FOER says "fa'getta bout it!"

My memory has always been erratic. All through school, I had easy recall of facts figures and concepts. I could recall numbers and important business details with little effort and astonishing accuracy, especially when the stakes were high.  But the details of my life are sketchy.  I don't remember much about the day I got married, or when my kids were born.  I can't recall much about high school or college. I can't remember the name of the movie I saw yesterday, or the book I read last week and I lose my glasses and car keys with annoying  regularity.

So when I saw Josh Foer's book, MOONWALKING WITH EINSTEIN, I grabbed it, hoping to get some guidance on sharpening my memory.  What I got was a whole lot more!  The book is  clever and well written.  It is packed with a wealth of information, from the intricacies of neuroscience to the absurdities of esoteric competition, to the history of the transmission of knowledge. You'll learn about chicken sexing ( more than you'll want to know) and chess and why they are  similar.  You become intimate with amnesiacs and savants, and familiar with ancient scholars and politicians. And you will be challenged to examine where you have  drawn the line on your own performance capabilities.

Foer's own journey into the mastery of memory raises philosophical questions that he handles with honest self-reflection and sly humor.  He pokes fun at himself and our common human failings while raising serious issue regarding time, energy and values. He examines the past and looks out into the future. The book is loaded with facts and anecdotes, but reads like a novel.  He packs a whollop in just 270 pages.

I am not sure I will make the effort to improve my memory, but I certainly know more about how I could do that if I wanted to.  And more importantly, I now have more insight into why I will probably take the lazy way out.  But I do know if  I had been a journalist, I would have wanted to write a book like this one. 

Midas City

After breakfast in Afryon, we headed to the outlet mall for a quick shopping spree.  Nabil nabbed several shirts. (I doubt you will see him wearing any of them when viewing our pictures as he prefers shirtless photos!) I, on the other hand, was not so lucky. The weather is turning cool and I only packed summer gear, so am in need of winter wear. I went from store to store in search of boots or closed toe shoes. Apparently very few Turkish women have big feet.  The largest shoe size I found was an 8, far too small for my 9.5 size feet. In fact, most clothes here are geared for women with a more petite frame, and women of all ages and sizes love to wear tight fitting clothes and high heels.  I am struggling to find retailers that cater to my bohemian style and that can accommodate my Germanic frame.

After a Starbucks coffee, we prepared for the last leg of our sightseeing tour, fired up the Tom-Tom and turned north in search of Midas City.  Again, within a few miles, we found ourselves on a desolate country road, traveling past vast expanses of recently mowed fields. Occasionally we would bump into a village, with mud brick homes and chickens wandering on the rutted narrow streets.  Peasants dressed in long skirts and shawls would turn away and scurry into back alleys to avoid eye contact with us.  We couldn't help but stare. After a few hundred yards, we would emerge onto a another stretch of country road, hoping against hope that we could trust the GPS guidance.

The flat lands gave way to rocky promontories and hill country, covered in scrubby shrubbery and pines. Tiny dirt roads marked by weathered signs announced our arrival at small villages and we cheered each time we could match the name to those highlighted on our marked up map.  Eventually we pulled into Yazikilay, where the remains of Midas City stand guard over a cluster of mud huts, crumbling stone walls and bleating cows.  We pulled into a grass enclosure marked as the OTOPARK.  I opened the car door and stepped out barely missing a freshly laid clump of cow manure.

The town mayor came out of the city hall, which did double duty as the tourist office to enthusiastically welcome us.  Despite several missing teeth. His smile was warm and he spoke surprisingly good English as well as fluent German.  He gave us an overview of the  history of the area as well as the layout of the site and sent us off and up the mountain to discover it on our own. Midas City was the spiritual center of the Phrygian Empire, and is most well known for a huge rock face wall carving that stands thirty meters high and overlooks the village of Yazikilay. The monument which was undergoing repairs, was hidden behind a huge scaffold.

