Part 6: Milan
James: On Monday, 11/19 we took a six hour train ride back to Milan. The train was full, and a little late, but otherwise no problem. A long day though. We got a simple one star hotel room for $40 near the train station. We ate at Brek's and checked some e-mail, then went to bed. Milan turned out to be the city we had been dreading in Rome. It was characterless, congested, smoggy, and difficult to see on foot. In the 4th century, it was the capitol of the eastern Roman Empire, but nearly all traces of Roman buildings or life are gone, giving it a modern, industrial, and ugly feel. The next day we walked around town (it was sunny, but cold), and saw the huge gothic Duomo, the Galleria, and an excellent archeology museum (with great Greek painted ceramics), but is wasn't especially enjoyable. The food and gelato was good though. Milan wasn't that bad; it's just that after Rome, it was somewhat of a let down.
Everywhere we went in Milan (and much of Italy), people had pet dogs with them. They were mostly small and cute, but we also saw many German Shepards. They walk them on the city streets, and take them into cafes and bars, or leave them (often without a leash) outside a store or restaurant. We even saw one dog playing catch on the old cobbled streets with a ball. In Milan, they had a large park where many people were walking or playing with there dogs. They always made us smile.
The other thing we saw everywhere, even more than dogs, were couples kissing and making out in public. It would be hard to throw a rock in Italy and not hit some young (or older) couple in a passionate embrace. Many of them appeared to be attached at the mouth, or groping. And the Italian women are very sexy and dress so fashionably! WOW! What is it about Italy?
On Wednesday, 11/21, we took a shuttle bus to the airport for the final trip home. We were missing our home and Kitty by now, and were looking forward to returning. We got a kick out of watching the dogs at work at the airport. I wonder why bomb-sniffing dogs are so happy and friendly? We saw the dog at the airport standing on his hind legs drinking water from a large tub in a utility room. After 20 days together night and day, we were starting to get on each other's nerves. She even managed to lock herself in the bathroom in the airport and had to call for help (I could hear her in the men's room - "Yep, that's my wife"). I was trying to decide whether to get the jaws-of-life or send in the bomb-dog, when someone let her out. Why do these things only happen to Rachel?
Rachel: I should have been suspicious when the bathroom stall I entered had a large hole kicked into the bottom. Obviously, others had had trouble getting out.
After an 8 hr 45 min flight from Milan, we finally touched down in Newark. When we deplaned, the first Americans to greet us were these big beautiful black women in bright red jackets directing people to various customs and immigrations lines. I was so happy to see their beautiful faces, I could have just hugged them all! After being up nearly 24 hours straight, we were finally home!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Italian Adventure: Rome (Part 5)
Part 5: Rome
Rachel: While talking with other travelers, we kept hearing that Rome is a good place to go - some people even said it was their favorite place. We weren't even going to go, as we had heard so much about crowds, congestion, pollution, tourist-traps and pick-pockets, but we had a hunch that we may just like it (we also wanted a change from the small-town scene), so on Thursday 11/15, we took the train to Rome - and we were glad we did. In Arezzo, we were only a 1 hr 40 min train ride away from Rome and it would have been a shame not to go there. We ended up liking Rome immediately, and liked it more the longer we stayed. We found the traffic and tourism to be worse in Florence. Rome was a great city for wandering, maybe one of the best in the world. And it was warm, and after some scattered showers the first day, sunny with not a cloud in the sky. Who cares about visiting museums when the entire city of Rome is a sight unto itself? It's true, it's true, we loved Rome! What a pleasant surprise!
