Wednesday 29 August 2012
Mall Rat
Shopping malls are sprinkled more generously through Ankara than salt on potato chips. They are everywhere. And now it is end of summer clearance. On the surface, the stores and merchandising seem familiar and similar to what might be found in US shopping megamalls. But there are differences. First, the people are considerably shorter and more petite. Fashions and sizes for big-boned Americans are hard to find. Second, in-store displays are limited to fewer pieces, and sizes are stored on shelves or in back rooms, forcing much more dialogue with store personnel...a challenge for those of us who prefer self-service and even more challenging when there is a language barrier between the salesclerk and the shopper. Nonetheless, I have snagged a few bargains and learned N important new word, "INDIRIM"! A sale is a sale in any language. I haven't found a TJ MAXX, but I have snagged some unbelievable bargains.
SHINE, SHINE, SHINE
Some books do shine, and this is one. Lydia Netzer's imagination and wordsmithing took my breath away. It is a family love story about a heroine with alopecia married to a mathematician whose robotic personality is matched with his genius in robotic technology and their autistic son Bubber, and how's this family of quirky personalities find the courage to be authentic. Netzer takes you on a journey that shifts back and forth from Burma to the suburbs of Virginia, to outer space, to rural Pennsylvania and back. She challenges your sense of normal on every level; grammatically, perceptually. Relationships, politics, morals, ethics and expectations are are all re-examined. It made me want to shave my head, to live louder, bolder and at the same time live more quietly and love more purely. It made me grieve for the the days lost to conformity for the sake of fitting in. It made me rethink perfect. Perfect is not without flaws, but recognizing that the flaws themselves are part of the perfect order of things. Shine, Shine, Shine is a bright star on my summer reading list!
Redemption in Cyprus
With a good sleep under our belt and feeling a little more optimistic about driving after our trial run on Saturday, we decided to venture southwest of Limassol and visit the Kourion castle as well as the archaeological ruins. The castle was lovely, situated in the middle of a vast vineyard, and surrounded by flowers. We spent some time snapping pictures and then ran into a group of about 30 young women from the Philippines who were also on tour. Nabil offered to take their picture and that started a picture taking frenzy ...they wanted a picture with Nabil as a group, in singles, twosomes and threesomes. They wanted pictures with me, then with us, then with each other. They giggled and screamed and traded cameras and thanked us profusely and then disappeared onto their bus! That's the beauty of traveling...the crazy unexpected encounters with people who you would never imagine meeting.
We stopped for a Turkish coffee...thick, dense coffee served in small cups sweetened to taste, and served with a separate glass of water. Its become an acquired taste with a caffeine kick! We sat there taking in the fresh air scented with ripening grapes, watching the proprietor and her husband tend their storefront. We tried to imagine living such a simple life. Couldn't get there. And then we pushed on....
The Kourion ruins were perched on a spectacular hilltop that overlooked the Mediterranean, making it one of the most spectacular sites we have ever visited. Much of the city had been excavated and the remains of the plumbing, thermal baths, ceramic flooring and other minutiae of daily life were incredibly well preserved. The well preserved amphitheater was abuzz with preparations for a heavy metal concert which was scheduled for that evening, and their wild lyrics echoed off the mountain as they tested the sound equipment. Recycling the architecture of the ages! The brutal heat seared the visual memory into our brains.
Desperate to cool off we headed down the hill to the beach and chowed down on freshly grilled fish while the blue sea crashed on the rocky beach. This side of the island was much prettier, with limestone cliffs plunging into a sea of swirling blues and greens. Refreshed, we headed to the temple of Apollo several miles away, stopping briefly at the site of an ancient sports stadium. The entire complex from Kourion to the Apollo site had once been a contiguous ancient metropolis, sitting on the crest of a mountain. It was awe inspiring. But hot, hot, hot. So we decided to drive into the mountains to the village of Omodos, recommended as quaint, with good shopping and traditional architecture. At least 10 degrees cooler and much less humid, it was a welcome respite from the broiling heat of the coast.
We navigated with ease, stopping along the way to enjoy the views and then meandered through the town, buying some treats from the local bakery to enjoy with our cappuccino. At the recommendation of our hotel clerk, we took a detour deeper into the mountains, clinging to the curving switchbacks that hugged the edge of the cliffs, looking for the first of a series of Venetian bridges buried in the mountain forests. When we finally came upon the first of these simple stone bridges, it looked like we had stumbled onto a movie set, where forest gnomes might be gathered at the stream and under the bridge. Six hundred years ago, soldiers had carved this trail and series of bridges to cart supplies through this difficult landscape. We soaked our feet in the stream and braced for the return trip, stopping first at Aphrodite's temple before driving back to our hotel, and having dinner in Larnaca.
Our last day was spent touring Larnaca in the morning, and then we headed east to Agia Napa, a newly developed beach resort that pulsed with young university students and families enjoying the white sand beaches, crystal clear coves and typical beach attractions. We soaked in the sea water and dozed in the sun on rented chaise lounges. On our return, we dined across from the hotel and spent nearly an hour chatting with the owner about the explosion of Russian tourists on Cyprus and the shifting global economy. He had spent 40 years in the hospitality business cultivating the Russian market for Cyprus hotels before starting his business. His brother was a restaurant owner in Nashville, Tennessee, and his daughter was attending university in Greece. A microcosm of global migration patterns.
We meet so many interesting people on our travels. There was the eighty year old owner operator of the rental car agency who had spent most of his life operating his coffee plantations in Africa. The his farms were nationalized and he returned to Cyprus, with much of his money lost and his family in crisis. Now a small family enterprise had taken root on the street corner of Larnaca, with the old man still barking out orders and holding onto his role as patriarch. Suffering from cancer, but still sharp as a tack, he still calculated all the details of his contracts in his head, forgoing both calculator and computer.
There was the elderly gentleman who had grown up in Alexandria, the son of a wealthy family who owned a chain of Egyptian supermarkets but lost their fortune when Nasser took control. Educated in England, he rebuilt his fortune in the shipping trade. He spoke impeccable English and fluent Arabic, trading stories with Nabil about the the splendor of Egypt, before it's fortunes we're plundered by the nationalists.
There was the old woman whose home was tucked in alley in Lefraka who welcomed us into her courtyard and shared her childhood memories of the village. Fluent in English, retired, with children who lived in Brooklyn and summered with her in Cyprus, we marveled at the simplicity of her grandmothers village home and how far from these humble beginnings the family had travelled.
There was the couple in Omodos whose children lived in Pennsylvania, but who still manned their storefront in the village. There was the woman in Lefraka who had raised and educated her family in London, and then returned to the mountain village with her husband to care for his dying mother. There was the desk clerk, who had been sent to England for his education and just barely escaped military service in the Turkish Cypriot conflict that claimed the life of his first cousin and best friend.
Chance encounters with strangers whose life stories are a reminder that life
is unpredictable, shaped by chance and sprinkled with luck and misfortune! It is a reminder of the tremendous survival instinct that enables us to reinvent ourselves. It speaks to our capacity for change and ability to adapt to new circumstances. It is a reminder that life happens...and happily so for us, at least for now !
We stopped for a Turkish coffee...thick, dense coffee served in small cups sweetened to taste, and served with a separate glass of water. Its become an acquired taste with a caffeine kick! We sat there taking in the fresh air scented with ripening grapes, watching the proprietor and her husband tend their storefront. We tried to imagine living such a simple life. Couldn't get there. And then we pushed on....
The Kourion ruins were perched on a spectacular hilltop that overlooked the Mediterranean, making it one of the most spectacular sites we have ever visited. Much of the city had been excavated and the remains of the plumbing, thermal baths, ceramic flooring and other minutiae of daily life were incredibly well preserved. The well preserved amphitheater was abuzz with preparations for a heavy metal concert which was scheduled for that evening, and their wild lyrics echoed off the mountain as they tested the sound equipment. Recycling the architecture of the ages! The brutal heat seared the visual memory into our brains.
Desperate to cool off we headed down the hill to the beach and chowed down on freshly grilled fish while the blue sea crashed on the rocky beach. This side of the island was much prettier, with limestone cliffs plunging into a sea of swirling blues and greens. Refreshed, we headed to the temple of Apollo several miles away, stopping briefly at the site of an ancient sports stadium. The entire complex from Kourion to the Apollo site had once been a contiguous ancient metropolis, sitting on the crest of a mountain. It was awe inspiring. But hot, hot, hot. So we decided to drive into the mountains to the village of Omodos, recommended as quaint, with good shopping and traditional architecture. At least 10 degrees cooler and much less humid, it was a welcome respite from the broiling heat of the coast.
We navigated with ease, stopping along the way to enjoy the views and then meandered through the town, buying some treats from the local bakery to enjoy with our cappuccino. At the recommendation of our hotel clerk, we took a detour deeper into the mountains, clinging to the curving switchbacks that hugged the edge of the cliffs, looking for the first of a series of Venetian bridges buried in the mountain forests. When we finally came upon the first of these simple stone bridges, it looked like we had stumbled onto a movie set, where forest gnomes might be gathered at the stream and under the bridge. Six hundred years ago, soldiers had carved this trail and series of bridges to cart supplies through this difficult landscape. We soaked our feet in the stream and braced for the return trip, stopping first at Aphrodite's temple before driving back to our hotel, and having dinner in Larnaca.
Our last day was spent touring Larnaca in the morning, and then we headed east to Agia Napa, a newly developed beach resort that pulsed with young university students and families enjoying the white sand beaches, crystal clear coves and typical beach attractions. We soaked in the sea water and dozed in the sun on rented chaise lounges. On our return, we dined across from the hotel and spent nearly an hour chatting with the owner about the explosion of Russian tourists on Cyprus and the shifting global economy. He had spent 40 years in the hospitality business cultivating the Russian market for Cyprus hotels before starting his business. His brother was a restaurant owner in Nashville, Tennessee, and his daughter was attending university in Greece. A microcosm of global migration patterns.