We were disappointed but grateful for the opportunity to stretch our legs, so headed up the hill behind the monument for an extended view of the area. The hike was challenging but not too strenuous and the weather ideal.  We saw a few carved rock faces, and lots and lots of circular indentations that looked like they were meant to hold some kind of smudge pots.   Eventually we came across a few placards which pointed us to the rock tombs and cisterns.  Only then did we really begin to appreciate Midas City, with its  eerie tombs carved deep into the bedrock of the mountain, and a clever system of carved stone gullies and cisterns that must have shuttled water to its residents.  We sat on the stairs hammered out of stone looking down into these man made caves, marveling at the ingenuity and persistence of the human race.  There was a potent charge in the air, as if all the thousands of years that had passed since Midas City had been built had collapsed and for a minute it felt as if we could almost touch and see the
past.  After a long pause, we traced our way back to the rock wall monument, bumping into an elderly German couple debating the merits of struggling up the hill.  We encouraged them to persist and them returned to our car, stopping first to eat a handful of ripe cherries growing in the trees surrounding the OTOPARK.  We thanked the mayor, made a small contribution to the city building fund  and headed north in a plume of dust.

The ride home was uneventful. We made good time, stopping once for Turkish coffee, and again in Polatli to pick up some of the yogurt we had liked so much. We had driven 18 hours in three days, and visited six locations.  There were no arguments and only one short-lived anxiety attack. Maybe we haven't mastered Turkey, but we are certainly miles ahead of of where we started a few months ago!

Aphrodisias

Bolstered by the smooth sailing of the previous day, we ventured another 2 hours south to Aphrodisias.  We over-reached.  Our Tom-Tom navigator got tripped up on road construction detours.  We found ourselves deep into farmland bumping along a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.  When we finally rolled onto a paved section of road we sighed in relief and stopped at the first gas station for directions.

First, you need to know that gas stations, coffee houses and restaurants are gathering places for men. So when we pulled up to the station and went looking for help, we found a half dozen eager men crowding around our map, trying to decipher both it and our English. We spent  ten minutes going back and forth, watching them debate each other and trying to follow their hand gestures and map scribbles.  Tempers wore thin as each tried to assert themselves as the final decision maker.  There was shouting, head shaking and hand waving.  Nabil was in the thick of it.  A testosterone driven cluster fuck.

Finally, with minimal confidence, we made a U-turn and headed down a new stretch of highway. It was my first experience with the Turkish male " group think"', but it was not going to be our last!  

The highway signs soon verified that we were back on course and we thought we were out of the woods.  However, the turn off to Aphrodisias led us onto a treacherous mountain path that was being transformed into a major roadway.  We drove for miles in a dust cloud  navigating pot holes, construction ruts and blind curves. Finally we saw a town in the distance, and thought we were home safe again.  WRONG!  The road led us right into the center of a small obscure town on market day.  It was a filthy little town, littered with plastic bottles and garbage. Tented market stalls lined the streets spilling their shabby wears onto the curb.  Hundreds of people were milling about, while  rusty cars, old trucks and worn bikes tried to out maneuver each other.  We sweated our way through the market, weaving around and between the cars and people wondering where the hell we were.

And the just as suddenly we were out of the town and careening down a steep hill that overlooked a wide expanse of farm land and fields below.  We needed gas, so pulled into a gas station near the top of the hill.  Not just a gas station, but a super station.  We were offered free tea and bottled water, and encouraged to rest in electric massage chairs overlooking the valley, while they filled our tank and washed our car free of charge.  A full service snack bar was available inside the station along with spotlessly clean restrooms with Western style toilets!  This is the beauty of Turkey...never knowing what you might encounter.  You have to be open to everything and afraid of nothing!

Gassed up, watered and fed, we climbed back into the car and travelled the last few miles to our next discovery.  When we arrived, we were directed to park in the "Otopark", where one lone tour bus and a few cars baked in the sun.  We were told to  climb into a trolley car that would take us to the entrance of the Aphrodisias complex.  It was blistering hot, so we were grateful for the lift, but were the only passengers on board.  The trolley car was attached to a tractor which labored to pull us across the highway.  As we lumbered down the entrance road, comparing our transport to the Disney World shuttle buses, we chuckled and wondered whether our tour of  Aphrodisias would be worth the trouble of getting there.

