out of the soft volcanic tuff.” (Insert: “Tuff” is solidified volcanic ash -- you can scrape it away with a finger.) “Many of the churches feature superb Byzantine frescoes depicting scenes from the Old and New Testaments, and particularly the life of Christ and the deeds of the saints.” Most of these frescos were literally defaced after the Muslim conquest.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> After lunch, we were taken to a rug factory, where we were subjected to a promotional tour. We watched tiny hooded women sitting cross-legged on a cold marble floor tying countless knots into rugs that could take many months to finish, while an overweight, mustachioed and wigged swell in a silk suit, wearing pointed leather shoes, extrapolated on the superiority of Turkish rugs, “which feature two knots at every junction, instead of the single knots of rugs made in other nearby countries.” (I detest these rug hawkers. In Istanbul, they prowl the tourist areas and prey upon old people who are too polite to tell these well-dressed pests to go away. Instead, the victims are followed and badgered until they are intimidated into wasting their valuable touring time among the ancient sites, and are cajoled into a shop where they are given sweet tea, the knot story, etc. Once I figured out this game, I created a solution: when approached and asked, “Where do you come from?”, I reply, “So, you speak English?” “Yes, sir.” “Then, fuck off!” It works every time.)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> There was one part of this exhibition that I found elucidating, however, and that was when we were shown how silk is mechanically removed from the cocoons—it reminded me of the way fishing line is retrieved on a spinning reel. The final stop of the tour was atop a ridge with an awesome (I never use this word casually) view of the region. I slept soundly that night because this was a lightly populated and historically Christian area. There were no police or ambulance sirens, no honking car horns, nor muezzin (the calls to prayer by the Imams, broadcast loudly from speakers atop the minarets that adorn every mosque).</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" > * It’s a very simple, mindless game I invented as a kid. You are playing YOU against HIM. YOU always play first (I was a kid, OK?). Thoroughly shuffle the cards six times, using different shuffle patterns, but always use the same order of shuffle patterns. (Do you see why I’ve always thought I am mildly autistic?) Lay down 4 cards in an overlapping line. If the 4th card matches the number, face or suit of the 1st card, remove the 2 cards in between. If you get 4 cards of the same suit in a row, remove all 4, unless, by removing cards in twos you can remove more (it will make sense when you try it). Continue laying down/removing cards until they are all gone. If you have 16 or fewer cards left, you “win” and get to repeat the process until you end up with a line of over 16 cards. YOU then add up the total number of points YOU amassed. Now, HE repeats the process. Since the ultimate winner is the one with the fewest points at the end, the ideal hand is 18. The Buddhist aspect which I, of course, did not understand at the time, is that every time YOU “win”, YOU are adding more points to your total. Each win brings YOU ultimately closer to losing.<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" > ** Australians, Germans and New Zealanders are among the most common tourists in Turkey, a by-product of World War I. Turkey sided with Germany because of her ancient antipathetic relationship with Imperial Russia; the Australians and New Zealanders fought against the Turks because they were members of the British Commonwealth. Thousands died. Churchill lost his position as Lord of the Admiralty due to the naval losses in the Dardanelles. Eventually, the Allies withdrew in one of history’s most remarkable retreats: thousands of soldiers were evacuated without a single casualty due to hostile action. History calls the Gallipoli campaign a failure, yet out of it rose three modern, independent nations: Australia, New Zealand and Turkey.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-24727935439126073442011-05-04T22:26:00.000-07:002011-05-04T22:31:32.870-07:00Fun with Mavis and Herm: Part One<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Over twenty-odd years ago, Nancy, Matthew and I moved from Los Angeles to northwestern Wisconsin, to a city named Eau Claire. Eau Claire is, duh, French, and means “clear water,” a misnomer since the river is the color of strong tea. This is due to the tons of bark that were shed from the millions of acres of pine trees that were harvested and rafted down the river past the town during the 19th century. The disintegrating bark continues to release tannin, hence the color of the water. Julia was born in Eau Claire.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The reason we were in Eau Claire is because I landed my first university teaching position there. Soon, I also took on the job as choir director/organist at Trinity Lutheran Church. That’s where I met the Hermodsons, Mavis, alto, and Warren (Herm), tenor. Warren was a teacher of reading at one of the local junior high schools, and Mavis was establishing a driving school. Most of Mavis’ students were Hmong immigrants. If you have seen the Clint Eastwood movie </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Gran Torino</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">, you have been introduced to these Laotian immigrants, mountain people who backed the US effort in Vietnam, and left en masse to save their ass to the northern Midwest when the communists took over.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Warren and Mavis are tourists now in Turkey, and we spent most of an early April day together. I met them at their hotel on a brisk Saturday morning and we set off to see some interesting sites that were not on their Istanbul itinerary. We began with a short walk down Barbaros Bulvari (Barbarous Boulevard) then caught a bus to Kabatas (pronounced “Cobatosh,” meaning “rough rocks”) where we took the Metro (urban rail) to Sultanahmet (named after Sultan Ahmet I, who built the Blue Mosque) and their first visitation site, the Basilica Cistern. This underground marvel dates from 532 AD, and is an amazing example of Byzantine engineering. Its existence was unknown for centuries. It wasn’t until over 100 years after the Ottoman conquest (when Constantinople became Istanbul in 1453) that the cistern was rediscovered -- people were found to be collecting water and fish by lowering buckets through holes in their basements. The cistern’s vaulted brick roof is supported by 336 columns, each over 26 feet tall, each capped with an ornately carved capital, each looted from Roman ruins. The two most unique columns rest on huge Medusa head bases. One of the heads is upside down. Tourists gape and ponder why. Why not? The columns were going to be underwater and underground for centuries. Which of the Byzantine engineers could have ever imagined they would be seen by anyone, much less millions of tourists?</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Next, we walked through the huge courtyard of Yeni Camii (pronounced “Yenny Jommy,” meaning “New Mosque”), which dates from the 17th century, making it, by Istanbul standards, new. Then we passed through the Spice Bazaar, an L-shaped collection of crowded, aromatic stalls under a high ceiling, built as an extension of the New Mosque complex. It was originally called the Egyptian Bazaar because it was built using money from spices imported from Egypt.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Then, we used a Metro/taxi combination to visit the Chora Museum. This remarkable building takes its name from the Greek word “chora,” meaning an area outside of a city or in the countryside. A former monastery, later called the Church of St. Savior, later again called Kariye Camii, Chora originally lay outside the city walls built by Constantine, but was later contained within the massive Theodosian walls built in 423 AD, walls which protected Constantinople from invasion for over 1000 years. The church was destroyed by earthquakes and fires several times, but was always rebuilt. The present church-turned-mosque-turned-</span><div id=":ad"><wbr style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">museum dates from the 11th century. Its world-famous mosaics date from 1315-21, and depict the genealogy, infancy, and ministry of Jesus. My favorites are those depicting the life of the Virgin, stories taken from the Gospel of St. James written in the 2nd century, subject matter that was extremely popular in the Middle Ages, but later judged as inauthentic (apocryphal).