We meet so many interesting people on our travels. There was the eighty year old owner operator of the rental car agency who had spent most of his life operating his coffee plantations in Africa. The his farms were nationalized and he returned to Cyprus, with much of his money lost and his family in crisis. Now a small family enterprise had taken root on the street corner of Larnaca, with the old man still barking out orders and holding onto his role as patriarch. Suffering from cancer, but still sharp as a tack, he still calculated all the details of his contracts in his head, forgoing both calculator and computer.
There was the elderly gentleman who had grown up in Alexandria, the son of a wealthy family who owned a chain of Egyptian supermarkets but lost their fortune when Nasser took control. Educated in England, he rebuilt his fortune in the shipping trade. He spoke impeccable English and fluent Arabic, trading stories with Nabil about the the splendor of Egypt, before it's fortunes we're plundered by the nationalists.
There was the old woman whose home was tucked in alley in Lefraka who welcomed us into her courtyard and shared her childhood memories of the village. Fluent in English, retired, with children who lived in Brooklyn and summered with her in Cyprus, we marveled at the simplicity of her grandmothers village home and how far from these humble beginnings the family had travelled.
There was the couple in Omodos whose children lived in Pennsylvania, but who still manned their storefront in the village. There was the woman in Lefraka who had raised and educated her family in London, and then returned to the mountain village with her husband to care for his dying mother. There was the desk clerk, who had been sent to England for his education and just barely escaped military service in the Turkish Cypriot conflict that claimed the life of his first cousin and best friend.
Chance encounters with strangers whose life stories are a reminder that life
is unpredictable, shaped by chance and sprinkled with luck and misfortune! It is a reminder of the tremendous survival instinct that enables us to reinvent ourselves. It speaks to our capacity for change and ability to adapt to new circumstances. It is a reminder that life happens...and happily so for us, at least for now !
Monday 27 August 2012
Cyprus Tales continued
The taxi driver was probably relieved to drop us off, since Nabil had spent most of the drive speaking in code to his phantom CIA associates. I couldnt wait to get out of the car so i could preview the hotel. This aas the make or break moment. Fortunately, the hotel was lovely. Small, new, and spotlessly clean, and manned by an English speaking night receptionist, the hotel redeemed me for all my other travel planning sins. Of course we arrived wired, and Nabil spent an hour interrogating the kind man at the desk about border procedures, taxi rates, drive times and a host of other inquiries aimed at proving we had been scammed. Finally satisfied that we had not paid usury rates, we shuffled to our room and collapsed, wondering what new surprises lay around the corner.
The morning was brilliantly sunny and hot as hell. Breakfast was served by the pool and it was delicious. I felt the clench in my gut slightly release. The hotel folks were extremely helpful and encouraged us to take a tour and just hang out , but we of course, don't know how to simply relax, so pressed him to help us look for a rental car and map out our day. We were told there were ncarted available to rent. Disappointed, we headed to the beach to reconsider the plan. Unfortunately, as we hit the street my gut tightened again. Larnaca is a seaside city in need of a facelift and the beach while well attended,was not the white sand beach we were hoping for. The sand was dark and where the sea crept in to meet the shore, it had turned a murky muddy color that made the thought of lounging on the beach seem akin to taking a mud bath. Not good.
We decided to head back to the hotel for a dip in the pool and to regroup there. On our way we stumbled upon a rent-a-car agency and lucked into a car that was both reasonable and comfortable. We snatched it up and felt pleased with ourselves as we returned to the hotel for directions to some of the Cyprus sites. And here's where things got interesting again.
For many years Cyprus was a British colony and one of the traditions they passed along to the Cypriots was the habit of driving on the right side of the road...not a small adjustment, especially when road signs are written in Greek and highway engineers have committed to the liberal use of "roundabouts" to control traffic flow.
So now Lucy and Desi are hurtling through the hills and byways of Cyprus in the desert sun, while Nabil tries to master the art of driving on the wrong side of the road, sitting on the wrong side of the car, with the exit and entrance ramps coming all tool quickly on the wrong side of the highway. Gail tries to decipher the Greek/English maps and road signs, an orie ting herself to directional signs on the wrong side of the car. You discover a lot about yourself and your partner when you are forced to change a habit. I never knew that Nabil's depth perception on the left is impaired. I did however know that he had reached his threshold of stress tolerance. I also learned that my own stress level are exponentially increased when tree branches scrape my side of the car. I gently tried to persuade Nabil that we would quickly adjust to this newest challenge. His white knuckle grip on the steering wheel said otherwise.
Still, we managed to find a lovely seaside restaraunt recommended by the hotel cook, and then explored a neotholithic site on the south side of the island that was nearly 12,000years old. Then we headed infortune mountains for a look at a village known for its lace making, traditional architecture and spectacular views. We wandered the village, spoke with the locals, drank cappuccino under a grapevine trellis and applauded ourselves for our navigational skills. We rested. Then we decided to head back to the hotel.
We should have held the applause. While we did a great job getting to our destinations, the return to the hotel was not as smooth. What should have been a 45 minute drive, turned into a 2 hour nightmare, driving on mountain roads in the dark on the wrong side of the road. When we finally pulled into the hotel, we were too exhausted to eat, barely talking and I was fairly sure I was for g to lose my travel planning privileges!
The morning was brilliantly sunny and hot as hell. Breakfast was served by the pool and it was delicious. I felt the clench in my gut slightly release. The hotel folks were extremely helpful and encouraged us to take a tour and just hang out , but we of course, don't know how to simply relax, so pressed him to help us look for a rental car and map out our day. We were told there were ncarted available to rent. Disappointed, we headed to the beach to reconsider the plan. Unfortunately, as we hit the street my gut tightened again. Larnaca is a seaside city in need of a facelift and the beach while well attended,was not the white sand beach we were hoping for. The sand was dark and where the sea crept in to meet the shore, it had turned a murky muddy color that made the thought of lounging on the beach seem akin to taking a mud bath. Not good.
We decided to head back to the hotel for a dip in the pool and to regroup there. On our way we stumbled upon a rent-a-car agency and lucked into a car that was both reasonable and comfortable. We snatched it up and felt pleased with ourselves as we returned to the hotel for directions to some of the Cyprus sites. And here's where things got interesting again.
For many years Cyprus was a British colony and one of the traditions they passed along to the Cypriots was the habit of driving on the right side of the road...not a small adjustment, especially when road signs are written in Greek and highway engineers have committed to the liberal use of "roundabouts" to control traffic flow.
So now Lucy and Desi are hurtling through the hills and byways of Cyprus in the desert sun, while Nabil tries to master the art of driving on the wrong side of the road, sitting on the wrong side of the car, with the exit and entrance ramps coming all tool quickly on the wrong side of the highway. Gail tries to decipher the Greek/English maps and road signs, an orie ting herself to directional signs on the wrong side of the car. You discover a lot about yourself and your partner when you are forced to change a habit. I never knew that Nabil's depth perception on the left is impaired. I did however know that he had reached his threshold of stress tolerance. I also learned that my own stress level are exponentially increased when tree branches scrape my side of the car. I gently tried to persuade Nabil that we would quickly adjust to this newest challenge. His white knuckle grip on the steering wheel said otherwise.
Still, we managed to find a lovely seaside restaraunt recommended by the hotel cook, and then explored a neotholithic site on the south side of the island that was nearly 12,000years old. Then we headed infortune mountains for a look at a village known for its lace making, traditional architecture and spectacular views. We wandered the village, spoke with the locals, drank cappuccino under a grapevine trellis and applauded ourselves for our navigational skills. We rested. Then we decided to head back to the hotel.
We should have held the applause. While we did a great job getting to our destinations, the return to the hotel was not as smooth. What should have been a 45 minute drive, turned into a 2 hour nightmare, driving on mountain roads in the dark on the wrong side of the road. When we finally pulled into the hotel, we were too exhausted to eat, barely talking and I was fairly sure I was for g to lose my travel planning privileges!
Friday 24 August 2012
Schizophrenic Cyprus
Once we resettled in Ankara after our roman holiday, we realized that another long weekend was around the corner, thanks to the national celebration of the end of Ramadan. Much like Christmas in the US, the end of Ramadan is marked by celebrations, feasting and gift-giving and while it is a religious holiday, it has actually been nationalized. We were advised that nothing would be happening in Ankara and it would be an ideal time for another trip, so I immediately started looking at options. With two days notice and in the height of summer season, it was hard to find something both reasonable and suitable for a four day jaunt, especially in light of the fact that we were still unpacking our bags from Rome.
Finally I stumbled on Cyprus, an island country just a hop, skip and jump from Turkey, rich in history and archaeological finds, with great beaches and a favorable exchange rate. Perfect. On further investigation, I learned that there was Northern Cyprus, a Turkish military state wrestled from the Cypriots in a bloody but short war in the 1970's, and southern Cyprus, that draws heavily on its Greek heritage, but is proud of its independence (though still heavily reliant on British tourists).
This north:south divide creates some obstacles for tourists and one has to choose sides. Because it was easier and cheaper to fly into north Cyprus, the decision for us was easy and I made reservation for a hotel close to Famugusta, a city on the Turkish side of the island. I reserved a car, bought tickets and packed, congratulating myself on my increasingly efficient ability to navigate the Internet and organize our travel.