We needn't have worried.  A Hellenistic and Roman city named for the goddess of beauty, it is a reflection of its namesake.  While much of the city was destroyed by earthquakes in the 4th and 7th centuries, what does remain, hints at a city of unusual splendor, marked by extraordinary sculptures and intricate carvings.  It is also the site of one of the largest and best preserved ancient sports stadiums said to have seated over 30,000 spectators.  One end of the stadium had been modified for contests between gladiators and wild beasts.  It is still possible to see the differentiation between that section of the stadium and that reserved for more traditional sport.  We spent two hours wandering  the grounds, hooking up for a time with a tour group and their guide, and then splintering off on our own again.  The sites were well marked with placards offering great details about the construction of the city as well as day to day life there.

The cultural depth of this country is overwhelming. After a while you begin to think, that no matter where you step, it is likely that you are standing over another civilization.  Any patch of land offers the possibility of some hidden treasure.  Just dig down a few inches and you are sure to find some relic of the past. We feel humble here....so conscious of our mortality and insignificance.

Again, as  lone passengers, we were scooped up by the trolley and dropped off at our car.  We stopped at a restaurant not far down the road and enjoyed a leisurely meal served by a lonely 40 something waiter who had just been jilted by his British girlfriend.  He told us war stories of desperate widowed or divorced European women seeking companionship in the coastal resorts of Turkey.  Early blooming romances most often died on the vine, as the women were taken for their money by young gigolos. He was funny and sad and philosophical.  He had been taken by his lady friend in a quirky reversal of fate.

An eight hour return trip waited us.  We stocked up on water and headed north, our newly washed car already freckled with dust.  By the time darkness settled, we could barely see the road way.  Dead bugs and dirt had formed a crust on the windshield. We stopped at another gas station, in need of windshield wiper fluid.  Again, not one attendant, but four guys came out to help.  All four consulted on how to open  the hood.  Two watched as one poured. The fourth offered us tea. You have to love  the unexpected hospitality and generosity of the Turkish people.

We decided that we would  try to make it home, but if we found it too daunting, we would stop in Afryon and sleep there for the night.  Who were we kidding?   Of course we stayed the night in Afryon.  We arrived there fully spent, having driven two of the last four hours in total darkness, battling night vision and Turkish drivers.  We slept in a "heavenly bed" after a bathing in the marble tub and laughed at the contrast between our luxury digs and the hotels that lined the dirt roads of Pamukkale.....

COTTON CASTLE

We've spent much of the last two weeks on the road with little time or energy for reflection or writing.  Now its time to catch up.

On Nabil's return from Istanbul, we  decided to strike out on our own to see Pamukkale, considered one of the 10 most amazing geographical formations in the world, and a World Heritage Site. It is nearly a seven hour drive from Ankara, so we marked up our map, packed the Tom-Tom and an overnight bag and hit the road.

With a few months of driving experience under our belt and a better sense of the idiosyncrasies of Turkey, we set out with a growing sense of confidence in our ability to navigate not just the roads, but all things Turkish.   We took a detour about 90 minutes east of Ankara to a small village outside of Polaltli, where an archaeological dig has unearthed the burial mound of King Midas (yes, the legendary king renowned for his ability to turn everything he touched into gold!  We drove through miles of field where migrant workers were harvesting onions and potatoes,  before arriving at a small museum centered around the burial site.  Deep inside the earth, we viewed a massive wooden tomb, that looked like a petrified log cabin that still smelled of fresh cedar. Midas was apparently a Phrygian monarch, who lived more than 3,000 years ago and the museum did a terrific job of detailing the history of his people and showcasing their artifacts.  We spent a few minutes bargaining with a souvenir hawker and then meandered down the road to view another open dig site that was baking in the high noon sun.

Hot and hungry, we stopped for lunch in Polatli, working class town near the highway, and enjoyed a traditional Turkish meal of kebabs, rice, salad and yogurt.  The yogurt was exceptional, made fresh on the premises.  It was thick and creamy, with a thin crust of hardened milk solids.  We sipped Turkish coffee and ate honey soaked pastry as we chatted with the owner before pushing off to Pamukale, the meaning of which is COTTON CASTLE.