</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> We returned to Sultanahmet for an outdoor lunch, where we were protected from the predicted rain (which arrived almost exactly on time) by a sturdy plastic canopy. Full, footsore, but not fatigued, we walked downhill to the Archeological Museum. This enormous musem includes artifacts spanning over 5,000 years. The most amazing thing to me is that this collection of antiquities was only begun in the mid-19th century! It now contains one of the world’s richest gatherings of classical and pre-classical artifacts. I have visited it three times, and have still not seen all the exhibits. In fact, when I visited it this latest time with Mavis and Warren, a whole new wing was open in an area that had been closed before.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> We taxied back to Besiktas (pronounced “Beshiktosh,” meaning “five rocks”), where I got out, sent the Hermodsons on the way back to their hotel, and caught a bus home, in the happy knowledge that we would be back together in two weeks for more Adventures.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /></div>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-50980259359849643692011-04-10T19:43:00.000-07:002011-04-26T10:09:38.076-07:00Upon Kumpir and LOSEV<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Kumpir</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Driven by a demanding urge for fajitas, and not having eaten Mexican food for many months, and knowing that there was a restaurant in Ortakoy that served them, and having the time and means to obtain them, I was hungrily bustling downhill. (I don’t bustle uphill. It’s simple physics: gravity determines the rate of bustle, and uphill bustling requires muscle, and I swore off on muscles years ago. Aince my rugby days, my philosophy on fitness has been, “No pain, no pain.”) Also it was a windy, misty Saturday and I knew the booksellers and craft tables would be out under the creaking tarpaulins that would be swaying and creaking ominously in the Bosporus breezes, and I was looking forward to obtaining another used book and watching the tourists spend money on junk.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I thought about stepping into the mosque -- a beautiful, relatively new structure (built in 1853), set right beside the water -- but it was too wet to take off my shoes. So I headed straight for the restaurant. It was closed. Not just for the day. Defunct! Disappointed, I walked over to the used-book vendors and bought a copy of Tristram Shandy, which is one of those books I have always meant to read but never got around to doing so. Then I went to the water’s edge and watched the white-capped Bosporus. The wind was gusting so forcefully that I had to hold onto my hat. Two drenched, crippled guys were peddling purse-sized packets of tissues; I didn't need any but I bought some. At the water's edge, a group of Indian youths were shooting pellet rifles at balloons in the water, getting soaked in the windy mist, laughing hysterically. It looked like fun.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Hunger took me to my favorite kumpir stand. Kumpir are not my favorite meal, but they are cheap and warm. A kumpir is a large potato that has been baked in aluminum foil. It is placed in a sturdy paper boat, sliced open but not cut through, then slathered with butter and grated mild, white cheese. The customer then chooses from several toppings that are dolloped on: wiener (sans pork) slices in tomato sauce, potato salad (that’s right, potato salad on top of a potato), corn, peas, diced dill pickles, sliced black or green olives, red hot sauce, sliced pickled mushrooms, diced pickled red lettuce, orange bulgar wheat with parsley accents, a pungent black olive paste, and some slimy pink goop I have never seen before nor tasted. This can all then be topped by a squirted line of ketchup or mayonnaise. My stand is the only one that offers small, hot, yellow peppers.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> There are nine kumpir stands in a row here, connected by common walls. Each stand sells almost the identical product--the only noticeable difference is in the presentation. (NOTE: This is a common practice in Istanbul shopping malls. There will be entire floors dedicated to shoes or women's clothing, etc. To my untutored shopping eye, the only noticeable difference is in the presentation. Another echo of this practice can be seen on street advertisements, in which the same ad will appear on four adjacent billbords.) In the kumpir stands, behind glass screens, mounds of pickles, olives, bulgar, etc. are displayed with a very creative flair using carrot slices shaped into flowers, stars, faces, or rhythmic patterns similar to the wall and ceiling tiles adorning the interiors of mosques. On the one hand, it is very decorative and pleasing to the eye (Istanbul is a delightful place for practitioners of the photographic arts). On the other hand, everything is almost identical--an apt metaphor for the Turkey I have experienced.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">LOSEV</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> On a Saturday in late March, I was faculty supervisor for three MEFIS International Baccalaureate students who gave an English lesson at the Losemili Cocuklar Vakfi (Home for Children with Leukemia), or LOSEV. The first such home was established in Ankara, the Turkish capital, and the Istanbul house opened in 2005. The children were all healthy, with all their hair, but had missed so much school while they were hospitalized that they come to LOSEV on the weekends for tutoring provided by volunteers, such as my students: Rony Alp (Alp meaning “hero” -- most Turkish names have a meaning), Dilara (½ Turk, ½ German), and Tina (½ Turk, ½ Italian, Jewish -- an interesting name for a Jewish girl, Christina).</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> At any given time, there were between 10-20 children in the room There were not enough chairs so the latecomers had to sit on the heaters or friends’ laps. The number of students constantly fluctuated because the kids would just get up and walk out without notice. The lesson took 45 minutes and covered the prepositions “in, on, under, between, and next to” (I would have used “beside”). Large, laminated pictures of things one might find in parks were held aloft (trash can, fountain, duck pond, zoo, playground, rest rooms, picnic table, swings, statue). The teacher would show the picture and say the word in Turkish; the children would respond in English. I sat next to a boy named Erdem (“virtue”). He left twice and did not return the second time until sandwiches (cold chicken chunks with shredded carrots and lettuce, no mayo) were served for lunch.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> After the lesson, my students disappeared immediately, giving me some time to read in a nearby park until my ride arrived. I passed a Turkish man sleeping loudly on a bench in midday, and saw a rare black man walking two German Shepherds. Having given up on Tristram Shandy—too obtuse, even for a random/chaotic like myself -- I am reading </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Snow</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">, by the Nobel Prize winning Turkish author, Orhan Pamuk. If you ever become interested in modern Turkish history and like well-written novels, start with </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Birds Without Wings</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">, then read </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Snow</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-23915811608185724052011-03-09T20:00:00.000-08:002011-03-09T20:19:22.342-08:00Istantidbits V<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">More Turkish Delights<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Crepe, Swing </span>= Men's apparel shops<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Gluttoni, TENT</span> = Apparel shops for large men<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">FitFlops, Crash</span> = Men's shoes<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">ZEN</span> = An air conditioning and heating company<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Differences I noticed between Sophia and Istanbul last Christmas</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Although only 480 km apart, there are distinct physical differences between the humans inhabiting these two major population centers. Where Turks are generally short and thin, Bulgarians tend to be tall and stout. The women are bustier, and only too happy to show one the difference (sartorially speaking, of course). My finely-honed investigative instincts tell me that this is due to religion: one culture believes that drinking beer and eating pork is okay; the other does not. You guess which is which.