.
More Turkish Delights
.
Crepe, Swing = Men's apparel shops
Gluttoni, TENT = Apparel shops for large men
FitFlops, Crash = Men's shoes
ZEN = An air conditioning and heating company
.
Differences I noticed between Sophia and Istanbul last Christmas
.
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.
.
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.
.
Turkish TV: The Cigarette Smudge
.
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 Casablanca, 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.
.
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: "Fumare della Turka."
.
Language
.
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: Cuma (Friday) becomes Cumartesi (the day after Friday); Pazar (Sunday) becomes Pazartesi (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 instance, 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.
.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
In My Room at MEF International School
.
Autobiographical songs are the usually the very definition of maudlin -- tearfully sentimental screeds. (For all you Dan Brown Da Vinci Code fans, the term derives from the Old French word Madeleine, 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.
.
MEF: Model Educational Facility, or Marble Educational Farce. Here’s why I have come to this sad conclusion:
.
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.
.
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.
.
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).
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.)
.
I am going to miss these kids, and my fellow ex-pat teachers. But I will not regret leaving MEF International School.
.
Autobiographical songs are the usually the very definition of maudlin -- tearfully sentimental screeds. (For all you Dan Brown Da Vinci Code fans, the term derives from the Old French word Madeleine, 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.
.
MEF: Model Educational Facility, or Marble Educational Farce. Here’s why I have come to this sad conclusion:
.
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.
.
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.
.
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).
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.)
.
I am going to miss these kids, and my fellow ex-pat teachers. But I will not regret leaving MEF International School.
.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Upon My Second Birthday in Istanbul (February 10, 2011)
.
"‘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.
.
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.”
.
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 dole-meh-BAH-jeh, 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 Glee 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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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!
.
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 “Ingilizce” (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.
.
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.
.
Then I walked on to Sirkeci (pronounced SEER-keh-jee, 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). [EDITOR'S NOTE: Yes, that's correct. -- MV.]
.
"‘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.
.
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.”
.
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 dole-meh-BAH-jeh, 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 Glee 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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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!
.
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 “Ingilizce” (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.
.
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.
.
Then I walked on to Sirkeci (pronounced SEER-keh-jee, 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). [EDITOR'S NOTE: Yes, that's correct. -- MV.]
.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Upon Visiting Dr. ENT
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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!
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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!
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Sunday, January 23, 2011
Istantidbits IV
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More About Turkish Toilets
.
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.
.
Parking Meters
.
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.
.
Mall Security
.
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.
.
Guns at Lunch
.
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.
.
Turkish Delight
.
Ufuk = A local high school
.
Fonetik Spelinj
.
Bale = Ballet
Baraj = Barrage
Bulavar = Boulevard
Burjvazi = Bourgeoisie
Caz = Jazz
Cografy = Geography
Diyalog = Dialogue
Egzersiz = Exercise
Eksper = Expert
Esens = Essence
Frikik = Free Kick
Kokteyl Sosic = Cocktail Sausage
Koleksiyon = Collection
Oksijen = Oxygen
Opsiyon = Option
.
Add/Change One Letter to a Turkish Word and What Do You Get?
.
At = Horse; Ata = Father
Bashka = Other, Different; Bashkan = President
Bora = Hurrican; Boran = Trumpeter
Defile = Fashion Show; Define = Buried Treasure
Divan = Council of State; Divane = Crazy
Emek = Work; Emmek = Suck
Fen = Art; Fena = Awful
Hac = Pilgrimage to Mecca; Hace = Crucifix
Hasar = Loss; Hasat = Harvest
Haya = Testicle; Hayal = Imagination
Idrak = Intelligence; Idrar = Urine
Iflah = Improvement; Iflas = Bankruptcy
Ikrah = Disgust; Ikram = Honor
Istek = Wish; Istem = Demand
Kerim = Gracious; Keriz = Sucker
.
Does Anyone Actually Read My Blog?
.
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" even possible? Would this cause a space/time warp? I would appreciate your help.
.
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?
.
Don't you just LOVE philosophy?
.
More About Turkish Toilets
.
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.
.
Parking Meters
.
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.
.
Mall Security
.
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.
.
Guns at Lunch
.
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.
.
Turkish Delight
.
Ufuk = A local high school
.
Fonetik Spelinj
.
Bale = Ballet
Baraj = Barrage
Bulavar = Boulevard
Burjvazi = Bourgeoisie
Caz = Jazz
Cografy = Geography
Diyalog = Dialogue
Egzersiz = Exercise
Eksper = Expert
Esens = Essence
Frikik = Free Kick
Kokteyl Sosic = Cocktail Sausage
Koleksiyon = Collection
Oksijen = Oxygen
Opsiyon = Option
.
Add/Change One Letter to a Turkish Word and What Do You Get?
.
At = Horse; Ata = Father
Bashka = Other, Different; Bashkan = President
Bora = Hurrican; Boran = Trumpeter
Defile = Fashion Show; Define = Buried Treasure
Divan = Council of State; Divane = Crazy
Emek = Work; Emmek = Suck
Fen = Art; Fena = Awful
Hac = Pilgrimage to Mecca; Hace = Crucifix
Hasar = Loss; Hasat = Harvest
Haya = Testicle; Hayal = Imagination
Idrak = Intelligence; Idrar = Urine
Iflah = Improvement; Iflas = Bankruptcy
Ikrah = Disgust; Ikram = Honor
Istek = Wish; Istem = Demand
Kerim = Gracious; Keriz = Sucker
.