The modern highways are well marked  and we passed our milestones with increasing ease as the broad rolling plains of the dry plateau  gave way to steeper hills dotted with farm fields and evergreen patches. Highway construction was the only challenge we faced.  Periodically we would hit a stretch of road that was being repaired or widened, and we would be shuttled to the side of the highway that was temporarily delegated for handling two way traffic.  Sharing the road with Turkish drivers who see nothing wrong with passing on blind curves or driving the wrong way on the shoulder of the road does raise your stress level.  Still we plowed through the gravel stretches with relative ease and made it to the halfway point in Afryon in no time.  After miles and miles of rural villages and vast plains, Afryon emerged as  a glistening commercial oasis centered around a bustling outlet mall anchored by a Starbucks!  We stopped for coffee, basking in the comfort of franchised  familiarity, and then took off to try to reach our destination before sunset.

Within ten minutes, we drove past another village with houses fashioned out of mud bricks and people sitting on dirt floors watching their chickens scratch out a meal outside their front door.  The striking contrast of modern and traditional living side by side never ceases to amaze me.

The hills turned to mountains.  The forests grew more dense. We trucked along without once getting lost and pulled into Pamukale just as dusk was settling on the town.

We stayed in a small bed and breakfast tended by a local woman and her family. Luckily she spoke fluent English as well as German and Turkish.  Our rooms were not luxurious, but comfortable and spotlessly clean.  The proprietor encouraged us to walk up to the cotton cliffs before the sun set.  Needing to stretch our legs after spending the better part of the day in the car, we took her advice and snaked our way through the dusty streets  to the Nature Park centered beneath the cliffs encrusted in sparkling white calcium carbonate.  A blue green man-made lake captured the water from the thermal streams above and served as the focal point of the park.  Souvenir stands, restaurants and flocks of ducks, swans and geese edged the lake.

Pamukkale long been considered a center for healing, with ancient Romans and Greeks having built a spectacular hilltop city above the thermal waters. From the vantage point below the cliffs, the city was obscured, but the cliffs shimmered in the moonlight.  Spotlights illuminated the thermal pools and as the sun set, the people wading on through them formed giant shadow puppet forms against the screen of the mountain wall.  It was beautiful and eerie. The illusory winter wonderland scene flowed down the mountain to meet the dry dusty concrete of a summer night.

We stayed for a while, enjoying the view, trying to re-align our confused senses, then headed into the village, resisting the restauranteurs who begged us to try their cuisine and poking into a few of the small shops bedecked with tourist trinkets. We strolled back to our hotel.  Though hoards of tourist come by bus to visit the area, the town is dirty and decrepit. It could be charming but it is not.  Many of the local hotels are run down, and marginal at best. We felt fortunate to have chosen one of the better ones.  We walked past locals slouched on plastic chairs grouped in small circles, with cigarette smoke encircling their heads.  Some looked sinister and others bored.  All looked unwelcoming as if they were annoyed by their responsibility host the strangers wandering their village.

After a few wrong turns, we finally found our hotel, where a home cooked dinner awaited. We indeed felt fortunate to have stumbled on this oasis of hospitality in an otherwise desperate and indifferent setting.    We drank beer and  feasted on salad, lentil soup, and chicken and vegetable served over rice, followed by baklava with ice cream and tea.  Tired and on a full stomach we rolled into bed and were asleep before 10:00.

We were up before sunrise and headed to the hilltop to explore Heirapolis and the thermal pools before the crowds from the tour buses arrived.  We drove up to the South entrance and parked, and it wasn't until we walked through the ticket gates that we could appreciate the grandeur of this old city or the beauty of its setting.  The remains of the city were spread for miles a across the broad expanse of a mountain top.  An ancient theater, public bathroom, tombs, agora, thermal baths, and various monuments and cathedrals  littered the mountain.  The skeletal remains of roadways and building foundations hinted at the overall city plan.  The city boundary was marked by the cliff, where volcanic waters sprouted from deep inside the earth, and spilled over into pools and eddies  formed by a build up of calcium carbonate clinging to rock formations on the flanks of the hillside. We waded in the water and trekked for hours through the ruins, marveling at the sophistication of the ancient architects of the city.  We applauded the  Russian tourists sauntering through the complex in their swim wear; the women wearing bikinis that barely encased their ample breasts and wide hips, the men leading with their bloated bellies. Totally un-self conscious! We imagined Cleopatra wading into the healing waters.  We felt sad thinking about that so many lives lost to history and  wondered how much of our own cities would survive an earthquake.