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Traffic. The streets in Istanbul are generally narrow and choked with vehicles: trucks frequently party in the opposite lane while the driver drinks tea and/or plays backgammon with friends; cars are parked on the sidewalks, and motorbikes weave among them while we pedestrians are frequently forced to walk in the streets among the honking vehicles; stop/go lights are rare. In other words, it's a jostling, friendly chaos. In Sophia, the streets are very wide, every intersections has stop/go lights, and the sidewalks are free of cars. But so are the streets. The few cars that chugged by were old and worn (like the author, but he still chugs -- just ask anyone who has had the misfortune to sit next to him too long on a bus), and crossing the street was eerily safe. In Sophia, I waited 25 minutes for a taxi, during which time I was turned down by three drivers because they did now know where my hotel was, even when given the address and telephone number. I have never waited over two minutes for a Taxi in Istanbul.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Turkish TV: The Cigarette Smudge</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />I believe I have previously mentioned the monumentally unsuccessful Turkish anti-smoking campaign. Large No Smoking posters adhere to the walls of every public building, with threats of inconsequential fines. On TV, whenever a character appears with a nicotine delivery system in his or her hand or mouth, it is invisibilated by an oval smudge or, in earlier versions, a cartoon flower. So, in <span style="font-style: italic;">Casablanca, </span>Bogie tells Sam to play it again while he broods over the piano with a flower covering his hand while smoke rises in a cinematic wreath of incense around his head.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />It's so silly. The majority of the adult population in Turkey smokes. (Islam forbids drinking alcohol, maybe because alcohol came to the desert peoples carried and abused by the marauding Crusaders. Tobacco hadn't reached the Middle East when the Koran was written. Go figure.) Where I come from, we say of a heavy smoker, "He smokes like a chimney." The Italians have another aphorism:<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Fumare della Turka."<br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Language</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Turkish is a very economical language. One sees this best when signing bifurcated official documents that have the Turkish text on the left side of the page and the English translation on the right. There is much more white space (fewer words) in the Turkish column. In other words, the original Turks did not waste time creating or absorbing unnecessary words. I know very little Turkish, but my favorite example is in naming the days of the week. The Turks do not have names for Saturday or Monday. They simply call these days after the days they follow: <span style="font-style: italic;">Cuma</span> (Friday) becomes <span style="font-style: italic;">Cumartesi</span> (the day after Friday); <span style="font-style: italic;">Pazar</span> (Sunday) becomes <span style="font-style: italic;">Pazartesi</span> (The day after Sunday. While efficient, a language such as this does not lend itself well to the ambiguities and nuances that create great poetry and plays. For instanc<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">e, </span></span>the subtle humor of the Country-Western title, "I Gave Her the Ring, and She Gave Me the Finger," would be lost on the Turk.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-51516485390905321732011-02-22T07:24:00.000-08:002011-02-22T07:31:58.527-08:00In My Room at MEF International School<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Autobiographical songs are the usually the very definition of maudlin -- tearfully sentimental screeds. (For all you Dan Brown </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Da Vinci Code</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> fans, the term derives from the Old French word </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Madeleine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">, describing the weeping of Mary Magdalene.) Brian Wilson’s song, “In My Room,” an early Beach Boys hit, touchingly portrays a boy describing how his bedroom is a haven from his teenage angst, but does not mention the Playboy magazines under his mattress.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> MEF: Model Educational Facility, or Marble Educational Farce. Here’s why I have come to this sad conclusion:</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> MEF International School (MEFIS) was an afterthought, possibly intended to bring in more money to the MEF National School or, hopefully, some prestige. MEFIS is therefore the stepchild. Like Cinderella, we get the leftovers. My Room is nested on the third floor of the National School’s Music Building. When I must meet with administrators or colleagues, or even need to make photocopies, I face a long, uphill, exposed-to-the-weather walk to the building where the other MEFIS classrooms are located, as well as the cafeteria.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> My Room is actually located on the fourth floor by American standards, since in Turkey the ground floor is the bottom one and the first floor is the next one up (amazing concept!). However, to get to the ground floor, I have to walk down a flight of marble stairs before I can begin climbing the three flights of marble stairs to My Room. Each flight of stairs consists of 20 marble steps. There is no elevator, hence no wheelchair access. But then, of course, there are no handicapped people in Turkey, as well as no homeless people, no homosexuals, no radicals, etc. In Islamotropolis, these aberrations only occur among the infidels.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> My Room originally consisted of two L-shaped piano practice rooms. To create My Room, MEF simply removed the dividing wall. Get a piece of graph paper. Starting at the upper left, [1] draw a line down 6 squares; [2] now go horizontally to the right 12 squares; [3] go up 6 squares; [4] go left 4 squares; [5] go down 2 squares; [6] go left 4 squares; [7] go up 2 squares; [8] from there, draw a line to your starting point. You now have a crow, pigeon and seagull view of my room if the roof were removed (which, if such were to occur, would rapidly fill up with guano, since these birds are always swooping by or landing on window sills during the daylight hours).</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> My desk with its circa 1995 computer faces the entryway [7]. On the opposite side of My Room is a mauve “Pearl River” Yamaha upright piano (just tuned today!). Behind the piano, the walls are filled with 3-tiered open wooden cabinets containing six guitars with broken strings, six dusty, unused electronic keyboards, boxes full of discarded drama texts, some ridiculous metallic, so-called Turkish drums, two nice conga drums and, closer, a freestanding cabinet containing my music theory packets and a CD player so old it does not have a pause function. Imagine trying to explain the significance of the six-note French horn transition between the major theme groups in the first movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 without being able to pause! I knew you would understand my frustration.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> My Room has two large windows at stages [1] and [3]. The window at stage [1] has protective metal bars to prevent someone from entering my room from the adjacent roof. The window at stage [3] has no such bars, so that a child could fall four stories to certain death by gravity + marble. So, by MEF thinking, it is more important to protect the unusable guitars and dusty electronic keyboards than the children. For reasons obvious to me but not to MEF, I have positioned my piano in front of this window.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Position [2] consists of a solid wall of window panes, with a magnificent view of an escarpment of apartment complexes that rises higher than the school, looming above an under-developed valley adorned with serpentine, broken-linked waves of attractive, modern stone walls separated by waste dumps and hungry dogs. Somebody spent a lot of lira to put up those pretty walls, but nothing has yet to come of this speculative investment.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Into My Room come children from grades 5 through 9, winded from the climb up the flights of marble stairs. There are not enough chairs for the students in grades 8 (24) and 9 (22) to sit, so the late-comers have to plunk down on the floor or squeeze in onto the heaters. I have to buy pencils and sharpeners to give to those students who arrive without them. Turkish pencils do not have erasers, and classrooms do not have wall-mounted pencil sharpeners. Every student is expected to carry from class to class a zippered cloth bag the size and shape of a Taco Del Mar burrito containing the equivalent of the contents of a competent secretary’s right-hand desk drawer: pencils, pens, erasers, pencil sharpeners, highlighters, adhesive tape, white out, permanent markers, post-its, paper clips, rubber bands, you name it. In the meantime, since I received no classroom supplies this year (I even had to buy my own printer and ink cartridges), I provide my students anything extra or lost from the above categories from a mobile cabinet, a three-drawer knee-banger on coasters with broken knobs that fits under my desk and slides away at the slightest nudge so that I frequently have to disappear under my desk to pull it back into sight, usually bumping my head in front of my bemused students. (Actually, I always do that on purpose to make them laugh.)