James: On the train to Rome we sat with a friendly lady from Poland who was living in Arezzo and was going to see the Pope on a day trip. She invited us to not only stay with her in Arezzo if we returned, but also with her parents back in Poland (we have their addresses just in case). In Rome we stayed in a perfect little hostel called "Casa Olmata" near the Colosseum. The hostel is seven long flights of stairs up to a roof top terrace with free Internet, communal dinners, and an unbeatable view of the city, especially at night. We ended up getting our own room on the 2nd floor for about $35 a night. The couple running the hostel were great. If you think it couldn't get any better, it also includes free breakfast (coupons for a hot drink of your choice and a croissant at a local cafe), free movies every night, and they cook and serve free full course dinners with wine twice a week Rick Steves discovered this place when it first opened, and includes it in his guidebook, so that most people staying there have Rick's book. Mirela, the owner, says that Rick is very handsome and funny (Che pasa, Signor Steves?) He stays there once a year he likes it so much.
Rachel: We walked all over Rome during the four days we were there, seeing the Colosseum, Palatine hill, the Roman Forum (superb ruins!), the Trevi fountain, the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps, Trastevere, the Capitoline Hill, St. Peter's Basilica, and many other old buildings and churches that you can't help but stumble upon as you wander around. Another great thing about Rome is the street cats. They live around town, especially in the ancient ruins. In the city center, there is a thriving colony of street cats that live in a large area of ruins that is closed to humans. It was a sight in itself, as you could view the whole area from the modern street level (about 20 feet above the ancient street level) from a piazza surrounding the ruins. All the sights we saw were free (we didn't do any museums). We ate each day at "Brek's," a self-service restaurant with very tasty food (you get tired of pizza stands after a while). Rome is also an excellent place to roam around in at night. The Colosseum and many ruins are lit at night.
James: The second morning we were in Rome, we got to see a huge political demonstration and protest right outside our hotel window. For about two hours, thousands of people of all ages marched by in the streets, with banners, flags, drums, songs, chants - you name it. It seemed to be a mix of many different groups: There were labor supporters, environmental groups, the Communist Party, anti-war protesters, anti-WTO protesters, social reformers, the Socialist Party, Northern Italian separatists, and many others. Italy has a very strong liberal political current, although the conservative parties have usually controlled national politics. There is a history of political struggle in Italy that has resulted in violence at times, and the government seems to dissolve and reform continuously. It was great to see so many young people here who care about making the world a better place. It was certainly a good photo opportunity.
Rachel: We got to know the young travelers at our hostel (we were the oldest by far) at the communal dinner at the spaghetti party on Friday night. They served a tasty vegetarian dinner and the company was excellent. There were Italians, Canadians, Australians, Japanese, two ladies from Iceland and Americans eating with us. I got a little disgusted with some of their young and cocky attitudes--we were never like that of course. On our floor, a group of young Italians were in Rome for a weekend of good times. One of their group (and I think there is always someone like this in any such group) was the loudmouth class clown type. He kept shouting "Lucca" at the top of his lungs. James had gone to download some photos on the internet and I stayed in the room and relaxed. It was dark and deserted and I heard one of the Italians yell long and slow, "Loooocca…" and then he repeated the name, yelling it louder and louder. It sounded pretty creepy and I watched the clock hoping James would bust a move back to the room. I am not sure whether Lucca is a real person, as he never responded. That night, it would be perfectly quiet, then we would hear "LUCCA . . . LOOOOCCA!" from down the hall and we'd bust up laughing. Soon we were doing it ourselves everywhere we went. If we get another cat, we're going to have to name him… you guessed it "Lucca!" Actually, we met the Italians at dinner that night, and they were very polite, just full of youthful zest and exuberance.
Our last day in Rome, we split up for the afternoon-James to take photos and I managed to wander around on my own without getting lost. I went to the Pantheon and sat down to people watch. I joined with others cracking up as a little black poodle humped the leg of the little boy who had him by the leash. That little dog was something else. If the little boy walked around, the dog bit at the leash, and if he stopped, the dog started humping his leg! The little boy seemed oblivious to it all.