We returned to our hotel for a late breakfast of eggs, cheese, olives and home-baked bread, settled our bill (less than $60 for room and board for the two of us) and then headed south to Aphrodisias. There is a seemingly endless supply of historical sites tempting us to drive on....

Time Warp

I spent most of my life feeling as if there was not enough time.  At war with time. Resisting the things I had to do, worrying about the things I should do, pining for the things I wanted to do but couldn't find time to do.  I had recurring nightmares about time as a young girl. I dreamed of missing the school bus, missing deadlines, of being left behind because I had gotten the time wrong.  I often felt I was misusing time, spending too little on the important things and too much on the trivial. I raced through life running for a future that never materialized, dissolving as soon as I  reached the finish line.

As you might have observed,  my internal critic has always been hyper-vigilant, and no activity or investment has been spared from over analysis.  Time management was such an easy target and provided ample opportunity for self-criticism. (Of course I was fully  aware that I was spending too much time overanalyzing!)

Now I have the luxury of time.  An abundance of time.  Few obligations.  I am trying to relax into the gift, but old habits persist.  The same questions nag me. How much time should one allow for just being?  Have I overstepped my limit?   Is there something else I should be doing?  Am I wasting time?

But underneath that familiar current of self doubt, I am glimpsing something strange in the flow of my life.  I have had the strange sensation of experiencing my past as if it was the present....not simply a memory, but a total immersion experience that flashes through my body.  It happens quickly. It comes without warning.  It is as if I am transcending linear time and living in multiple time zones. As it passes, the experience leaves a trace of cascading emotions, followed by a softening, an acceptance of the road taken.  Then the door closes.  These mini time warps are happening with some regularity and are triggered by a variety of stimuli.  

The other day, I was swimming laps.  About 20 minutes into my swim, I experienced myself as a seven year old at swim team practice in our community pool in Delaware.  It wasn't simply a memory that flashed in my mind, but the physical sense that my body was younger and smaller, and that the thoughts running through my mind became that of my younger self. My arms and legs were shorter, and my skin was younger and smoother.   The pool itself transformed. I could see the shadow of trees standing guard on the far side of the chain link fence and hear the poolside chatter of children and the voice of my coach.   And then in a few strokes, I dropped back into the present.  And then a flood of associated memories came rushing back, memories  clearer and more vivid than I am usually able to retrieve.

Maybe this is the reward for doing less...I am either going crazy or living in my own Matrix!  Maybe this is my chance to peek behind the veil....

BED, by David Whitehouse

I found this book by David Whitehouse while browsing a local bookstore in Bilkent a few weeks ago. I was hooked on the first line.  I read hungrily for a few pages and then decided I would purchase it online.  I tried, but could'nt find it.  It was haunting me, so yesterday I hoofed it down the hill and puchased it.  I read it straight through.

It is the story of a family anchored by a son who chooses to drop out of life and eats himself into a state of immobilized morbid obesity.  This sad quirky collection of characters trapped in this remarkable co-dependent feeding frenzy slowly pulls back the covers on the longing, loving and failings of all families. While the scenario seems incredulous there is an undercurrent of normalcy running through it.  You can't help but recognize fragments of your own life and family dynamics reflected  through the shattered lens of Malcolm Ede's life.

Whitehouse is amazing.  His writing is vivid and inventive, startling you with images that sear into your mind.  Sometimes revolting, sometimes poignant, often hilarious, he stretches your imagination, tickles your senses and makes you wonder if you are  really awake and paying attention to the way things look, smell and feel.  I marvelled at the writing as much as I enjoyed the story. The art and the craft of his storytelling pushed me to race through it.  But his fangs are deep into my heart...and my mind is wrapped around the story of Mal and the family caught in his self-imposed death spiral. Read it and weep, laugh, ponder....