</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I am going to miss these kids, and my fellow ex-pat teachers. But I will not regret leaving MEF International School.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-33710335534383270872011-02-13T10:00:00.000-08:002011-02-13T10:11:50.356-08:00Upon My Second Birthday in Istanbul (February 10, 2011)<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">"‘I’m more likely to get hit by a motorcycle on this sidewalk than I am by crossing the street," I thought as I made my way to the bus stop. It was a beautiful Thursday, cold and clear. I was on my way to visit an exhibit that had caught my interest over a year ago, but which I had yet to see. It was billed as the "1453 Panorama", 1453 being the year that Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Turks and became Istanbul. The exhibit was just outside a stretch of some of the remaining Theodosian walls, magnificent structures that had protected Constantinople for centuries until the Turks finally created cannons powerful enough to bring them down, while the Western Christians refused to provide any reinforcements.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The bus was, as usual, quite warm, but today it felt good. After a while it filled up to a point that someone had to sit beside me. Turks do not like to invade the space of foreigners until there is only one choice: stand or sit. They know I am a foreigner because of my mutton-chop beard and the fact that I wear Birkenstocks with socks in cold weather. (They stare at my feet. If my feet were breasts, maybe I could understand better how women must feel when trying to carry on a conversation with a lusty male.) Also, women do not sit next to men until the same choice has to be made. A well-attired woman chose to sit next to me. After a reasonable time, not wanting to appear over-eager or aggressive, I asked if she spoke English. She said “No.”</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I turned my attention to the ever-changing city. I noticed that Doritos was offering heart-shaped chips in honor of Valentine’s Day (never mind that Valentine was a Christian martyr, sainted in 500 AD). I noticed for the first time that there were huge nests high up in the trees inside the Topkapi Palace complex, big enough for herons. (Topkapi means "cannon ball," which is pertinent to our 1453 theme). I noticed that there were no guards stationed in the Plexiglas cubicles outside Dolmabahce Palace, probably because it was too cold. Normally there would be two formally attired guards with polished steel helmets and ceremonial automatic weapons, no matter how hot it was in direct sunlight, stationed outside the Dolmebahce (pronounced </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">dole-meh-BAH-jeh</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">, meaning a garden built on reclaimed land) Gate, a vigorously ornate barrier that couldn’t stop a motorcycle that had accidentally jumped the curb and had actually come down onto the street for a change. My mind wandered. My current students think </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Glee</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> is real. They refuse to believe that American high schools are not inhabited by 20-somethings with perfect teeth, nor that all schools do not have million dollar budgets for stage productions.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I asked the woman still seated next to me, auf Deutsch, if she spoke German. She said “Nein.” My keenly honed interpersonal skills alerted me that she didn’t want to talk.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Upon arriving at the exhibit, I was surprised to see that there was a cue of people outside. That was fine, because I always carry a book (currently "Invictus" -- history and rugby, the perfect combination) just for such contingencies. The entry fee was 10TL, but my teacher pass got me in for 5. Once in the building, I spent the other 5 on an electronic device that would speak to me in English. I slipped it around my neck and went to stand in another line and reopened my book. I then slipped my valise over my shoulder so that it wouldn’t get jostled off when the line finally moved forward.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> When the line finally moved forward, we ascended a dark, winding staircase and came out under a large dome painted with scenes depicting the glorious Turks killing the infidels. I struggled to get the English translating device to my ears, but its cords had become so entangled in the straps of my valise that they had created a macramé on my chest. I knew that there was a time limit to my visit, having seen previous crowds being ushered out en masse. I had to work fast. My disentanglement struggles were heightened by Turkish children head-butting my private regions. I finally got the cords free and the speaker phones onto my ears in time to hear a brilliant, succinct description of the actions depicted on the huge, convex mural in TURKISH!</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> There was a large fellow standing beside a control panel wearing the costume of a Janissary (the Sultan’s personal guards -- slaves, formerly Christian children). I gestured at the device, said </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“Ingilizce”</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> (English) and he calmly punched some buttons, each of which I had just pushed to no effect, and English flooded into my ears. I had made it to the second station when the announcement to exit sounded. UNFAIR! I hung in there. One scene depicted the interior of Constantinople, and the narrator said I should be able to see Hagia Sophia in the background. I looked and looked. Then I realized that I didn’t recognize it because it did not have minarets yet! It was just a distant bulge on the horizon. I lingered for as long as I could, then I cautiously dribbled down the stairs like the last drop swirling down a drain.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> On the way home, I got off the tram in Gulhane (meaning "place of roses"), just outside the North Shield Pub, a venue that carries international rugby on TV. The paper announcements that were adhered to the brick exterior informed me that I now have birthday presents awaiting me this weekend: on Saturday, England vs Italy, and Scotland vs Wales; on Sunday, Ireland vs France.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Then I walked on to Sirkeci (pronounced </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">SEER-keh-jee,</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> meaning something to do with a circus) Main Station, which was the last stop of the Orient Express. The foundation stone was laid in 1888 (one year before Washington became a state, and Germany became unified under Bismarck). The station opened in 1890. The first voyage of the Orient Express departed from Paris to the sounds of Mozart’s "Turkish March" (which Nancy plays so well, but which I can no longer stand, since it seems to be the only piece by Wolfgang that Turks know or play. It is constantly ringing in my music building, making me long for “Chopsticks” or “Heart and Soul”). The train passed through Strasbourg, France; Karlsruhe, Stuttgart, Ulm and Munich, Germany; Vienna, Austria; Budapest, Hungary; Bucharest, Romania; Rousse and Varna, Bulgaria; and terminated in Sirkeci, Istanbul. The Orient Express stopped running in 1977, the year my son, Matthew, was born (I think). </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">[EDITOR'S NOTE: Yes, that's correct. -- MV.]<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /></span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-35672239347071987502011-02-02T11:18:00.000-08:002011-02-02T11:24:52.594-08:00Upon Visiting Dr. ENT<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Ears are a musician’s best friend. Unless one is a titanic genius like Beethoven, hearing loss can be a career-ending disaster. So, recently, after a morning shower, when I removed the cotton swab I had been using to clean my right ear and noticed that the stem of the swab no longer held a small ball of cotton on the end, I became concerned. Sure enough, after many, many years of cleaning my ears with cotton swabs (a very pleasurable experience, I find), the dreaded warnings of my parents, siblings, teachers and friends had finally come true -- I had a wad of cotton jammed up against an ear drum.