A few hours before departing for the airport, I began printing out our paperwork and realized our airline reservation had not confirmed. This might have been a small problem to correct in the US, but given the language and technical barriers, a two hour nightmare ensued. It took nearly an hour to connect with an English speaking operator. Then, my phone died. Had to start over. Decided to use Nabil's phone. After nearly completing the transaction, Nabil's phone lost the connection. Then had to start the process over again. Finally, with an hour to spare, we confirmed flights, packed, closed up the apartment and headed for the airport for a late night flight.
The flight was short, but we arrived in Cyprus after midnight. We hustled through customs and headed into the baggage claim area to find our rental car agency. No show! The airport personnel were grumpy, inhospitable and didn't speak English. They told us to stand outside and wait for the car company to pick us up. I pulled out our confirmation as I didn't remember any instructions to wait outside. That's when I realized the confirmation did not include a phone number for the car rental company. By now, Nabil's anxiety level was off the charts. I assured him that all would be okay, since the island was small and our hotel nearby. We could take a cab, and rent a car in the morning. No problem.
That's when the taxi driver informed us that our hotel was actually not on the North side, but in a small village southwest of,Famugusta on the Greek side of the island! The hotel was not actually twenty minutes away, but forty. But, the taxi driver told us, it was going to take us almost 90 minutes to get there because we had to drive to a distant outpost that would handle people with US passports. (Americans are not often seen on Cyprus).
While all of this made sense to me (except for the fact that my key word search was Famugusta hotels and I couldn't understand how I ended up on the south side anyway), Nabil was now sure we were victims of a taxi driver scam. Incensed that we would need to pay $125 for the hotel transfer and not likely arrive until two in the morning, he began cross examining the driver testing and retesting the facts of the story that unfolded about politics at the border. Another 30 minutes went by before we reluctantly climbed into the cab. Well, Nabil was reluctant. I was relieved.
By now, I was totally discredited - a travel agent wannabe, who had botched two of three critical reservations. This of course triggered our usual bickering and bantering. Lucy And Desi Arnaz in Cyprus arguing in the back of a cab hurtling through the darkness across a hostile and suspicious island.
When the highway ended, and we found ourselves snaking though some back city streets, Nabil was convinced that the taxi driver was moving us off the grid and taking us to some rendezvous point where thieves and murderers were waiting to plunder and butcher us. He pulled out his phone and began making false calls, reporting his position to "pretend CIA associates". I wanted to laugh, but dared not. The inside of the cab felt like a pressure cooker. It was a very long ride. It was hot and humid. The road seemed endless. I sat in silence, hoping that the hotel would live up to the reviews posted online. I worried as we got closer. The town looked tired and the roadside littered. This was not the Cyprus I imagined and certainly not what Nabil was expecting.
I am not sure why Nabil and I like to travel together. I think traveling is an adventure, and often a misadventure. Sometimes you have to make the best of a bad situation. It always works out. Nabil expects it all to go well from the beginning; a seamless transition from one environment to another. That seldom happens. When venturing out together, I try remain peaceful and calm when I am not in control. Nabil strives to take control to avoid conflict. I throw him into chaos and push the boundaries of our limits. He holds me in check. I trust everyone. Nabil trusts no one. I think the vacation should be a respite from boredom. Nabil is seeking a break for over-stimulation. I expect him to be a partner in the adventure. He expects me to be the event planner that never misses a beat.
We are like two dancers who have lost their rhythm, but can't get off the dance floor. We always get tripped up!
Stinky poo
I am not sure why deodorant isn't universally accepted. Apparently Turkish folks, men in particular, must consider the use of personal hygiene products an affront to their masculinity. It is not unusual to crowd into an elevator and find yourself nose to armpit with someone who smells like they haven't bathed or washed their clothes for days.
Last week we went to a fine restaurant in downtown Ankara. Once seated, a strong objectionable odor drifted in, and I frantically did a self check to make sure I wasn't the culprit. Passing muster, I sniffed around to make sure Nabil wasn't the guilty party. He too was cleared. At first I couldn't be sure if the odor was coming from inside or outside. French doors opened onto the street and I thought it was possible that the odor might have been a mix of city sewage and street smells. The sickly sweet stench gathered in small waves, flooding our space and then retreating, until I finally realized that the waitstaff was emitting this pungent odor as they buzzed around and between the tables.
Of course, bad smells are another of Nabil's pet peeves, and so I cringed as our waiter moved in closer to take our order, with his armpits positioned just to the left of Nabil's head and perilously close to his nose. I was sure he wouldn't be able to hold himself, and before the order was completed, he blurted out the obvious,"My god, man, you smell awful!".
Not one to mince words or spare embarrassment, Nabil has gone on a personal mission to clean up the air quality in Turkey. In fact, he has ordered a case of "DIRTY BRITISH" deodorant (especially chosen for resistant and hard to treat body odor ) to be dispensed throughout his company. Perhaps he will start carrying an extra stick in his pocket and dispensing it as the need arises. Sadly, his vigilante efforts are like pissing in the wind. A stinking strong wind at that!
I can only hope the P&G folks are doing their homework.
The market is ripe...I hope someone fully penetrates it.
Last week we went to a fine restaurant in downtown Ankara. Once seated, a strong objectionable odor drifted in, and I frantically did a self check to make sure I wasn't the culprit. Passing muster, I sniffed around to make sure Nabil wasn't the guilty party. He too was cleared. At first I couldn't be sure if the odor was coming from inside or outside. French doors opened onto the street and I thought it was possible that the odor might have been a mix of city sewage and street smells. The sickly sweet stench gathered in small waves, flooding our space and then retreating, until I finally realized that the waitstaff was emitting this pungent odor as they buzzed around and between the tables.
Of course, bad smells are another of Nabil's pet peeves, and so I cringed as our waiter moved in closer to take our order, with his armpits positioned just to the left of Nabil's head and perilously close to his nose. I was sure he wouldn't be able to hold himself, and before the order was completed, he blurted out the obvious,"My god, man, you smell awful!".
Not one to mince words or spare embarrassment, Nabil has gone on a personal mission to clean up the air quality in Turkey. In fact, he has ordered a case of "DIRTY BRITISH" deodorant (especially chosen for resistant and hard to treat body odor ) to be dispensed throughout his company. Perhaps he will start carrying an extra stick in his pocket and dispensing it as the need arises. Sadly, his vigilante efforts are like pissing in the wind. A stinking strong wind at that!
I can only hope the P&G folks are doing their homework.
The market is ripe...I hope someone fully penetrates it.
Friday 17 August 2012
Spiffy
This morning was set aside for grooming! After nearly 7 weeks here, I was in desperate need of a haircut. Nabil has been going to a local salon and suggested I go along, first to observe and then to decide if I wanted to get my own hair cut.
We were greeted by the owner and whisked to a private room, where they served us coffee and evaluated the work ahead. Nabil was there for routine maintenance, and they jumped right to it. The master cutter labored over a perfect buzz cut for nearly 20 minutes, while every wild hair was tamed and clipped. A plastic visor was taped to his forehead to shield his face from stray clippings. He was brushed and dusted, and the back of his neck buzzed to a clean finish. When he was properly trimmed, they cleaned his ears (no kidding) and then waxed the ears to remove any hair that might be sprouting there. This was followed by a a waxing of his cheeks, an eyebrow trim, a mini-facial,a head massage, wash and blow-dry. All this, for $20 US.
Of course, I was all in after witnessing this ritual cleanse, and decided to indulge in a manicure, pedicure and new haircut. However, the challenge of communicating with a hairdresser who doesn't speak your language raises serious issues, especially when you are considering a radical change in hair style. I had been contemplating a shorter, funkier style. I was looking for easier maintenance and something younger and edgier. After searching the style magazine and coming up with a hybrid solution, I tried my best to convey my preferences, and then put my trust in the guy with the scissors and closed my eyes. As I sat watching clumps of my already short hair fall into my lap I worried that my cosmetic risk-taking might put me over the edge this time. While I obsessed, Nabil sat across from me making me even more uneasy with his wide-eyed expression and "my god, you look different" comments. Not better, but different. The anxiety was mounting. After all, at my age, the thought of growing out a bad haircut is tempered with the realization that you may never have enought time to grow it out! Worse yet, it may fall out, before it grows out. But I was too far in to back out, so I sat there breathing deeply and hoping that Nabil's ever-widening stare was not a harbinger of bad things to come.
When the scissors were finally set aside and I was spun around to face the mirror, I was amazed...somehow, despite the language barrier, this guy had captured most of my thoughts and translated them into my new "grandmother as punk rocker" style. It is really short, but fun and young and a perfect counterpoint to my crow's feet. I didn't get the ear wax, but did get an eyebrow wax, and the mani-pedi with my wash, cut and blow dry and a hair threading facial..this $100US. And I feel like a million.
Now, if I could just lose another 15 pounds.....
We were greeted by the owner and whisked to a private room, where they served us coffee and evaluated the work ahead. Nabil was there for routine maintenance, and they jumped right to it. The master cutter labored over a perfect buzz cut for nearly 20 minutes, while every wild hair was tamed and clipped. A plastic visor was taped to his forehead to shield his face from stray clippings. He was brushed and dusted, and the back of his neck buzzed to a clean finish. When he was properly trimmed, they cleaned his ears (no kidding) and then waxed the ears to remove any hair that might be sprouting there. This was followed by a a waxing of his cheeks, an eyebrow trim, a mini-facial,a head massage, wash and blow-dry. All this, for $20 US.