Shape shifting

I have been walking...walking long distances to and from the gym everyday.  In part, because I am committed to improving my fitness level (preparing for my excursion up Mt. Kilimanjaro), in part, because I don't always have access to a car or driver when the impulse to get up and  go strikes, and in part, because I am drawn to the view.  Our apartment sits at the top of a high ridge that looks out over the Anatolian plateau and onto the mountains in the far distance.  There are vast spaces of undeveloped land interspersed with densely clustered pockets of civilization.  When looking out from the vantage point of the hilltop, a veil of desert dust blurs the scene, blending the hard edges of the concrete buildings into the mountain ridges.  The geometric jumble of buildings stacked against the undulating horizon look lifeless.  The cityscape bakes silently in the midday sun. All human activity is obscured by the vast distance.  It is if I am looking at the remnants of an abandoned civilization. I feel like an alien trekking across an unknown land in search of human contact.   I am mesmerized by this surreal view, and I trudge down the hill.

I know that what I can see from here is  not what I can see when I am thrust into the middle of the city.  There, the sidewalks teem with color and movement.  Crisp edges define space, with curbs separating foot traffic from automobiles.  Lights flash. Cars screech. Horn honk.  People shout. Music leaks from the windows of the apartments and cafes. It is noisy and messy and alive. The pulse of the city overwhelms the senses. No matter where you stand, you cannot fully take in all that is happening.  And yet these are one and the same place, just observed from two different vantage points.

My reality is shape shifting.  With each step I take  down the mountain, I feel grounded, yet somehow more free.  Expanding. Opening. Something new has wedged itself into my mind, and is pushing me forward into the unknown. My senses are on alert.  I notice the details.  The uneven curb heights.  The crumbling sidewalk.  The struggling hibiscus blossom, trumpeting its fragile beauty at the end of a parched stem. The plastic water bottles glistening in the weeds.  The security guard dozing at his post.  The taxi driver talking on his cell phone.

I am sure I am noticed.  There are not many pedestrians on this stretch of roadway.  Occasionally someone stops to offer me a ride.  I always refuse, preferring to walk in silence.  I feel invisible, cloaked in my own thoughts.

I am drawn to this dichotomy, this split scene experience of a life in which I am always part observer and never fully integrated into the fabric of daily life.  I feel oddly safe despite being vulnerable and isolated.  I feel privileged to be with but not a part of the culture.  I feel anonymous, but special.  I am feel like I am walking toward a revelation buried in the distance.

LOST AND FOUND

A few months ago, I read Geneen Roth's, WOMEN, FOOD AND GOD.  It rocked my soul.  So when I spotted her latest book, LOST AND FOUND, I snatched it up and downloaded it to my I-pad.  In the aftermath of the Bernie Madoff  debacle,which wiped out her life savings, she explores her relationship with money and the deep-seated beliefs which drive her spending habits, her investment strategy and her sense of self-worth.  Again, she somehow climbed into the deepest recesses of my own unconscious, and rooted around to dig up thoughts, feelings and beliefs that have shaped by own life.  I read it cover to cover in a couple of hours.

Her writing holds up a mirror for me....a magnifying mirror that illuminates each and every imperfection.  She pulls off the covers to reveal my craziness. She forces a conversation with myself. A difficult conversation.  Her brutally honest revelations of her own convuluted manipulations of her thought processes and behaviors give me permission to be honest with myself.  She encourages me to take ownership of my dark side. She helps me examine hidden feelings of shame and unworthiness. She nudges me forward, encouraging me to accept my imperfections. She illuminates my shadow side and in doing so reveals my humanity. She gives me permission  to be real, without offering answers, without making excuses.  She reminds me that I am not special; not especially good or bad, and more like other people than I might imagine.

This is a book for anyone who has an emotionally charged  relationship with money and the things that money can buy. That's pretty much everyone I know...