During our entire trip, I could count the overweight people I saw on one hand. Based on my observations, the reasons for this appear to be that their portion sizes are about 1/2 of what we are used to; their food is not smothered in processed cheese like our versions of Italian (and Mexican) food; they rarely snack on junk food and pops; their bread and food is made with basic wholesome ingredients and lacks the long list of artificial colors, flavors, additives, preservatives, etc., the desserts and sweets are never sickeningly sweet or rich or covered with thick frosting like ours, and their fruits and vegetables are very fresh and taste crisp and sweet unlike the mass produced chemically ridden produce we settle for at our "supermarkets." In Italy, it is definitely quality over quantity.
Rachel: While talking with other travelers, we kept hearing that Rome is a good place to go - some people even said it was their favorite place. We weren't even going to go, as we had heard so much about crowds, congestion, pollution, tourist-traps and pick-pockets, but we had a hunch that we may just like it (we also wanted a change from the small-town scene), so on Thursday 11/15, we took the train to Rome - and we were glad we did. In Arezzo, we were only a 1 hr 40 min train ride away from Rome and it would have been a shame not to go there. We ended up liking Rome immediately, and liked it more the longer we stayed. We found the traffic and tourism to be worse in Florence. Rome was a great city for wandering, maybe one of the best in the world. And it was warm, and after some scattered showers the first day, sunny with not a cloud in the sky. Who cares about visiting museums when the entire city of Rome is a sight unto itself? It's true, it's true, we loved Rome! What a pleasant surprise!
James: On the train to Rome we sat with a friendly lady from Poland who was living in Arezzo and was going to see the Pope on a day trip. She invited us to not only stay with her in Arezzo if we returned, but also with her parents back in Poland (we have their addresses just in case). In Rome we stayed in a perfect little hostel called "Casa Olmata" near the Colosseum. The hostel is seven long flights of stairs up to a roof top terrace with free Internet, communal dinners, and an unbeatable view of the city, especially at night. We ended up getting our own room on the 2nd floor for about $35 a night. The couple running the hostel were great. If you think it couldn't get any better, it also includes free breakfast (coupons for a hot drink of your choice and a croissant at a local cafe), free movies every night, and they cook and serve free full course dinners with wine twice a week Rick Steves discovered this place when it first opened, and includes it in his guidebook, so that most people staying there have Rick's book. Mirela, the owner, says that Rick is very handsome and funny (Che pasa, Signor Steves?) He stays there once a year he likes it so much.
Rachel: We walked all over Rome during the four days we were there, seeing the Colosseum, Palatine hill, the Roman Forum (superb ruins!), the Trevi fountain, the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps, Trastevere, the Capitoline Hill, St. Peter's Basilica, and many other old buildings and churches that you can't help but stumble upon as you wander around. Another great thing about Rome is the street cats. They live around town, especially in the ancient ruins. In the city center, there is a thriving colony of street cats that live in a large area of ruins that is closed to humans. It was a sight in itself, as you could view the whole area from the modern street level (about 20 feet above the ancient street level) from a piazza surrounding the ruins. All the sights we saw were free (we didn't do any museums). We ate each day at "Brek's," a self-service restaurant with very tasty food (you get tired of pizza stands after a while). Rome is also an excellent place to roam around in at night. The Colosseum and many ruins are lit at night.
James: The second morning we were in Rome, we got to see a huge political demonstration and protest right outside our hotel window. For about two hours, thousands of people of all ages marched by in the streets, with banners, flags, drums, songs, chants - you name it. It seemed to be a mix of many different groups: There were labor supporters, environmental groups, the Communist Party, anti-war protesters, anti-WTO protesters, social reformers, the Socialist Party, Northern Italian separatists, and many others. Italy has a very strong liberal political current, although the conservative parties have usually controlled national politics. There is a history of political struggle in Italy that has resulted in violence at times, and the government seems to dissolve and reform continuously. It was great to see so many young people here who care about making the world a better place. It was certainly a good photo opportunity.