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> It was like when I was hit in the face by a basketball last fall, and one of the lenses of my glasses was knocked out, without my being aware of it at the time, as I was, understandably, slightly dazed. (I don’t play basketball, never have. I can appreciate the athleticism of the sport, especially when played at the higher levels, but I hate being in an over-heated gym, and I always flinch when that horrid klaxon goes off to announce someone is entering/leaving the floor. As a former rugby player, I also dislike sports that have so many time outs—just play the game and have your meetings afterward.) Anyway, this annoyingly long analogy refers to the fact that, during the remainder of that basketball-dazed day, I wondered if I had received a slight concussion, because my vision was blurry. It wasn’t until I casually took off my glasses to rub the lenses clean that I discovered that the left lens was missing. Now I was dealing with blurry, better yet, fuzzy hearing.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I tried to remove the wad of cotton myself using first wooden toothpicks (stupid, yes, but I’m a guy), then the sharp, curved end of a device intended for flossing teeth. No luck, and, luckily, no damage. So I went to the school doctor in hopes that he could help. I took a clean cotton swab from which I had removed the cotton from one end (Why take the original? Who wants a ball of day-old ear wax in their breast pocket for a couple of hours? Shrek?). Using the open-ended swab, I mimed the action and the doctor got the idea. He probed my ear with a light, and tried to extract the wad with the smallest pair of tweezers he had—a surgical clamp (you know, the kind that, so I’ve heard, makes a good roach clip). He shoved a roach clip down my ear canal! Needless to say, it didn’t work.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> He recommended me to Dr. ENT who works in a clinic in Besiktas, and wrote me a note with all the necessary information. A Turkish friend told me that the doctor’s note would be easily understood by any taxi driver, and that I should arrive in the morning so as to avoid a crowd and not have to wait a long time. So I followed her advice and slept in until 11:00. I didn’t want to take a taxi from my apartment all the way to the clinic (too expensive), and my friend had warned that the clinic was a top of a very steep hill, but if I took a bus all the way to Besiktas the taxi drivers wouldn’t take me because the trip was too short for them to make a decent fare.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> So I took a bus to Ortakoy, then walked half the way to Besiktas. It’s level, along the Bosphorous, and the weather outside wasn't frightful (doot-da-doot-doot-da-DOO-doot ). The taxi driver drove me right up to the building that I assumed housed the clinic. To do so, he made a sharp left turn from the middle lane of a busy, six-lane Boulevard (not an unusual tactic by Istanbul driving standards), cutting off a passenger car which had to brake suddenly and was immediately rammed from behind by another vehicle. Undaunted, my taxi driver continued his multi-lane U-turn, leaving behind the honking, swearing occupants of the vehicles damaged by this maneuver. We both understood his situation: he needed to get out of there, fast. I paid quickly, laughed as he sped away, and entered the building.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> After climbing two flights of stairs, I was told that I was in the wrong building, and I needed to go back outside and turn left at !@#$%^&* Street. Which I did. !@#$%^&* Street consisted of a stairway of 186 concrete steps. Once I reached the top, I faced even more climbing up a very steep street. But wait! There was a guard kiosk that protected an upper entrance to the same building I had just left. I could have taken an elevator! The guard looked at my note and started laughing. I was too winded to join in the jocular ribaldry. He pointed me back down the stairs to one building farther to the left. He was still laughing as I started down.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Once I entered the correct building, I had to climb 36 more stairs to get to the clinic. So my morning step aerobics regimen included 222 ascending and descending stairs, all accomplished without breakfast and while half deaf. I checked in, hung up my hat and coat and waited for a seat to open. The place was packed, mostly with families of small children. Turks are very fecund. But why is there so much illness of the ears, noses and throats of the young, especially since they bundle the children up so tightly at the slightest hint of coolness? Today, the temperature was in the 40’s (F), yet anyone with a fur-lined hood had it tightly winched around their head, zipped parkas and ski gloves were everywhere. Maybe it’s because, oh, what the hell, I don’t care.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Dr. ENT saw me after a mere 20 minute wait. The wad was out in seconds. He repeated the warnings of my parents, siblings, teachers and friends. I now have 20/20 hearing again. So, I have learned a valuable later-in-life lesson: when it comes to showers and cotton swabs -- no more showers!</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-38409670554204874312011-01-23T10:53:00.000-08:002011-02-02T11:17:04.615-08:00Istantidbits IV<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-family: georgia;">.</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />More About Turkish Toilets<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />When one needs to do Number Two, the Turks have a simple system to deal with the occasional skid mark. (Actually, unless your stool is as hard as a dog turd, there is always a skid mark; the toilets are made by a national monopoly, EGEseramik, and the base of the toilet does not line up with the human "nether throat.") To deal with this problem, every Turkish toilet is provided with a small plastic brush that is placed in a small plastic brush house that sits beside every Turkish sit-down toilet. When needed, one simply waits for the tank to refill while pulling up and refastening one's pants, then one flushes the toilet again while scrubbing away the skid mark. Simple + disgusting = simply disgusting, but a good life lesson: we all need to regularly scrub away the shit we have created.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Parking Meters</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />I have never seen an inanimate parking meter in Istanbul. As I have reported before, the parking here is as random and chaotic as the driving. So, when there is organized parking along the streets, it is handled by the Parking Meter Guys. These Guys (always men) wear a distinctive, all-weather uniform, and patrol a small beat, usually no longer than a single city block. They carry a device that records whenever a vehicle is parked in their turf. When the driver returns, the device has recorded how much time has expired, the required fee is paid, and a receipt issues from the device. Nifty system.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mall Security</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Anytime one goes to a large shopping mall in Istanbul, one must pass through a security system that resembles what one would find in a national airport. One must remove all metallic objects -- for me, coins, keys, and my ever-present mechanical pencil (Never Forget: choral musicians ALWAYS have a pencil). They also check automobile trunks.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Guns at Lunch<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />MEF International School has only two entrances, both manned by at least three armed guards 24/7. Every vehicle entering the campus is checked by these men. During the lunch hours, which are separated between Primary and Secondary schools, these armed guards sit and eat among the students. I find this obvious presence of weapons unsettling, but the children, innocent as birds, do not notice.