Up in Smoke

While policymakers are making a modest effort to curb smoking in Turkey, the tide has not yet turned.  Cigarette smoke hangs in the air outside office buildings, in courtyards, taxi cabs and outdoor restaurants. Everyone smokes; men, women, young and old.  Ashtrays are perched on outdoor dining and coffee shop tables everywhere you go. This, despite packaging that boasts clear and succint health warnings, like " cigarette smoking causes cancer, " in bold black and white graphics.  These dire warnings are punctuated with graphic illustrations of human  body parts disfigured by glossy tumors. No one seems to notice.   Cigarettes are expensive. Given the rapidly rising cost of living, most working class folks can ill afford their smoking habit.  Still smoking seems to be an unquestioned social ritual.  Cigarettes dangle from the lips of bus drivers and security guards, office workers and students, old women sitting on park benches,young women sitting on bar stools and old men playing backgammom at coffeeshops.

Stepping into public spaces where stale smoke  hangs heavy in the air  brings a rush of memories from a time when Americans indulged their own addiction to tobacco without concern for their future health.  It takes me back to the 1960's and 70's, before the link between cancer and smoking was cemented into our public awareness.  It brings back memories of my father and his ever present pack of Benson & Hedges.  The smell triggers memories of raucous family gatherings where the adults smoked and drank and played cards late into the  night.  Times when the children were excused from early bedtimes and romped through the house playing hide and seek, eating potato chips slathered with onion dip and sneaking the occassional sip of beer from a bottle left unattended on the kitchen counter.

Times when the future seemed less important than the pleasures of the moment.  While I am  appreciative of the  health benefits of a smoke-free lifestyle and grateful for the fresh air quality of our public spaces, I miss the free and unfettered enjoyment of socializing without fear of reprisal, judgement or future consequence.

FORTY RULES OF LOVE

Just finished this novel by Elif Shafak, which interweaves a modern love story with a retelling of the friendship between Rumi and Shams of Tabriz.  Not a fan of this book, but appreciated learning more about Sufiism.   The book's central theme is love and the  importance of following your heart.  In the end, Ella, the heroine of the book, abandons her husband and family for a man who is dying of cancer. Despite the judgements of friends and family, her bold and unexpected decision is portrayed as a step toward living a more authentic and meaningful life. Should we live to meet our obligations and responsibilities or pursue love and joy?  Shafak explores big themes like this one.  She digs  deep into the meaning of life, the nature of time, the failure of religion and the limitations of words to communicate thoughts.  Ironic that her word choices failed to resonate with me, despite the value of the questions she raised.

Wedding Bells

At the invitation of one of the employees of the firm with which Nabil is working, we attended our first Turkish wedding on Saturday.  It was an evening wedding held outside in a garden setting, under a huge tented pavilion.  A beautiful flower arrangement floated on a small reflecting pool that was the focal point of the seating area.  At one end of the pool was a stage for the entertainers and in front of it was a generous dance floor. Centerpieces graced the round tables skirted in white tablecloths.

 In many ways, the celebration mirrored US customs.  Wine flowed freely.  A sit down dinner, featuring the obligatory banquet style chicken dinner was served.  The bride wore a white strapless gown, and short veiled headpiece edged in rhinestones; the groom a tux.  There were assigned tables.  Everyone was dressed to the nines.  There was the announced entrance of the bride and groom, the first dance, and a cake cutting ceremony.

The only and most remarkable difference between a Turkish wedding and a US wedding is that EVERYONE dances.  Mid point through the celebration, a scan of the room revealed that the only people sitting at the tables were the old and infirm...and even a few of them boldly made their way to the dance floor.  You don't see men dragged reluctantly to the dance floor to appease their wives.  Instead, men participate equally and fully in the festivities. Some even lead the charge.  Women, men and children sing, dance and revel in the festivities, from the first note of music that welcomes the bride and groom to the dance floor until the last chord  of music is played at the end of the night.  From traditional Turkish folk songs and dances to Latin rhythms, to sixties rock and roll, they sing and dance to it all.  There are no dour- faced observers holding court at the tables, waiting to escape unnoticed into the parking lot for a quick exit.  Instead, a wedding is just another opportunity to unleash the Turks' love of music.

Under a full moon, in a Turkish garden, we drank wine, ate stuffed grape leaves and halloumi cheese.  We traded stories with   new acquaintances. We danced under the stars, celebrating with strangers, to music that was sometimes unfamiliar and sometimes not. We toasted to love, to life and to the bride and groom...greatful for the opportunity to participate in such a rich and culturally diverse life. 