Of course, I was all in after witnessing this ritual cleanse, and decided to indulge in a manicure, pedicure and new haircut. However, the challenge of communicating with a hairdresser who doesn't speak your language raises serious issues, especially when you are considering a radical change in hair style. I had been contemplating a shorter, funkier style. I was looking for easier maintenance and something younger and edgier. After searching the style magazine and coming up with a hybrid solution, I tried my best to convey my preferences, and then put my trust in the guy with the scissors and closed my eyes. As I sat watching clumps of my already short hair fall into my lap I worried that my cosmetic risk-taking might put me over the edge this time. While I obsessed, Nabil sat across from me making me even more uneasy with his wide-eyed expression and "my god, you look different" comments. Not better, but different. The anxiety was mounting. After all, at my age, the thought of growing out a bad haircut is tempered with the realization that you may never have enought time to grow it out! Worse yet, it may fall out, before it grows out. But I was too far in to back out, so I sat there breathing deeply and hoping that Nabil's ever-widening stare was not a harbinger of bad things to come.
When the scissors were finally set aside and I was spun around to face the mirror, I was amazed...somehow, despite the language barrier, this guy had captured most of my thoughts and translated them into my new "grandmother as punk rocker" style. It is really short, but fun and young and a perfect counterpoint to my crow's feet. I didn't get the ear wax, but did get an eyebrow wax, and the mani-pedi with my wash, cut and blow dry and a hair threading facial..this $100US. And I feel like a million.
Now, if I could just lose another 15 pounds.....
Thursday 16 August 2012
Buon Giorgno!
We just returned from a 4-day trip to Rome, which was part business (Nabil's part) and part pleasure (my part)! Other than a brief stopover en route to other destinations, and a few short holidays in Venice, I had never spent any time in Italy. After our Roman holiday, you can be sure we will return to see more of this beautiful country.
We arrived in the city by taxi, whirring past the backlit Coliseum and through the cobblestone streets to The Empire Palace Hotel, a charming old style 4-star hotel near the US Embassy. It was a perfect summer evening so we dropped our bags and went for a stroll down the Via Veneto, fell into chairs at a curbside cafe and drank red wine under the moonlit sky. Rome is a feast for the senses, spilling over with history and art. Good food is like a religion to the locals, with restaraunts and churches jockeying for real estate supremacy. Even the junk food snacks served on Air Italia were a cut above. Who else would think to season breadstick nuggets with sea salt and rosemary and roast them in a brick oven?
The next morning we headed back to the streets under a cloudless blue sky and walked to the Spanish Steppes and then to the Trevi Fountain. These amazing sculpted fountains draw hoards of tourists from all over the world, and so some of the magic of turning a corner and stumbling on their beauty is spoiled by the crowds milling in the streets. Still they are magnificent. We were lucky to have been in Rome during Ferragusto, when most of the locals head out of town, making it one of the least busy weeks of the year. The downside; lots of small boutique businesses were closed for the holiday and the service providers who stayed behind all seemed over-scheduled and over-worked.
From the north east corner of the city, we trekked to the old ruins in central Rome where the gutted remains of one civilization was laid bare for viewing by throngs of people stumbling through their own short history. The scale of these remains is mind boggling. The sophistication and aesthetic temperament of the leaders of the Roman Empire is awe-inspiring and it makes you wonder what legacy we will leave behind ....will our structures and art withstand thousands of years of decay and if so, what will future generations think when they view the patchwork quilt of leftovers from our communal efforts?
We spent hours winding through the Coliseum, the Forum, the Palladin, and the other central antiquities, and then finally dropped into another sidewalk cafe for lunch, where we resisted the urge to eat pasta, but gave into the desire for a cappuccino. We decided to hoof it all the way back to the hotel and of course, got just a little bit lost...by the time we arrived at the hotel I was sporting two foot blisters and had endured a twenty minute lecture on the choice of proper footwear for tourist activities. However, I am not sure there is a pair of shoes designed for 9 hours of city hiking across cobblestones and up hills.
That night we taxied to a charming restaurant we discovered while we were lost, and again resisted pasta, but feasted on fresh fish, vegetables and fresh baked bread with local cheeses surrounded by flowering vines and candlelight.
The next morning we crawled out of bed, eased our sore feet back into "the wrong shoes" and struck out to see the Pantheon and do a little window shopping. Free to view, this amazing relic was wedged into a corner of Rome that seems too small to hold it, both figuratively and literally. From there we wandered off, picking out points of interest on the map, toured the Castle of San Angelo and then headed back to our hotel to catch a tour to Tivoli Gardens and Hadrian Villa, both a thirty minute bus ride from the city center. These are must-see sites, each spectacular in their own rite, and best seen with a guide who is knowledgeable. Luckily, our guide was competent and personable, fluent in five languages...which really made me feel terrible about my spotty effort to learn Turkish. The Tivoli gardens are breathtaking and if you are looking for inspiration to fuel your passion for gardening, (with particular emphasis on architectural water elements), then this is the place! Fountains, sculptures, ponds on a scale not to be believed...and in a setting that spills out from a hillside overlooking all of Rome.
Hadrian's Villa is another complex that has been ravaged by time, but the bones of this sprawling estate are still fighting to hold their ground. The complex is just one of hundreds of building projects sponsored by this visionary Emperor, who,designed this palatial villa for efficiency and practicality as well as for beauty.
Even with the bus ride, we spent most of the day walking, and by day's end, my blisters had blisters. We hobbled off the bus, walked the last few blocks to our hotel, showered and dined at the corner cafe recommended by the front desk of our hotel. Too tired for conversation, we ate quickly and quietly and bedded down with sore feet.
On Monday we toured the Vatican Museum. Again we lucked out with a fabulous guide who was well versed in both art and history. He guided us through the spectacular galleries, pointing out the most interesting and valuable of the artworks...of which there is an unfathomable number. The breadth and depth of the collection is incredible. This hallowed ground stained by power, wealth and politics is visited by 40-70,000 people a day and rakes in close to a billion dollars a year just in museum revenue, but no matter your politics or faith, you have to admire the beauty of both the artworks and the architecture.
We taxied back to the hotel, and then walked to the Villa Borghese museum and park, but the museum was closed. This reopened the conversation on shoes as well as planning and research. If I had an extra pair of shoes, I might have thrown them. Instead, I walked on with my blisters.
We headed down the Via Veneto stopping for lunch and finally succumbed to the temptation of,freshly made pasta...and then wondered why we had deprived ourselves for so long. After a nap and a shower, we took a taxi to the river front where the summer festival was in full swing. We had another fabulous meal in a small cafe tucked in an alley that was crammed with locals feasting on wild boar, roasted quail and freshly made tagliatelle. We skipped the boar, but had the pasta! And the tiramisu...our discipline eating program unravelling slowly as waiters sauntered past delivering their goodies to,the laughing crowd. If I lived in Rome, I would definitely be a plus size woman!
After dinner, we wandered past the carnival hawkers, and the booths tended by artisans and fortune tellers. We got lost, then found, then lost again, before taking a taxi back to our rendezvous point . The next day it was good bye to Rome, and back to Ankara...but you can be sure we will return to Italy again ....
We arrived in the city by taxi, whirring past the backlit Coliseum and through the cobblestone streets to The Empire Palace Hotel, a charming old style 4-star hotel near the US Embassy. It was a perfect summer evening so we dropped our bags and went for a stroll down the Via Veneto, fell into chairs at a curbside cafe and drank red wine under the moonlit sky. Rome is a feast for the senses, spilling over with history and art. Good food is like a religion to the locals, with restaraunts and churches jockeying for real estate supremacy. Even the junk food snacks served on Air Italia were a cut above. Who else would think to season breadstick nuggets with sea salt and rosemary and roast them in a brick oven?
The next morning we headed back to the streets under a cloudless blue sky and walked to the Spanish Steppes and then to the Trevi Fountain. These amazing sculpted fountains draw hoards of tourists from all over the world, and so some of the magic of turning a corner and stumbling on their beauty is spoiled by the crowds milling in the streets. Still they are magnificent. We were lucky to have been in Rome during Ferragusto, when most of the locals head out of town, making it one of the least busy weeks of the year. The downside; lots of small boutique businesses were closed for the holiday and the service providers who stayed behind all seemed over-scheduled and over-worked.
From the north east corner of the city, we trekked to the old ruins in central Rome where the gutted remains of one civilization was laid bare for viewing by throngs of people stumbling through their own short history. The scale of these remains is mind boggling. The sophistication and aesthetic temperament of the leaders of the Roman Empire is awe-inspiring and it makes you wonder what legacy we will leave behind ....will our structures and art withstand thousands of years of decay and if so, what will future generations think when they view the patchwork quilt of leftovers from our communal efforts?
We spent hours winding through the Coliseum, the Forum, the Palladin, and the other central antiquities, and then finally dropped into another sidewalk cafe for lunch, where we resisted the urge to eat pasta, but gave into the desire for a cappuccino. We decided to hoof it all the way back to the hotel and of course, got just a little bit lost...by the time we arrived at the hotel I was sporting two foot blisters and had endured a twenty minute lecture on the choice of proper footwear for tourist activities. However, I am not sure there is a pair of shoes designed for 9 hours of city hiking across cobblestones and up hills.
That night we taxied to a charming restaurant we discovered while we were lost, and again resisted pasta, but feasted on fresh fish, vegetables and fresh baked bread with local cheeses surrounded by flowering vines and candlelight.
The next morning we crawled out of bed, eased our sore feet back into "the wrong shoes" and struck out to see the Pantheon and do a little window shopping. Free to view, this amazing relic was wedged into a corner of Rome that seems too small to hold it, both figuratively and literally. From there we wandered off, picking out points of interest on the map, toured the Castle of San Angelo and then headed back to our hotel to catch a tour to Tivoli Gardens and Hadrian Villa, both a thirty minute bus ride from the city center. These are must-see sites, each spectacular in their own rite, and best seen with a guide who is knowledgeable. Luckily, our guide was competent and personable, fluent in five languages...which really made me feel terrible about my spotty effort to learn Turkish. The Tivoli gardens are breathtaking and if you are looking for inspiration to fuel your passion for gardening, (with particular emphasis on architectural water elements), then this is the place! Fountains, sculptures, ponds on a scale not to be believed...and in a setting that spills out from a hillside overlooking all of Rome.