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Turkish Delight<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ufuk </span>= A local high school<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fonetik Spelinj<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Bale </span></span></span>= Ballet<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Baraj </span>= Barrage<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Bulavar </span>= Boulevard<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Burjvazi </span>= Bourgeoisie<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Caz </span>= Jazz<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Cografy </span>= Geography<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Diyalog </span>= Dialogue<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Egzersiz </span>= Exercise<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Eksper </span>= Expert<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Esens </span>= Essence<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Frikik </span>= Free Kick<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Kokteyl Sosic </span>= Cocktail Sausage<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Koleksiyon </span>= Collection<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Oksijen </span>= Oxygen<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Opsiyon </span>= Option<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Add/Change One Letter to a Turkish Word and What Do You Get?<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">At</span></span></span> = Horse; <span style="font-style: italic;">Ata </span>= Father<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Bashka </span>= Other, Different; <span style="font-style: italic;">Bashkan </span>= President<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Bora </span>= Hurrican; <span style="font-style: italic;">Boran </span>= Trumpeter<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Defile </span>= Fashion Show; <span style="font-style: italic;">Define </span>= Buried Treasure<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Divan </span>= Council of State; <span style="font-style: italic;">Divane </span>= Crazy<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Emek </span>= Work; <span style="font-style: italic;">Emmek </span>= Suck<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Fen </span>= Art; <span style="font-style: italic;">Fena </span>= Awful<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hac </span>= Pilgrimage to Mecca; <span style="font-style: italic;">Hace </span>= Crucifix<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hasar </span>= Loss; <span style="font-style: italic;">Hasat </span>= Harvest<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Haya </span>= Testicle; <span style="font-style: italic;">Hayal </span>= Imagination<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Idrak </span>= Intelligence; <span style="font-style: italic;">Idrar </span>= Urine<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Iflah </span>= Improvement; <span style="font-style: italic;">Iflas </span>= Bankruptcy<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ikrah </span>= Disgust; <span style="font-style: italic;">Ikram </span>= Honor<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Istek </span>= Wish; <span style="font-style: italic;">Istem </span>= Demand<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Kerim </span>= Gracious; <span style="font-style: italic;">Keriz </span>= Sucker<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Does Anyone Actually Read My Blog?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />I am struggling with the concept of "To and Fro." For instance, which direction is To? Left? Right? Up? Down? Diagonal? Zig-zag? Wibbeldy-wobbeldy? Obviously, Fro is To's opposite, but must To always come first? Is the concept of "Fro and To"<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></span>even<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></span>possible? Would this cause a space/time warp? I would appreciate your help.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />My inclination is that To is stage left. Am I right about that? But what if To is stage right? What's left? I don't have a clue. Do you? Because when one thinks about it, left is just left of right, and right is just right of left, and then we're just going around in a circle, clockwise or counter. So, what's left? Right?<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />Don't you just LOVE philosophy?<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-55930536884500706892011-01-05T18:02:00.000-08:002011-01-05T18:11:26.341-08:00Christmas with Sophia, Alexander, Stephen, and St. Nik<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I just got back from the capital of Bulgaria, Sophia, where I spent Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and St. Stephen’s Day (Dec. 26). I went to Sophia because I wanted to spend those days in a Christian country, and I wanted to visit Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. (I’m a cathedral junkie, a "collector" -- I’ve quite a few under my belt, and even more hanging over my belt). In December in Istanbul, one sees the occasional decorated tree, or a snow man (<span style="font-style: italic;">kardan adam</span> in Turkish -- interesting that their generic word for man is "adam"), even a Santa, but that’s it. I was sure the rare Christian congregations had their crèche scenes up, but the general atmosphere was just not there here, here there, whatever.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> There were two Masses scheduled at Alexander Nevsky Cathedral on Christmas Day, one in the morning, one in the evening. I decided to sleep in and watch Christmas Day on TV. Luckily, I found three Masses: one from Moscow and two from Rome. I say luckily because if I hadn’t found the broadcast from Moscow, I would have spent over two hours standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a huge crowd of freezing Bulgarians and tourists, doing nothing, seeing nothing but frosted breath and candles melting, while all the action took place behind a curtain. I’ve been to Orthodox Masses before but never at Christmas. On TV, both Roman Masses began after and ended before the Orthodox Mass. But the broadcast took us behind the curtain and I got to witness the liturgy from the priestly point of view. Here’s what I learned:</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The more senior a member of the clergy happens to be, the bigger, fancier and heavier the hat he gets to wear. So the older a priest gets, the more he has to bear on his head (there’s a metaphor there, but I’m not going to chase it). When he had his hat on, the poor old archbishop had to be helped by two large acolytes (the only people behind the curtain who did not sport elaborate vestments -- they wore simple black cassocks and did not get to wear metal hats).</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The ritual is very trinitarian: the priests cross themselves in threes, they kiss the icons three times, they take three hits from the chalice (which was huge and barnacled with gold and precious stones -- the communicants had to grip the base with both hands while another priest helped heft it up to their mouths). When it finally came time for the congregation to receive the Eucharist, it became a friendly mob with two options: 1) crowd around a priest with no hat who handed out a crumbly piece of bread from a huge gold-plated platter, kiss the hand that fed them (the hand was never wiped clean, so there must have been a great feast of saliva-based bacteria celebrating there), then press your forehead against and kiss an icon of the Virgin and Child (which was also not wiped clean); or 2) wait before another priest (also sans hat), and be given a morsel of bread soaked in wine dipped from a reasonably sized chalice on the end of a long, slender silver spoon. Interestingly, the latter option was the favorite of parents within children in arms, who all got spooned.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The choir (located in a balcony behind which the lay people cannot see, and dressed in winter coats with scarves and gloves) sings almost non-stop throughout the entire service. They function responsorially to chants from the priests (during those rare times when they come out from behind the curtain), acting, I assume, as the voice of the congregation; they sing the Ordinary of the Mass; and they sing anytime the priests are not chanting. They sing in that full-throated Russian style, sopranos and tenors warbling stentorially above the vodka soaked basses, while the altos dig musical potatoes. The music itself would put me to sleep if I didn’t find it so irritating. The harmonic rhythm is at best lugubrious, and the changes are turgid and predictable. The only surprises are sudden dynamic changes. It is all a cappella, which is delightful, unless everything sounds the same, which everything does. I believe the intent of this style of composition is to lull the untutored and illiterate into a trance, aided by the beautiful icons, magnificent vestments, fragrant incense and big hats.