Movie Maniacs

Movies have always been a huge part of our life.  When Nabil and I were in college, we would scour our apartment for loose change and if we were lucky enough to accumulate $2.50 for two tickets (student discount), we would head off to the local cinema (two screen maximum) and hunker down to get lost in other people's stories. We are indiscriminate. We love all movies.  Fantasy, drama, cartoons, science fiction, foreign films, quirky independent flicks, summer blockbusters.  Our passion for moviegoing has never faded. When our daughter was born we would time our film escapes to mesh with her nap times.  By the time baby two arrived, we could afford a sitter, and movies were once again our escape mechanism.  And with baby three, movies became a family affair. We have passed our passion on to our kids and we are all avid movie-goers.

The good news is that movie theaters, like shopping malls, are generously sprinkled throughout the Ankara province.  There are four  multiplex theaters within a ten-minute drive of our apartment.  They are big monster theaters, with up to 12 large screen viewing rooms and comfortable lounge chairs.  A ticket is about half the cost of  movie ticket in US cities, but there is no senior citizen discount.  The concession stands are well stocked, with a Ben & Jerry's franchise and a cappuccino machine in most.  They offer similar package deals on snacks and beverages, though we haven't taken advantage of these.  I don't know if they have found a way to avoid the rancid warmed over flavor of movie popcorn, but there are definitely fewer popcorn-eaters in the audience than in US theaters.

The bad news is that all of these theaters offer the same films, with even less variety than in US multiplex cinemas.  Worse yet, only about half the films are English speaking.  About a quarter are produced in Turkey and the rest are foreign films, dubbed in Turkish.  The genre of US films that do run in Turkey are primarily of the blockbuster, crash and burn variety...gangster, sci-fi, car chase and disaster films.  We have seen THE DARK KNIGHT, SPIDERMAN, THE BOURNE LEGACY and SAVAGES.  But the subtler films that speak to the variety of life experiences in the US are in short supply.  We desperately miss those films.  More importantly, this skewed distribution algorithm really misrepresents US culture, giving the impression that gangsters and drug lords are on a rampage wreaking havoc in our cities and suburbs.

There are a few other important differences that movie goers have to get used to in Turkey.  When purchasing tickets, you also purchase assigned seats.  Great in theory, but the theaters don't use a common numbering scheme for their seating arrangements and trying to locate the assigned seats can be an embarrassing challenge when you are climbing over people who don't understand a word you are saying.

The previews are also more limited. They also play more commercials than most US theaters feature prior to the start of the feature film. The commercials rely on comic elements, run on for two minutes or more and some are so long, that you begin to wonder if  you might have wandered into the wrong film.  And of course,mother English speaking films are dubbed in Turkish.  When watching a foreign film dubbed in English, I am never distracted by the subtitles.  In fact, a few minutes into the film, I actually forget that I am reading, and it seems as if the characters are actually speaking in English.  On the other hand, when watching an English speaking film, subtitled in Turkish, I cannot ignore the subtitles.  I find myself trying to decipher the words on screen and match them to the dialogue and then get annoyed by the disconnect.

The most difficult adjustment has been getting used to "intermission breaks". Apparently, Turkish marketeers have decided that they can ramp up concession sales by scheduling a break in the film that allows patrons to take a second look at the goodies they offer.  (Or perhaps, the Turks have small bladders or are heavy drinkers and cannot hold their water for the entirety of a film.). Whatever the reason, at some arbitrary point in the film, the movie stops abruptly, a muppet style character appears on screen and barks a message, and the theater goes dark.  Then the lights come up and everyone exits the theater.  The break lasts about 10 minutes, and then just as abruptly, and often without any warning, the film starts up again.  It is a maddening ritual, made worse by the poor timing of the breaks, which usually come just as the film is picking momentum.  Totally immersed in the flow of the story, you find yourself rudely awakened, and reminded that you are back in the real world, and in fact, not in the comfort of your own reality, but a foreign one!

My next challenge is to figure out a way to get international access to Netflix.  If that can be accomplished, we will be able to get our fix of independent films in the comfort of our home, without commercial breaks or intermission.  In the meantime, we will seek sanctuary in the theaters of Turkey, just as we have done in the US for so many years.