Hadrian's Villa is another complex that has been ravaged by time, but the bones of this sprawling estate are still fighting to hold their ground. The complex is just one of hundreds of building projects sponsored by this visionary Emperor, who,designed this palatial villa for efficiency and practicality as well as for beauty.
Even with the bus ride, we spent most of the day walking, and by day's end, my blisters had blisters. We hobbled off the bus, walked the last few blocks to our hotel, showered and dined at the corner cafe recommended by the front desk of our hotel. Too tired for conversation, we ate quickly and quietly and bedded down with sore feet.
On Monday we toured the Vatican Museum. Again we lucked out with a fabulous guide who was well versed in both art and history. He guided us through the spectacular galleries, pointing out the most interesting and valuable of the artworks...of which there is an unfathomable number. The breadth and depth of the collection is incredible. This hallowed ground stained by power, wealth and politics is visited by 40-70,000 people a day and rakes in close to a billion dollars a year just in museum revenue, but no matter your politics or faith, you have to admire the beauty of both the artworks and the architecture.
We taxied back to the hotel, and then walked to the Villa Borghese museum and park, but the museum was closed. This reopened the conversation on shoes as well as planning and research. If I had an extra pair of shoes, I might have thrown them. Instead, I walked on with my blisters.
We headed down the Via Veneto stopping for lunch and finally succumbed to the temptation of,freshly made pasta...and then wondered why we had deprived ourselves for so long. After a nap and a shower, we took a taxi to the river front where the summer festival was in full swing. We had another fabulous meal in a small cafe tucked in an alley that was crammed with locals feasting on wild boar, roasted quail and freshly made tagliatelle. We skipped the boar, but had the pasta! And the tiramisu...our discipline eating program unravelling slowly as waiters sauntered past delivering their goodies to,the laughing crowd. If I lived in Rome, I would definitely be a plus size woman!
After dinner, we wandered past the carnival hawkers, and the booths tended by artisans and fortune tellers. We got lost, then found, then lost again, before taking a taxi back to our rendezvous point . The next day it was good bye to Rome, and back to Ankara...but you can be sure we will return to Italy again ....
New choppers
On Friday, Nabil completes his first round of dental treatment in Ankara , restoring his pearly whites to their former luster. Now there are now more teeth in his bite, though the ratio of bark to bite remains the same. At about a third the US cost, his Turkish dentist, who is a jewelry making hobbyist, improvised a bridge that is virtually perfect...and threw in the repair of two cavities just because they were there and needed to be fixed. You have to love it! Maybe I can get a total body upgrade here!
Thursday 9 August 2012
Day to day
Even with "nothing to do" time is passing quickly. Keeping a journal, sorting through photos, exchanging email, long swims, long walks, deliciously luxurious long afternoons reading whatever catches my fancy..a few chores, meals, personal care and the day has slipped through my fingers.
Just read WILD, by Cheryl Strayed. I read with unstoppable,thirst, drinking it down in less than a day. It is An amazing story of courage and bravery, but more importantly, a book of coming together, knitting the fabric of oneself into something comfortable and wearable. If I were 26 years old, I would follow Cheryl on to the Pacific Coast Trail myself. In fact, I felt I was 26 as I was reading it. Maybe that's why I loved it so much!
Also finished the BASTARD OF ISTANBUL, a novel that captures the cultural diversity and deep wounds of recent history that have shaped this country.
Still plowing through EMPEROR OF THE MALADIES, a beast of a novel that explores the history of cancer and it's treatment. It is a reminder of the haphazard way in which inventions and innovation come to life...happenstance meetings, quirky observations, obsessive thinking, casual remarks, all thrown into life 's blender to create some magical formula that changes everything...or sometimes, only masks another truth that remains stubbornly obscured until,the winds of chance unearth it's hiding place.
How much of life is my design? How much is chance? I do know that this experience was never in the plan...and it is a lesson in living in the moment.
Just read WILD, by Cheryl Strayed. I read with unstoppable,thirst, drinking it down in less than a day. It is An amazing story of courage and bravery, but more importantly, a book of coming together, knitting the fabric of oneself into something comfortable and wearable. If I were 26 years old, I would follow Cheryl on to the Pacific Coast Trail myself. In fact, I felt I was 26 as I was reading it. Maybe that's why I loved it so much!
Also finished the BASTARD OF ISTANBUL, a novel that captures the cultural diversity and deep wounds of recent history that have shaped this country.
Still plowing through EMPEROR OF THE MALADIES, a beast of a novel that explores the history of cancer and it's treatment. It is a reminder of the haphazard way in which inventions and innovation come to life...happenstance meetings, quirky observations, obsessive thinking, casual remarks, all thrown into life 's blender to create some magical formula that changes everything...or sometimes, only masks another truth that remains stubbornly obscured until,the winds of chance unearth it's hiding place.
How much of life is my design? How much is chance? I do know that this experience was never in the plan...and it is a lesson in living in the moment.
Safranbolu ..day 2
The cool morning air blew through the windows and startled me awake just as dawn broke. I showered and dressed, heading out to take a seat in the garden. Greeted enthusiastically by the young guest manager, I was offered coffee and breakfast. I sat there watching the village come alive sipping coffee and studying my new map of the town. We would not get lost today!
Nabil wandered out soon after, and the staff began preparing breakfast. We had low expectations, but we're surprised with a delicious spread of eggs, fruit, cheese, bread and olives. There were turtles wandering in the scrubby plants that fringed the stone wall that surrounded the patio and we fed them cucumbers and watermelon, while we sipped coffee and sucked in the quiet of the morning.
After taking pictures with the staff , we checked out and climbed back into our car for a quick ride to the overlook for some pictures. Another mistake. The village roads were clearly not made for luxury sedans and more than once we found ourselves jammed into a passageway with no exit, or trying to navigate a hairpin turn on a steep slope that could barely accommodate our wheel base. After an hour in a panicked cold sweat, we decided to ditch the car and head out on foot.
Our first stop was the tourist office and luckily it was staffed with a well informed, helpful English speaking staffer who was helping two young Korean women on holiday. They, like we, we're interested in touring another set of caves outside of town as well as an old aqueduct. They were scheduled to meet up with a tour operator who had already booked two other Korean tourists for the trip, so there was no room for us in the minivan. We were offered to tag along in our own can for free And gladly did so. As we crisscrossed the mountains heading to the caves we said a prayer of thanks for the escort, as we would have surely gotten lost without it.
The entrance to the cave was perched on the side of an unremarkable slope, but required a 10 minute climb up a seemingly endless stairway. Thus cave was cool and damp, and we spent nearly an hour exploring its passageways and strange rock formations, taking pictures, and trading observations with the young Korean women. Afterwards, we headed to the other side of the valley to view an ancient aqueduct built by the Ottomans, then travelled to another smaller village that was much like Sanfranbolu, though less touched by tourism and in more disrepair. We toured a house museum, wandered the empty streets, chatted with locals and then headed back to Sanfranbolu for lunch.
After a traditional Turkish meal of kofte, salad, yogurt and tea, we felt refreshed and tackled the steep climb to the city museum that stood at the top of a crest overlooking the old town. Another mistake. It was hot, the cobblestoned street uneven, and the climb was steep and long. All made worse when Nabil spotted a parking garage right next to the museum entrance. Of course you can imagine that conversation, too! Exhausted but proud of our tenacity we wandered the grounds, viewed the old jail, the museum and the watchtower, and then slip-slided our way down the hill back to town center.
An ancient Turkish bath still in operation, a converted caravan stop which is now a hotel, refurbished storefronts and bazaars, and three large mosques were all on our list of must-sees. At some point in our wanderings Nabil ducked into an impossibly small antiques store tucked into the elbow of a street corner. He struck up a conversation with the owner in a curious blend of English, Turkish, Arabic , sign language and palm writing, and then traded stories of their youth, sports accomplishments and life journeys. Soon the shop was crowded with locals all jamming about Nabil's remarkable fitness level, his age and his travels through Turkey.
This happens over and over again no matter where we go or how far we travel, and more often than not his "Rambo" persona is our ticket into the unexpected and authentic encounters that so many tourists never have the chance to experience.
Eager to see the blacksmith bazaar, I dragged Nabil to the most remote corner of the village. Again, as I perused a stall of hand crafted metalware, Nabil slipped into a workshop of a metal artist who wanted to know what sport he played and how old he was. The conversation flowed from one thing to another, when Sakim took us into his "man cave"', a dilapidated low ceilinged room at the back of his work shed, wall-papered in yellow tinged newspaper and magazine articles. Sakim, it seems, was world renowned for his craftsmanship and had traveled the globe sharing his skill and his art with universities and artists guilds. And yet here he was working in obscurity, in facilities that were barely habitable, happy and proud of his work, his life and his family. He then took us to another of his shops and shared a secret window with us, a small opening behind the entrance door that looked into a cavernous maw of steel grey rock spilling into a small stream below. Pigeons guarded their posts and bits of plants and vines decorated the step walls as a surreal shaft of light streamed from some hidden break in the rock deep in the ravine. It felt as if this was an entrance into some mystical unknown world and that we could tumble into right from Sakim's shop.
After meeting his family and making a small purchase, we dragged ourselves back to the car, booted up the Tom-Tom and started on our two hour ride back to Ankara. There was little conversation and we barreled down the highway in the fade light. Spent and in awe, we watched the mountains and greenery disappear as we returned to the high dry arid plateau that has become our temporary home.