Rachel: We got to know the young travelers at our hostel (we were the oldest by far) at the communal dinner at the spaghetti party on Friday night. They served a tasty vegetarian dinner and the company was excellent. There were Italians, Canadians, Australians, Japanese, two ladies from Iceland and Americans eating with us. I got a little disgusted with some of their young and cocky attitudes--we were never like that of course. On our floor, a group of young Italians were in Rome for a weekend of good times. One of their group (and I think there is always someone like this in any such group) was the loudmouth class clown type. He kept shouting "Lucca" at the top of his lungs. James had gone to download some photos on the internet and I stayed in the room and relaxed. It was dark and deserted and I heard one of the Italians yell long and slow, "Loooocca…" and then he repeated the name, yelling it louder and louder. It sounded pretty creepy and I watched the clock hoping James would bust a move back to the room. I am not sure whether Lucca is a real person, as he never responded. That night, it would be perfectly quiet, then we would hear "LUCCA . . . LOOOOCCA!" from down the hall and we'd bust up laughing. Soon we were doing it ourselves everywhere we went. If we get another cat, we're going to have to name him… you guessed it "Lucca!" Actually, we met the Italians at dinner that night, and they were very polite, just full of youthful zest and exuberance.
Our last day in Rome, we split up for the afternoon-James to take photos and I managed to wander around on my own without getting lost. I went to the Pantheon and sat down to people watch. I joined with others cracking up as a little black poodle humped the leg of the little boy who had him by the leash. That little dog was something else. If the little boy walked around, the dog bit at the leash, and if he stopped, the dog started humping his leg! The little boy seemed oblivious to it all.
During our entire trip, I could count the overweight people I saw on one hand. Based on my observations, the reasons for this appear to be that their portion sizes are about 1/2 of what we are used to; their food is not smothered in processed cheese like our versions of Italian (and Mexican) food; they rarely snack on junk food and pops; their bread and food is made with basic wholesome ingredients and lacks the long list of artificial colors, flavors, additives, preservatives, etc., the desserts and sweets are never sickeningly sweet or rich or covered with thick frosting like ours, and their fruits and vegetables are very fresh and taste crisp and sweet unlike the mass produced chemically ridden produce we settle for at our "supermarkets." In Italy, it is definitely quality over quantity.
Italian Adventure: Arezzo (Part 4)
Part 4: Arezzo
James: On Tuesday, 11/13, we took a bus to Arezzo. It rained on the way to the bus, stopped while on the bus, and of course started pouring as soon as we got off. We took a city bus to the youth hostel, which is an enormous villa with a huge garden just outside of town. We got a nice room to ourselves for $30. This was the only hostel we stayed in that wasn't full. Arezzo is a small medieval town in eastern Tuscany, and we liked it immensely. For some reason, we just were in a bad funk in Siena, and only by leaving town could we shake it. Arezzo was perfect: small, little traffic, very friendly people, excellent sights, no tourists, and great food and best of all it didn't rain (at least not much). Arezzo is a walled city with an enormous fortress from the days of warring city-states. The fort was free, and is still in a pristine condition. It was set in a lovely city park, and we walked nearly alone through the entire compound, the ramparts, buildings, caverns, towers, etc. It was right out of The Lord of the Rings or Dungeons and Dragons. We also toured a Roman amphitheater and aquaduct, and some of the best churches of our whole trip.
Rachel: We especially liked the church of San Francesco, which was simple and unpretentious, but with a quiet beauty that the gaudy over-decorated duomos can't come close to. Excellent art and frescos inside as well by the Piero della Francesca. Unlike Florence and Siena, Arezzo was a charming town that really grew on us the more we stayed.
James: We also found the best gelato of our whole trip here (gelato is the real reason we came back to Italy: Imagine the greatest home-made ice cream you've ever had, and it will pale compared to gelato. It seems to be a cross between custard and ice cream, but there's nothing like it. It's my favorite dessert of all, hands down). Meanwhile, my razor had gotten dull and unusable by this time, so we stopped into to a little tiny barbershop on a side street to get a shave. Eros, the curator, was a classic little old Italian man, but he was super friendly with us, and we had a good time hanging out with him. He was very curious about my digital camera, and I showed him my photos on the display. He wanted to know how much it costs to buy one. Getting a shave in an old-fashioned barbershop is always a treat for me. We also met a few people walking around, Alfiera, a poet, and a cantankerous old man who we couldn't keep quiet (his friend kept telling him to "Shut Up.")