Does Anyone Actually Read My Blog?
.
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" even possible? Would this cause a space/time warp? I would appreciate your help.
.
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?
.
Don't you just LOVE philosophy?
.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Christmas with Sophia, Alexander, Stephen, and St. Nik
.
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 (kardan adam 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.
.
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:
.
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).
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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 www.boyans.com.
.
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.
.
So, I spent Christmas 2010 with Sophia, Alexander, Stephen and St. Nik. But I missed all of you.
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 (kardan adam 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.
.
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:
.
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).
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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 www.boyans.com.
.
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.
.
So, I spent Christmas 2010 with Sophia, Alexander, Stephen and St. Nik. But I missed all of you.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Deported
.
In mid-November, 2010, my Turkish Residence Permit expired. Due to a clerical snafu, several teachers found themselves in the same predicament. We were told by the school that the only solution was to deport us at different times, so that we could re-enter the country as tourists for three months, during which time our Residence Permits would be renewed. Since then we have all been teaching in Turkey illegally.
.
On November 11, a school day, Amy Feeley and I were deported. Amy is a Londoner, 20-something, who teaches biology. We climbed into a 15 passenger school van and were driven by Savas Bey (Mr. Savage, how comforting) to the city of Edirne, the capital of Edirne province, which has over 400,000 occupants, most of whom appeared to be employable males sitting along the sidewalks, smoking, drinking sweet tea and playing backgammon. Edirne sits at the borders of Turkey, Greece and Bulgaria, and its name is derived from Adrianopolis, from back when the Greeks had the most guns. It is reputed to be one of the best preserved Ottoman cities, but were not able to stop and investigate. I plan to go back. I did see its famous mosque, built by the greatest of all Ottoman architects, Selim, the Greatest of All Ottoman Architects, who also architected the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. Edirne is the also center of the national sport of Turkey, grease wrestling, the championship bouts of which take place on an island between two local rivers. June, 2010, witnessed the 649th grease wrestling championship. I was in Turkey then; if I’d only known!
.
We drove through the city and down a beautiful cobbled lane that ran straight for over a kilometer -- Roma (Gypsies) passed by on two-wheeled, horse-drawn carts -- small, careworn , dirty faces, adults and children huddled together against the cold -- beautiful, orange leaves fell from the trees -- Puccini rang from the radio -- a very cinematic moment. We crossed a river over a beautifully conceived stone bridge and onto a country lane that led us to the border with Greece.
.
Our driver walked us to a window and conversed with the occupant of the booth who was sitting in a uniform behind a pane of glass. Amy and I fidgeted. Uniform Guy asked for our Residence Permits. What!? Why should I have brought an expired Residence Permit? It seemed incriminatory: “Yes, Officer, here is undeniable proof that I am definitely living and working in Turkey illegally.” I turned in astonishment to Amy, who had brought her expired Residence Permit, and she said, “Didn’t they tell you?” (I think “Didn’t they tell you?” must be the most famous of the infamous Famous Last Words -- Brutus to Julius Caesar in the Forum; John the Baptist to Jesus in the River Jordan; Jim Bowie to Davy Crockett at the Alamo: “Didn’t they tell you?”) Savas Bey muttered, “Problem.” My guts turned to jelly.
.
Luckily, since it was a school day, the office secretaries were at work and were able to find the necessary photocopies of my document, the numbers from which satisfied Uniform Guy. Savas Bey pointed us to a fenced alleyway, and told Amy to call him on her cell phone when we had returned from Greece so that he could pick us up for the return trip to Istanbul. We set off warily, passing gates guarded by soldiers in full combat gear, bearing semi-automatic weapons, passing machine gun nests protected by barbed wire and sand bags, passing silently through a no-man’s-land of wire fences topped by concertina wire. No birds sang. The only sound was the crunching of gravel under our feet. I turned to my favorite mental channel -- Martin and the Luthiers. Amy felt uneasy enough to call Mr. Savage. That’s when she realized she had left her phone in the van. Talk about feeling alone ...
.
At the end of no-man’s-land was a simple barricade. A kid on a skateboard could have ducked under it easily. We handed our passports to the young, uniformed guard who stamped them without compunction. We entered Greece. It was like being in an episode of Twilight Zone. Empty apartments and offices lined a single street that seemed to lead to nowhere. The buildings looked new or refurbished, but there were no vehicles moving or parked. No faces peeked from behind curtains. No cats or dogs. Just us.
.
We walked for half an hour before we encountered any living thing -- four men engaged in a game of backgammon. They stared at us. I stared back. They didn’t back down, nor did I, even after we’d past. I’m stubborn at stupid times. We had both been given $25 for expenses. Once we found an open restaurant, they would not take USD. So, after walking into Greece for an hour, we turned around and walked out, not having seen a single ancient ruin. We re-entered Turkey, got our passports stamped with tourist visas and were driven home, after a delightful lunch at a riverside café in view of the aforementioned beautifully conceived stone bridge.
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Amy and I are now legal aliens teaching in Turkey illegally.
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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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 ...
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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.
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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.
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Amy and I are now legal aliens teaching in Turkey illegally.
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