Nabil wandered out soon after, and the staff began preparing breakfast. We had low expectations, but we're surprised with a delicious spread of eggs, fruit, cheese, bread and olives. There were turtles wandering in the scrubby plants that fringed the stone wall that surrounded the patio and we fed them cucumbers and watermelon, while we sipped coffee and sucked in the quiet of the morning.
After taking pictures with the staff , we checked out and climbed back into our car for a quick ride to the overlook for some pictures. Another mistake. The village roads were clearly not made for luxury sedans and more than once we found ourselves jammed into a passageway with no exit, or trying to navigate a hairpin turn on a steep slope that could barely accommodate our wheel base. After an hour in a panicked cold sweat, we decided to ditch the car and head out on foot.
Our first stop was the tourist office and luckily it was staffed with a well informed, helpful English speaking staffer who was helping two young Korean women on holiday. They, like we, we're interested in touring another set of caves outside of town as well as an old aqueduct. They were scheduled to meet up with a tour operator who had already booked two other Korean tourists for the trip, so there was no room for us in the minivan. We were offered to tag along in our own can for free And gladly did so. As we crisscrossed the mountains heading to the caves we said a prayer of thanks for the escort, as we would have surely gotten lost without it.
The entrance to the cave was perched on the side of an unremarkable slope, but required a 10 minute climb up a seemingly endless stairway. Thus cave was cool and damp, and we spent nearly an hour exploring its passageways and strange rock formations, taking pictures, and trading observations with the young Korean women. Afterwards, we headed to the other side of the valley to view an ancient aqueduct built by the Ottomans, then travelled to another smaller village that was much like Sanfranbolu, though less touched by tourism and in more disrepair. We toured a house museum, wandered the empty streets, chatted with locals and then headed back to Sanfranbolu for lunch.
After a traditional Turkish meal of kofte, salad, yogurt and tea, we felt refreshed and tackled the steep climb to the city museum that stood at the top of a crest overlooking the old town. Another mistake. It was hot, the cobblestoned street uneven, and the climb was steep and long. All made worse when Nabil spotted a parking garage right next to the museum entrance. Of course you can imagine that conversation, too! Exhausted but proud of our tenacity we wandered the grounds, viewed the old jail, the museum and the watchtower, and then slip-slided our way down the hill back to town center.
An ancient Turkish bath still in operation, a converted caravan stop which is now a hotel, refurbished storefronts and bazaars, and three large mosques were all on our list of must-sees. At some point in our wanderings Nabil ducked into an impossibly small antiques store tucked into the elbow of a street corner. He struck up a conversation with the owner in a curious blend of English, Turkish, Arabic , sign language and palm writing, and then traded stories of their youth, sports accomplishments and life journeys. Soon the shop was crowded with locals all jamming about Nabil's remarkable fitness level, his age and his travels through Turkey.
This happens over and over again no matter where we go or how far we travel, and more often than not his "Rambo" persona is our ticket into the unexpected and authentic encounters that so many tourists never have the chance to experience.
Eager to see the blacksmith bazaar, I dragged Nabil to the most remote corner of the village. Again, as I perused a stall of hand crafted metalware, Nabil slipped into a workshop of a metal artist who wanted to know what sport he played and how old he was. The conversation flowed from one thing to another, when Sakim took us into his "man cave"', a dilapidated low ceilinged room at the back of his work shed, wall-papered in yellow tinged newspaper and magazine articles. Sakim, it seems, was world renowned for his craftsmanship and had traveled the globe sharing his skill and his art with universities and artists guilds. And yet here he was working in obscurity, in facilities that were barely habitable, happy and proud of his work, his life and his family. He then took us to another of his shops and shared a secret window with us, a small opening behind the entrance door that looked into a cavernous maw of steel grey rock spilling into a small stream below. Pigeons guarded their posts and bits of plants and vines decorated the step walls as a surreal shaft of light streamed from some hidden break in the rock deep in the ravine. It felt as if this was an entrance into some mystical unknown world and that we could tumble into right from Sakim's shop.
After meeting his family and making a small purchase, we dragged ourselves back to the car, booted up the Tom-Tom and started on our two hour ride back to Ankara. There was little conversation and we barreled down the highway in the fade light. Spent and in awe, we watched the mountains and greenery disappear as we returned to the high dry arid plateau that has become our temporary home.
Wednesday 8 August 2012
Sanfranbolu
We arrived in Sanfranbolu spent from the rigors of our backcountry expedition. As we rounded the bend in the highway, Sanfranbolu unfolded. A cluster of 18th century homes jockeyed for position in a maze of small alleys and cobblestone roads that snaked up from the valley floor coiling up the sides of the mountain. Red clay tile roof tops tumbled into one another, as the sun dipped lower in the sky. We had arrived!
But of course, there was the still the challenge of finding our hotel. I had a print out from the internet with the address clearly printed on it, but "clearly" is a misnomer. The address seemed like a jumble of letters and words that blurred into one another. Worse yet, they didn't mesh with any of the roads listed in the Tom-Tom, nor did the name of the hotel. Apparently certain Turkish words and phrasing are optional or have several iterations, so the idea of simply trying to match the name of something written in one place with the same name written somewhere else is an anxiety producing exercise. We maneuvered through the narrow streets, asking directions, fumbling with the computer and the print-out and the map (newly acquired), until finally we stopped at a small hotel unsure but hopeful that we had found our home for the night. Despite the fact that the first word of the hotel name was missing from the sign, we had arrived. We were both elated and wary; happy to have a place to shower and rest, concerned about the quality of our choice of accommodations. Correction: MY choice! (Need I elaborate on the verbal exchange that ensued as we waited for the desk clerk to find our reservation?)
Standing in the small lobby and surveying the front terrace pocked with small pebbles and worn wrought iron patio tables, my heart sank. We asked to see the room, and found ourselves standing in a restored Ottoman period bedroom, with a carved wood ceiling , stone fireplace and a room length window seat upholstered in Turkish carpets. The beds ( there were two!) were clean, fitted with quality bedding and sported the most comfortable mattresses I've slept on since arriving in Turkey. Yeah! Score one for me! We loved this little hotel, which was managed by a young and eager staff of twenty-something's who spoke reasonably good English and couldn't do enough to please us.
After a quick wash, we headed out by foot, glad to be released from the confines of the car, to explore Sanfranbolu, which is a UNESCO world heritage site. The village was once a thriving commercial center on the silk trading route, and we stepped back a few centuries as we meandered through the cobblestone streets past alleys and small doorways. Within minutes we were lost again, this time in a labyrinth that we had to navigate on foot without a computer. With our blood sugar falling and our patience failing we took a seat at a small table in an alleyway,where the the owner stood grilling lamb kebabs on a wood-fired grill outside the entrance to his shop. The table was covered with an old plastic tablecloth (it might have once been a shower curtain) and the silver and glassware were vintage Woolworths. Stray cats circled our legs looking for table scraps and old men sat at the table next to us reveling in the breaking of their daily Ramadan fast. We laughed, realizing that we had forgone any pretensions or expectations. In our other life a little hole in the wall dining spot like this one would never have made the cut. But here we were, sitting under the stars, eager to chow down with the locals. The food was great, and we wolfed it down, and sat for a while watching the parade of international tourists and locals stream by. Tired and full, we decided to head back to the hotel, trying to make sense of the tangle of streets. We turned a corner and came upon a group of musicians wedged between a stone wall and the entrance to a coffee shop. As we watched them
tuning their instruments we decided to take a seat, ordered Turkish coffee and pastry and sat under a canopy of grape leaves and stars listening to their impromptu concert.
When we finally mustered the energy to get back on our feet, we headed straight for the hotel and fell into bed. I lay there overwhelmed with gratitude; fully satiated and in awe that one day could hold so many memorable moments and emotional ups and downs. From Ankara to Amasra through the mountains and onto Safranbolu.....life lived well and fully. Stay tuned
But of course, there was the still the challenge of finding our hotel. I had a print out from the internet with the address clearly printed on it, but "clearly" is a misnomer. The address seemed like a jumble of letters and words that blurred into one another. Worse yet, they didn't mesh with any of the roads listed in the Tom-Tom, nor did the name of the hotel. Apparently certain Turkish words and phrasing are optional or have several iterations, so the idea of simply trying to match the name of something written in one place with the same name written somewhere else is an anxiety producing exercise. We maneuvered through the narrow streets, asking directions, fumbling with the computer and the print-out and the map (newly acquired), until finally we stopped at a small hotel unsure but hopeful that we had found our home for the night. Despite the fact that the first word of the hotel name was missing from the sign, we had arrived. We were both elated and wary; happy to have a place to shower and rest, concerned about the quality of our choice of accommodations. Correction: MY choice! (Need I elaborate on the verbal exchange that ensued as we waited for the desk clerk to find our reservation?)
Standing in the small lobby and surveying the front terrace pocked with small pebbles and worn wrought iron patio tables, my heart sank. We asked to see the room, and found ourselves standing in a restored Ottoman period bedroom, with a carved wood ceiling , stone fireplace and a room length window seat upholstered in Turkish carpets. The beds ( there were two!) were clean, fitted with quality bedding and sported the most comfortable mattresses I've slept on since arriving in Turkey. Yeah! Score one for me! We loved this little hotel, which was managed by a young and eager staff of twenty-something's who spoke reasonably good English and couldn't do enough to please us.