James: On Tuesday, 11/13, we took a bus to Arezzo. It rained on the way to the bus, stopped while on the bus, and of course started pouring as soon as we got off. We took a city bus to the youth hostel, which is an enormous villa with a huge garden just outside of town. We got a nice room to ourselves for $30. This was the only hostel we stayed in that wasn't full. Arezzo is a small medieval town in eastern Tuscany, and we liked it immensely. For some reason, we just were in a bad funk in Siena, and only by leaving town could we shake it. Arezzo was perfect: small, little traffic, very friendly people, excellent sights, no tourists, and great food and best of all it didn't rain (at least not much). Arezzo is a walled city with an enormous fortress from the days of warring city-states. The fort was free, and is still in a pristine condition. It was set in a lovely city park, and we walked nearly alone through the entire compound, the ramparts, buildings, caverns, towers, etc. It was right out of The Lord of the Rings or Dungeons and Dragons. We also toured a Roman amphitheater and aquaduct, and some of the best churches of our whole trip.
Rachel: We especially liked the church of San Francesco, which was simple and unpretentious, but with a quiet beauty that the gaudy over-decorated duomos can't come close to. Excellent art and frescos inside as well by the Piero della Francesca. Unlike Florence and Siena, Arezzo was a charming town that really grew on us the more we stayed.
James: We also found the best gelato of our whole trip here (gelato is the real reason we came back to Italy: Imagine the greatest home-made ice cream you've ever had, and it will pale compared to gelato. It seems to be a cross between custard and ice cream, but there's nothing like it. It's my favorite dessert of all, hands down). Meanwhile, my razor had gotten dull and unusable by this time, so we stopped into to a little tiny barbershop on a side street to get a shave. Eros, the curator, was a classic little old Italian man, but he was super friendly with us, and we had a good time hanging out with him. He was very curious about my digital camera, and I showed him my photos on the display. He wanted to know how much it costs to buy one. Getting a shave in an old-fashioned barbershop is always a treat for me. We also met a few people walking around, Alfiera, a poet, and a cantankerous old man who we couldn't keep quiet (his friend kept telling him to "Shut Up.")
Italian Adventure: Siena (Part 3)
Part 3: Siena
James: On Friday, 11/9, we caught a bus to Siena, where we splurged for a hotel room ($55 for a double, bath and shower down the hall) at Albergo Bernini, which is run by the very friendly accordion-wielding Mauro. We kind of got tired of hostels after a while, and it was great to have our own room. It even had heat (the hostels never do), which turned out to be a good thing, as Siena was bitterly cold. We made good friends with Chico, a black and white cat that lived at the hotel. Chico visited us each morning on his "rounds," sitting on the bed and playing with us (a great way to start the day). One day when we returned to our room, Chico was inside waiting to bolt out the door-he must've gotten in when the room was being cleaned that day.
Rachel: We just walked around town the first night. Siena is a small-to-medium sized town that has perfectly preserved medieval streets and buildings, including the beautiful Piazza il Campo, the public square that is the heart of the city. The winding cobblestone streets, tall stone and "burnt siena" colored brick buildings and archways make it a beautiful place. As a bonus, traffic is highly restricted in the city center, which made it perfect for leisurely strolls through the old city streets. We found our favorite pizza place on our whole trip almost next door to our hotel: "Mister Pizza," which might lack a good Italian name, but more than made up for it in heavenly pizza ($1.30 for a huge slice). We had tried one or two other places before finding it, but once we did, we ate there everyday. James's favorite was potato pizza, without red sauce, covered with thinly sliced potatoes and rosemary.