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I’m glad I didn’t go. Instead, I investigated the neighbor (boring), drank good coffee, read and rested. I did not hear a single siren or car horn all day. Sunday was St. Stephen’s Day. Stephen was the first Christian martyr, so his saint day is placed next to the Christ Mass in honor of his sacrifice. (He was a Roman soldier who refused to recant, so they tied him to a tree and let the archers use him for target practice.) I took a taxi to Alexander Nevsky Square, which is round. The cathedral is a magnificent example of neo-Byzantine architecture -- soaring, gold-capped towers, harmonious exterior detail, exquisite balance -- begun in 1888, the year of Bulgaria’s independence from the Ottoman Empire. The interior was a disappointment because it was too dark to see the frescoes at any distance. I was struck by the ones I was able to get close to, however, because they are in Art Deco style. Upon reading more about the cathedral, this made sense, as the building was completed in the 1920s, and the frescoes are usually the last things added.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I then crossed the circular square to an open park where vendors had set up tables. The Bulgarians had the best spots, and were hawking icons painted in garish colors, making them anciently modern kitsch to my eye. I was more interested in what the Russians were offering further back into the park. On rickety card tables I found entire tables dedicated to ball-point pens, or cheap watches, but most were a potpourri of bracelets, coins, knives, scarves, hats, cast off Russian military paraphernalia, etc. Very eclectic. I stopped and watched two men playing chess. It was like being in Istanbul except for the different game, different clothing, different language, but the banter between players and kibitzers was identical.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /> I discovered an artist selling prints of his drawings, largely surrealistic images, which I love. I searched through his offerings and even named a few that were based on classical images (Sisyphus pushing a giant pumpkin uphill, Hamlet at a dead-end cross road). He was impressed. We chatted awhile; I bought two and he gave me one free. If you want to see his stuff, go to <a href="http://www.boyans.com/" target="_blank">www.boyans.com</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> As I turned to go, I looked up and saw a beautiful gold-capped tower not far away. An unexpected treat! This turned out to be the church of St. Nikolaj the Miracle Worker. Also begun in 1888, it is in classical Russian Orthodox style with four small towers (for the apostles) surrounding a soaring, ornately decorated central tower (Jesus). The interior was small and could have stood a congregation no larger than 50-60. Even so, there has a ground level choir stall in the rear, a mere eight paces from the screen.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> So, I spent Christmas 2010 with Sophia, Alexander, Stephen and St. Nik. But I missed all of you.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-20276257259560874412010-11-27T17:55:00.000-08:002011-01-05T18:02:29.624-08:00Deported<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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!</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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 ...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Amy and I are now legal aliens teaching in Turkey illegally.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-27467689042828351882010-09-03T20:37:00.000-07:002010-09-03T20:39:43.260-07:00The Prisoner of Mustafa, Part 2<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The next day, the heat wave that had been building since the beginning of July finally sat down on Istanbul and decided to stay.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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!</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Eight hours later I could flush the toilet and take a shower.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">(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.)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">My last days in this apartment were spent reading, negotiating the steps by flashlight to buy necessities, and missing my wife.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-91824444352643725192010-08-08T09:38:00.000-07:002010-08-08T09:46:30.885-07:00The Prisoner of Mustafa, Part 1<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.)</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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?</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> (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?)</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.)</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">(kuafur)</span>: 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> All conversation stopped when the large, defeated, sweat-stained stranger entered.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-89411403993776241752010-07-19T18:43:00.000-07:002011-02-02T10:33:50.034-08:00Istantidbits III<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />More Turkish Delights:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> UNSPED</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> A delivery service.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> TOP MODELS</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Sadly, a shop featuring remote controlled toys</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> ORGANIC TOPLESS</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> While I have always preferred toplessness to be organic, this is unfortunately only a fashionable clothing shop for women in Ortakoy.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> TITIZ</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> North America has Hooters, but Turkey has Titiz. While Hooters has a large,</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> varied menu, Titiz specializes in chicken, our favorite being slowly spit-roasted</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> birds, scissor-snipped in half before being wrapped in heat-retaining</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> aluminum/paper foil. Clearly, both franchises depend heavily upon breast meat.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Random Observations:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />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!</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />More Fonetik Spelinj:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Akustik</span> = Acoustic</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Akvaryum = </span>Aquarium</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Biyoloji</span> = Biology</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Deterjan</span> = Detergent</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Dizayn</span> = Design</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Ekselans = </span>Excellence</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Etiket = </span>Etiquette</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Fisikal = </span>Physical</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Ingilizce</span> = English</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Kokteyl Sosis = </span>Cocktail Sausage</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Konferans = </span>Conference</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Konsantre = </span>Concentrate</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Lobi = </span>Lobby</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Meksika = </span>Mexico</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Milyon = </span>Million</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Pasifik = </span>Pacific</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Portekiz = </span>Portuguese</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Promosyon = </span>Promotion</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Ritim = </span>Rhythm</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Sosyal = </span>Social<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Meanderthal</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />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.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />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.Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-17005832059353417892010-07-03T12:06:00.000-07:002010-07-03T12:14:16.629-07:00The Floating Island<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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, <span style="font-style: italic;">Galatasaray</span> (a compound word with five "A"s!). <span style="font-style: italic;">Galata</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">*</span> is a district of Istanbul on the north-eastern tip of the Golden Horn, originally a Genoese enclave. <span style="font-style: italic;">Saray</span> is the Turkish word for "palace."</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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 ...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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 ...