After a quick wash, we headed out by foot, glad to be released from the confines of the car, to explore Sanfranbolu, which is a UNESCO world heritage site. The village was once a thriving commercial center on the silk trading route, and we stepped back a few centuries as we meandered through the cobblestone streets past alleys and small doorways. Within minutes we were lost again, this time in a labyrinth that we had to navigate on foot without a computer. With our blood sugar falling and our patience failing we took a seat at a small table in an alleyway,where the the owner stood grilling lamb kebabs on a wood-fired grill outside the entrance to his shop. The table was covered with an old plastic tablecloth (it might have once been a shower curtain) and the silver and glassware were vintage Woolworths. Stray cats circled our legs looking for table scraps and old men sat at the table next to us reveling in the breaking of their daily Ramadan fast. We laughed, realizing that we had forgone any pretensions or expectations. In our other life a little hole in the wall dining spot like this one would never have made the cut. But here we were, sitting under the stars, eager to chow down with the locals. The food was great, and we wolfed it down, and sat for a while watching the parade of international tourists and locals stream by. Tired and full, we decided to head back to the hotel, trying to make sense of the tangle of streets. We turned a corner and came upon a group of musicians wedged between a stone wall and the entrance to a coffee shop. As we watched them
tuning their instruments we decided to take a seat, ordered Turkish coffee and pastry and sat under a canopy of grape leaves and stars listening to their impromptu concert.
When we finally mustered the energy to get back on our feet, we headed straight for the hotel and fell into bed. I lay there overwhelmed with gratitude; fully satiated and in awe that one day could hold so many memorable moments and emotional ups and downs. From Ankara to Amasra through the mountains and onto Safranbolu.....life lived well and fully. Stay tuned
Monday 6 August 2012
Black Sea Adventure
In less than 48 hours we travelled 400 miles, experienced 12,000 years of history, drove 120 kilometers an hour as cows grazed on the median, ate in a seaside resort and in a weed filled garden and passed through cities, industrial sites, resorts, villages and a rural no mans land. It was an exhausting marathon of sensory overload.
We left Saturday morning, for Amasra, a Black Sea outpost situated on a spit of land that juts out into a small protected harbor on Turkey's northeast coast. We drove for more than four hours, the first two of which were a straight shot on the highway. Relying solely on our TOM-TOM navigator, once off the exit, we found ourselves deep inside a village, surrounded by geese and at a dead end in from of barn. After u-turning and finding our way back to a paved road, we stopped a Turkish farmer who spoke no English, but who somehow got us back on track. For the next two hours we proceeded on faith, relying on our trusty computer friend who had already let us down and arguing about the usefulness of a Turkish map and whether it could have helped us avert our anxiety. Arguments like these are a common occurrence. Apparently my job is to insure that nothing goes wrong in our foreign adventures and am poorly suited to it. In fact, I expect things to go wrong!
The scenery changed drastically and by the time we neared Amasra, we were surrounded by the majesty of mountains, pines and boulder faced cliffs. The glitz of Ankara and it's dry arid plateau seemed like another country.
Occupied for more than 12000 years dating back to the pre-Hittite, Amasra rests at the foot of seaside cliffs cloaked in fir trees overlooking the endless reach of the Black Sea ( which is actually a brilliant deep blue, and not black at all)! Once a resort destination for Istanbulites, the town was awash in Romanian tourists and locals enjoying the brilliant sun and uncharacteristically warm sea temperatures. The focal point of the town is a decaying castle that has slowly incorporated the village, and now encases more modern dwellings in various states of disrepair. While charming, the whole town could have benefitted from a good scrubbing and some masonry work. And like the rest of Turkey, almost everywhere, buildings were in various states of construction, renovation or demolition. Nothing is done, but everyone is being done!
We walked through the old town and castle remnants, watched the locals dive off an old stone platform into the sea, toured the bazaar and then headed to the waterfront for lunch. We sat on a balcony overlooking the fishermen scooping the catch of the day right out of the water, and then waited for the chef to grill our selection. We sucked the last bit of meat from the bones as we surveyed men cleaning the fish, boys raking the stones and the local feline population feasting on the spoils. The air was salty and smelled of sea and fish. The owner chatted with us about life in Turkey and his experience in the United States. "Everything in the US is about money," he said, " but in Turkey, you don't need much to live...here we have everything and we don't have to work all the time ...we can live with more ease.". At that moment, he seemed to make perfect sense!
Before leaving we toured the museum, walked along the waterfront and then decided to try to find our way to a local site to tour the 4th largest cave in the world. MISTAKE!
We spent the next 45 minutes trying to wind through the mountains looking for the cave entrance. The Turks have a infuriating habit of posting directional signs haphazardly and forgetting that is is important to continue marking the trail until someone has arrived the destination. Despite a helpful tour bus driver who lead us through part of the trail and mapped the rest, we never arrived. In part, we blamed it on highway construction , which we think obscured the turn off. The other blame rested with our navigator who is proving leas reliable than we had hoped. Of course, our failed attempt to reach the cave triggered another round of bickering about maps and their importance, but I insisted that dirt roads would not likely be well marked on a county map overview.
The argument continued, but being prudent, we decided we should head south to Sanfranbolu, our next destination, because we wanted to avoid driving at night. We programmed our trusty TOM-TOM and headed south into the unknown. At first, we were wary as the road seemed like a secondary road at best. The deeper we went, the less dependable our navigator seemed. The pock-marked macadam turned to gravel, then dirt, and finally we found ourselves on a trampled grass path with dirt ruts made by the occasional tractor. Cows would periodically meander across the path, as we wound around the mountains, through farms and small villages propped up by fallen timbers and abandoned cars.
Our navigator kept insisting on the righteousness of the route, but our confidence was leaking and the further away we got from civilization, the more we argued about maps. We spent more than hour on treacherous mountain village roads, easing past barbed wire fields, and hanging onto to our sanity as we rounded hairpin turns overlooking cliff side ravines. The sun as disappearing but we had no choice but to continue through the woods. We has to trust. And then finally , we saw black top and the promise of a main road. We ignored the computer and took a flyer to follow a truck, which eventually steed us to a highway. Thankfully, from there it was a straight shot to our destination.
We spent the balance of the drive revealing the depth of our paranoia and laughing at each signpost that had deepened our anxiety. And of course, we argued about the maps......
With ample daylight left for the two hour drive, we programmed our trusty TOM-TOM and headed off for the next leg of the adventure.
We left Saturday morning, for Amasra, a Black Sea outpost situated on a spit of land that juts out into a small protected harbor on Turkey's northeast coast. We drove for more than four hours, the first two of which were a straight shot on the highway. Relying solely on our TOM-TOM navigator, once off the exit, we found ourselves deep inside a village, surrounded by geese and at a dead end in from of barn. After u-turning and finding our way back to a paved road, we stopped a Turkish farmer who spoke no English, but who somehow got us back on track. For the next two hours we proceeded on faith, relying on our trusty computer friend who had already let us down and arguing about the usefulness of a Turkish map and whether it could have helped us avert our anxiety. Arguments like these are a common occurrence. Apparently my job is to insure that nothing goes wrong in our foreign adventures and am poorly suited to it. In fact, I expect things to go wrong!
The scenery changed drastically and by the time we neared Amasra, we were surrounded by the majesty of mountains, pines and boulder faced cliffs. The glitz of Ankara and it's dry arid plateau seemed like another country.
Occupied for more than 12000 years dating back to the pre-Hittite, Amasra rests at the foot of seaside cliffs cloaked in fir trees overlooking the endless reach of the Black Sea ( which is actually a brilliant deep blue, and not black at all)! Once a resort destination for Istanbulites, the town was awash in Romanian tourists and locals enjoying the brilliant sun and uncharacteristically warm sea temperatures. The focal point of the town is a decaying castle that has slowly incorporated the village, and now encases more modern dwellings in various states of disrepair. While charming, the whole town could have benefitted from a good scrubbing and some masonry work. And like the rest of Turkey, almost everywhere, buildings were in various states of construction, renovation or demolition. Nothing is done, but everyone is being done!
We walked through the old town and castle remnants, watched the locals dive off an old stone platform into the sea, toured the bazaar and then headed to the waterfront for lunch. We sat on a balcony overlooking the fishermen scooping the catch of the day right out of the water, and then waited for the chef to grill our selection. We sucked the last bit of meat from the bones as we surveyed men cleaning the fish, boys raking the stones and the local feline population feasting on the spoils. The air was salty and smelled of sea and fish. The owner chatted with us about life in Turkey and his experience in the United States. "Everything in the US is about money," he said, " but in Turkey, you don't need much to live...here we have everything and we don't have to work all the time ...we can live with more ease.". At that moment, he seemed to make perfect sense!
Before leaving we toured the museum, walked along the waterfront and then decided to try to find our way to a local site to tour the 4th largest cave in the world. MISTAKE!
We spent the next 45 minutes trying to wind through the mountains looking for the cave entrance. The Turks have a infuriating habit of posting directional signs haphazardly and forgetting that is is important to continue marking the trail until someone has arrived the destination. Despite a helpful tour bus driver who lead us through part of the trail and mapped the rest, we never arrived. In part, we blamed it on highway construction , which we think obscured the turn off. The other blame rested with our navigator who is proving leas reliable than we had hoped. Of course, our failed attempt to reach the cave triggered another round of bickering about maps and their importance, but I insisted that dirt roads would not likely be well marked on a county map overview.
The argument continued, but being prudent, we decided we should head south to Sanfranbolu, our next destination, because we wanted to avoid driving at night. We programmed our trusty TOM-TOM and headed south into the unknown. At first, we were wary as the road seemed like a secondary road at best. The deeper we went, the less dependable our navigator seemed. The pock-marked macadam turned to gravel, then dirt, and finally we found ourselves on a trampled grass path with dirt ruts made by the occasional tractor. Cows would periodically meander across the path, as we wound around the mountains, through farms and small villages propped up by fallen timbers and abandoned cars.