James: At one of the pizzerias, we ordered a stuffed spinach pizza, then asked for it "caldo" or heated (all food is made ahead of time, and when you order, they will heat it for you in ovens). The lady getting us our food ignored us, so we asked again, then she kept repeating the price, so finally I pointed to the oven and asked, "Caldo?" when she stormed off in a rage, screaming "Caldo" and getting into a huge argument/fight with a manager, who eventually took her in another room and closed the door. I don't know if I was being especially rude, or if I was the tenth person in a row who had insisted that she heat up some pizza, but I definitely didn't make her day. I almost thought she was going to come out front with a knife, her manager trying to drag her back, so we got out of there fast and ate on the go. As we were leaving, another lady came out, and the next customer ordered and asked for it "caldo," and they popped it in the oven with a smile.
Rachel: An Italian we met at an internet cafe recommended "Ciao," a self-service cafeteria, with delicious home-cooked meals for an unbeatable price. These cafeterias ended up being the best places to eat, with amazing and varied meals with wine for about $5 per person. Just take your tray, and pick out whatever you want--salad bar, dessert table and cooks behind counters cooking up 3 types of pasta or risotto dishes to choose from-all prepared in smaller quantities--very fast and very fresh.
James: The next day, and all other days in Siena, it was cold and rainy. Rachel caught a cold, which put her in a crabby mood for the first time (she had been doing very good so far, which is saying something. Rachel, at least when traveling, is kind of a cross between Jessica Tandy in Driving Miss Daisy and Gelsomina from the film La Strada). We walked around town and saw the Duomo, and had some good food, but the rain just wouldn't let us enjoy ourselves much. Unfortunately, our favorite activity is walking (we really don't see many "sights") and either rain or cold doesn't bother us much, but the two together were miserable. Rachel's journal for Siena has one word above all: Rain! Our first day was so windy that our little umbrella was nearly destroyed! From then until the end of our trip, when we were huddled under our pathetic twisted umbrella in the rain, we referred to ourselves as "Les Miserables."
A payphone was right outside our door at Albergo Bernini, and each night a couple from America would call home to talk to their kids and their grandfather about what they did that day. They had rented a car, and were having a much more exciting and enjoyable trip than we were, so we began to look forward to eavesdropping on them each night. The father had such a wonderfully pleasing and joyful way of speaking with his kids. I had wanted to go out a meet him, but I never did, not wanting to spoil a strange notion of mystical being that I had in my mind, who calls from exotic destinations around the world and lovingly describes the amazing things he has found. In better times, this guy would have been the storyteller of his tribe, and probably a memorable one.
Our last day in Siena, I got the great idea to take a road trip to the picturesque hill town of Montalcino, in southern Tuscany. It rained on the way to the station, where we missed the bus and had to wait for two hours. (Rachel: It was a three hour wait.) As soon as we got on the bus, the sun came out and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Our bus ride through the vineyards and villages of Tuscany was great. However, the second we got off the bus in Montalcino, guess what happened? It started to rain… After walking around the deserted town in the cold rain for five minutes with our pathetic umbrella, Rachel had HAD ENOUGH! She took the next bus back, but I stayed. It stopped raining soon, and I took a two hour hike through the country side, passing vineyards, old churches and farms. I finished my day with an excellent glass of local wine in a pub. It turned out to be a great day-trip after all. Rachel visited the Church of San Domenico, where Saint Catherine is buried (the first female saint) and her preserved head and finger are on display for pilgrims. More phrases from Rachel's journal for today: I want to go home! I miss Kitty! We checked our e-mail for reports on our cat (she was doing just fine, but a little lonely).