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">*</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span></span></span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-47051640068589453502010-06-08T09:02:00.000-07:002010-06-08T09:09:48.646-07:00How to Park a Boat Along the Bosphorous<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Boat Parking Procedures</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 1) Small Boats (mostly independent fishers, but some serve as private water taxis; composition -- wood with cabin; crew, 1-2)</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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).</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> The following scenario takes place at night:</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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).</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Skipper: At the Deck Hand’s call, shift the engine into neutral gear.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Skipper: Carefully begin backing the vessel toward your rented niche, pulling up the slack buoy rope.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Skipper: Shift forward and tighten the stern ropes.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Deck Hand: Scurry forward, heaving the bumpers overboard on the other side, then pull in the slack from the bow rope.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Skipper: Shift into reverse and tighten the bow rope.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Deck Hand: Scamper back and tighten the stern ropes.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Skipper and Hand: Repeat this procedure until the boat is securely triangulated between the buoy and the shore clamps.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Deck Hand: Lower the gangway.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Skipper and Hand: After the guests have left the vessel, drink raki and smoke cigarettes. Don’t forget to turn off the black-lights.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-56411105649227468922010-05-03T10:11:00.000-07:002010-05-03T10:21:56.515-07:00Istantidbits II<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Two interesting Turkish products I have encountered:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />1. RASH men’s briefs</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 2. DROP toilet paper</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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!</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> More Fonetik Spelinj:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Advantage = <span style="font-style: italic;">Avataj</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Amateur = <span style="font-style: italic;">Amatö</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Auto coach = <span style="font-style: italic;">Otokoç</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Barrier = <span style="font-style: italic;">Baryer</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Buffet = <span style="font-style: italic;">Büfe</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Carriage = <span style="font-style: italic;">Karaj</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Clarinet = <span style="font-style: italic;">Klarnet</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Energy = <span style="font-style: italic;">Enerji</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Gooey = <span style="font-style: italic;">Guy</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Guarantee = <span style="font-style: italic;">Garanti</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Gymnastic = <span style="font-style: italic;">Jimnastik</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> League = <span style="font-style: italic;">Lig</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Lilac = <span style="font-style: italic;">Laylak</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Maneuver = <span style="font-style: italic;">Manevra</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Maniac = <span style="font-style: italic;">Manyak</span><br />Off side = <span style="font-style: italic;">Ofsayt</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Option = <span style="font-style: italic;">Opsyon</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Porcelain = <span style="font-style: italic;">Porselen</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Season = <span style="font-style: italic;">Sezon</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Social = <span style="font-style: italic;">Sosyal</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Technology = <span style="font-style: italic;">Teknoloji</span></span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-55240443901591710052010-04-24T08:04:00.000-07:002010-04-24T08:09:08.768-07:00Upon Seeing "Avatar" Twice<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Soon after it appeared in Turkish theaters, Nancy and I attended a screening of the motion picture <span style="font-style: italic;">Avatar</span>. 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:</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> You will enter the theater through a narrow <span style="font-style: italic;">passaji</span> (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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> I preferred the Turkish experience.</span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6132692075624798014.post-6815205485689714722010-04-18T19:31:00.000-07:002010-04-18T19:46:19.595-07:00Upon Being Ozzified<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">The Wizard of Oz</span>, 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">*</span> from America, Azerbaijan, England, Germany, Holland, India, Italy, Korea, Pakistan, Russia and Spain. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.”</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">I’d be vile and I’d be vicious,</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> My evil so malicious,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> My mission—to abuse.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> I would need no rhyme nor reason</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> To be mean in ev’ry season,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> If I only had the shoes.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">If I had the ruby slippers,</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> Who’d remember Jack the Ripper?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> Ghengis Khan would sing the blues.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> I could be another Nero</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> Burning Rome (he’s my hero!),</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> But I gotta get the shoes.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Making me a tragedy</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> For all humanity.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> They would kneel and bow and beg me,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> “Please, no more!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> Then I’d sniff,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> And slam the door.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">By the Winkies I am hated,</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> So I keep them all sedated.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> They got nothin’ left to lose.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> There’ll be chaos, there’ll be mayhem.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> All my whims? You must obey ‘em,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-style: italic;"> Once I get those ruby shoes!</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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!</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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:</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Act One</span></span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br />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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Act Two</span></span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> Dorothy asks to meet the Wizard and, after some delays, she and her companions stand before the </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">great and powerful</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">”</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">*</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">To be accepted into MEF International School, a student must have a passport from outside Turkey.</span></span>Vancilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05732804389087945769noreply@blogger.com0