Our navigator kept insisting on the righteousness of the route, but our confidence was leaking and the further away we got from civilization, the more we argued about maps. We spent more than hour on treacherous mountain village roads, easing past barbed wire fields, and hanging onto to our sanity as we rounded hairpin turns overlooking cliff side ravines. The sun as disappearing but we had no choice but to continue through the woods. We has to trust. And then finally , we saw black top and the promise of a main road. We ignored the computer and took a flyer to follow a truck, which eventually steed us to a highway. Thankfully, from there it was a straight shot to our destination.
We spent the balance of the drive revealing the depth of our paranoia and laughing at each signpost that had deepened our anxiety. And of course, we argued about the maps......
With ample daylight left for the two hour drive, we programmed our trusty TOM-TOM and headed off for the next leg of the adventure.
Privacy matters
Toilets here, like everything else in Turkey are a study in diversity and contrasts. Modern toilets are available in most hotels, restaraunts and malls, but traditional Turkish toilets still populate many public restrooms. The modern restrooms are impeccable. Each stall is normally outfitted with an automatic plastic seat cover that can be refreshed each time someone needs to use the loo. A toilet brush sitting in a canister of disinfectant is discreetly placed in the corner of each stall, and all units are outfitted with a water jet for cleaning your posterior if you so choose. There are automatic aroma machines to deodorize, individual trash receptacles, and occasionally TV screens in each stall! The rooms are always attended, and I have yet to encounter anything gross or unkempt in my public use of these facilities. However, as I have said before standardization is not high on the list of Turkish priorities. Seldom have I have encountered a toilet that uses the same flushing mechanism. Some flush by pushing a button, some require a pull chain. Some are electric or heat sensitive, but most are manual. The buttons, levers or pull chains can be located in a variety of clever hiding places. I am often found standing awkwardly in a toilet stall trying to solve the mystery of how to flush the toilet, an embarrassing exercise that sometimes takes so long to complete that I fear Nabil will send in the cavalry to see what has happened to me. The challenge is often compounded by trying to figure out how to operate the water faucets on the sinks, which also come in an endless variety of operating styles!
Bathroom anxiety is heightened when we travel off the beaten path, knowing that there is a high probability of encountering the more tradition Turkish squat toilet; a two foot square ceramic platform at ground level that borders a hole in the ground. The expectation is that you will place your feet on the ridged sides of the platform, assume a standing squat position and somehow let go, hopefully with enough accuracy in aim that your effluents are steered directly into the central abyss of this unique invention. Assuming that you have not dribbled on your panties or shoes ( a slim chance, as the challenge of balancing in a squat while holding your clothes askew in not a practiced art for those of us who have crossed the menopause threshold), tissues are provided for posterior clean-up. These tissues are discarded in a plastic trash can., rather than down the rabbit hole. There is usually a small bucket placed under a water faucet (again, have fun figuring out how to turn it off and on), which you fill and then pour over the ceramic platform and down the hole to clean up your droppings. The water from these buckets seldom stream directly into the hole, but instead flood the surrounding floor and usually spatter your shoes. So even if you were lucky enough to avoid peeing on yourself, you will appear to have done so, because of this unique flushing mechanism! A toilet brush is often available should the situation require more of a scrub than a swish, and as you might imagine, these stalls do not meet the sanitary standards of the aforementioned western bathrooms. The possibility of having to use one of theses formidable personal care contraptions is enough to dissuade me from venturing too far afield, especially when my digestive system is on high alert!
Bathroom anxiety is heightened when we travel off the beaten path, knowing that there is a high probability of encountering the more tradition Turkish squat toilet; a two foot square ceramic platform at ground level that borders a hole in the ground. The expectation is that you will place your feet on the ridged sides of the platform, assume a standing squat position and somehow let go, hopefully with enough accuracy in aim that your effluents are steered directly into the central abyss of this unique invention. Assuming that you have not dribbled on your panties or shoes ( a slim chance, as the challenge of balancing in a squat while holding your clothes askew in not a practiced art for those of us who have crossed the menopause threshold), tissues are provided for posterior clean-up. These tissues are discarded in a plastic trash can., rather than down the rabbit hole. There is usually a small bucket placed under a water faucet (again, have fun figuring out how to turn it off and on), which you fill and then pour over the ceramic platform and down the hole to clean up your droppings. The water from these buckets seldom stream directly into the hole, but instead flood the surrounding floor and usually spatter your shoes. So even if you were lucky enough to avoid peeing on yourself, you will appear to have done so, because of this unique flushing mechanism! A toilet brush is often available should the situation require more of a scrub than a swish, and as you might imagine, these stalls do not meet the sanitary standards of the aforementioned western bathrooms. The possibility of having to use one of theses formidable personal care contraptions is enough to dissuade me from venturing too far afield, especially when my digestive system is on high alert!
Thursday 2 August 2012
Technical Difficulty
I love my iPad, but it is not a replacement for a computer. The learning curve on apps and modifications is driving me crazy. And I didn't realize how many of my tried and true favorites wouldn't operate here. No NETFLIX, no PANDORA. The Wi-Fi network is much more limited than I had planned on. I would have greatly benefitted by having my iPhone...however, despite the wrinkles in our connectivity, I can't imagine life here without computer capability. Love the amount of information available to navigate the world with confidence and ease.
Fame
You get a different perspective on achievement when living in a foreign country. I am here without a network or a community. I am not here to accomplish anything, meet with anyone, promote anything, or do anything. I can just be...and anonymously at that. It as if I am a fly on the Turkish wall of life! It is both freeing and sometimes frightening....it makes you realize how limited our sphere of influence really is and how insignificant we are when stacked up against our 6+ billion global bunk mates.
Last week in Bodrum, our hotel hosted a birthday celebration for a very well-known Turkish movie producer and musician. He was the featured musician of the night and he and his band put together a three hour show featuring many of the acts that he produces. (Again those marathon performances!) Nabil and I watched from the sidelines, enjoying the performances, but we of course didn't recognize any of the music or the performers (even though many of them were very very good)! We watched the crowd go crazy as their favorites took the stage. We watched people enthusiastically sing along, belting out the chorus of Turkish pop songs on cue. (Again, everyone knows the lyrics!) We watched people try to wrangle autographs and make contact with celebrities. This dance of people trying to get close to fame was meaningless for us. The stars could have just as easily been trash collectors, waiters or business owners. Famous in Turkey, unrecognizable to Americans. It made me realize that fame is most often a local phenomenon...and even then only meaningful when there is a shared interest in the vehicle that created the opportunity for stellar performance. If you didn't love or follow Turkish music, would these people be of interest to you, even if you were a Turk?
In seeking recognition, there are so many stages on which to play, so many fields in which you could aspire to greatness. And then you must choose how large that stage will be both in terms of audience and geographical reach. Of course we can choose to be part of the audience rather than a player...and I suppose that suits most of us best, most of the time. Talent must be fueled by desire, and how many of us are gifted with the right combination of both?
And then, if we possess the ingredients for stellar achievement, when superstardom is finally achieved, it often becomes it own prison...furthering a disconnect from authentic relationships and spontaneous participation.
Yet, I think for most of us, there is an inherent desire to be recognized and appreciated, to connect to others and be part of something bigger than ourselves. What drives us to seek this approval? Is it possible to be satisfied with only knowing ourselves, without being reflected in the eyes of others.
Watching that night of revelry also made me appreciate the power of the US marketing machine and it's ability to catapult certain performers and celebrities into the spotlight of the international stage. While we didn't recognize the Turkish musicians, when they belted out American favorites and acknowledged the Turkish and European audience cheered wildly. And it also made me realize the depth and breadth of talent that exists in the world and how few people are recognized for it.
For now, I am enjoying my voyeuristic role...anonymous, free and open to exploring...but deep down hopeful that I will discover my purpose.
Last week in Bodrum, our hotel hosted a birthday celebration for a very well-known Turkish movie producer and musician. He was the featured musician of the night and he and his band put together a three hour show featuring many of the acts that he produces. (Again those marathon performances!) Nabil and I watched from the sidelines, enjoying the performances, but we of course didn't recognize any of the music or the performers (even though many of them were very very good)! We watched the crowd go crazy as their favorites took the stage. We watched people enthusiastically sing along, belting out the chorus of Turkish pop songs on cue. (Again, everyone knows the lyrics!) We watched people try to wrangle autographs and make contact with celebrities. This dance of people trying to get close to fame was meaningless for us. The stars could have just as easily been trash collectors, waiters or business owners. Famous in Turkey, unrecognizable to Americans. It made me realize that fame is most often a local phenomenon...and even then only meaningful when there is a shared interest in the vehicle that created the opportunity for stellar performance. If you didn't love or follow Turkish music, would these people be of interest to you, even if you were a Turk?
In seeking recognition, there are so many stages on which to play, so many fields in which you could aspire to greatness. And then you must choose how large that stage will be both in terms of audience and geographical reach. Of course we can choose to be part of the audience rather than a player...and I suppose that suits most of us best, most of the time. Talent must be fueled by desire, and how many of us are gifted with the right combination of both?
And then, if we possess the ingredients for stellar achievement, when superstardom is finally achieved, it often becomes it own prison...furthering a disconnect from authentic relationships and spontaneous participation.
Yet, I think for most of us, there is an inherent desire to be recognized and appreciated, to connect to others and be part of something bigger than ourselves. What drives us to seek this approval? Is it possible to be satisfied with only knowing ourselves, without being reflected in the eyes of others.
Watching that night of revelry also made me appreciate the power of the US marketing machine and it's ability to catapult certain performers and celebrities into the spotlight of the international stage. While we didn't recognize the Turkish musicians, when they belted out American favorites and acknowledged the Turkish and European audience cheered wildly. And it also made me realize the depth and breadth of talent that exists in the world and how few people are recognized for it.
For now, I am enjoying my voyeuristic role...anonymous, free and open to exploring...but deep down hopeful that I will discover my purpose.
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