James: On Friday, 11/9, we caught a bus to Siena, where we splurged for a hotel room ($55 for a double, bath and shower down the hall) at Albergo Bernini, which is run by the very friendly accordion-wielding Mauro. We kind of got tired of hostels after a while, and it was great to have our own room. It even had heat (the hostels never do), which turned out to be a good thing, as Siena was bitterly cold. We made good friends with Chico, a black and white cat that lived at the hotel. Chico visited us each morning on his "rounds," sitting on the bed and playing with us (a great way to start the day). One day when we returned to our room, Chico was inside waiting to bolt out the door-he must've gotten in when the room was being cleaned that day.
Rachel: We just walked around town the first night. Siena is a small-to-medium sized town that has perfectly preserved medieval streets and buildings, including the beautiful Piazza il Campo, the public square that is the heart of the city. The winding cobblestone streets, tall stone and "burnt siena" colored brick buildings and archways make it a beautiful place. As a bonus, traffic is highly restricted in the city center, which made it perfect for leisurely strolls through the old city streets. We found our favorite pizza place on our whole trip almost next door to our hotel: "Mister Pizza," which might lack a good Italian name, but more than made up for it in heavenly pizza ($1.30 for a huge slice). We had tried one or two other places before finding it, but once we did, we ate there everyday. James's favorite was potato pizza, without red sauce, covered with thinly sliced potatoes and rosemary.
James: At one of the pizzerias, we ordered a stuffed spinach pizza, then asked for it "caldo" or heated (all food is made ahead of time, and when you order, they will heat it for you in ovens). The lady getting us our food ignored us, so we asked again, then she kept repeating the price, so finally I pointed to the oven and asked, "Caldo?" when she stormed off in a rage, screaming "Caldo" and getting into a huge argument/fight with a manager, who eventually took her in another room and closed the door. I don't know if I was being especially rude, or if I was the tenth person in a row who had insisted that she heat up some pizza, but I definitely didn't make her day. I almost thought she was going to come out front with a knife, her manager trying to drag her back, so we got out of there fast and ate on the go. As we were leaving, another lady came out, and the next customer ordered and asked for it "caldo," and they popped it in the oven with a smile.
Rachel: An Italian we met at an internet cafe recommended "Ciao," a self-service cafeteria, with delicious home-cooked meals for an unbeatable price. These cafeterias ended up being the best places to eat, with amazing and varied meals with wine for about $5 per person. Just take your tray, and pick out whatever you want--salad bar, dessert table and cooks behind counters cooking up 3 types of pasta or risotto dishes to choose from-all prepared in smaller quantities--very fast and very fresh.
James: The next day, and all other days in Siena, it was cold and rainy. Rachel caught a cold, which put her in a crabby mood for the first time (she had been doing very good so far, which is saying something. Rachel, at least when traveling, is kind of a cross between Jessica Tandy in Driving Miss Daisy and Gelsomina from the film La Strada). We walked around town and saw the Duomo, and had some good food, but the rain just wouldn't let us enjoy ourselves much. Unfortunately, our favorite activity is walking (we really don't see many "sights") and either rain or cold doesn't bother us much, but the two together were miserable. Rachel's journal for Siena has one word above all: Rain! Our first day was so windy that our little umbrella was nearly destroyed! From then until the end of our trip, when we were huddled under our pathetic twisted umbrella in the rain, we referred to ourselves as "Les Miserables."
A payphone was right outside our door at Albergo Bernini, and each night a couple from America would call home to talk to their kids and their grandfather about what they did that day. They had rented a car, and were having a much more exciting and enjoyable trip than we were, so we began to look forward to eavesdropping on them each night. The father had such a wonderfully pleasing and joyful way of speaking with his kids. I had wanted to go out a meet him, but I never did, not wanting to spoil a strange notion of mystical being that I had in my mind, who calls from exotic destinations around the world and lovingly describes the amazing things he has found. In better times, this guy would have been the storyteller of his tribe, and probably a memorable one.
Our last day in Siena, I got the great idea to take a road trip to the picturesque hill town of Montalcino, in southern Tuscany. It rained on the way to the station, where we missed the bus and had to wait for two hours. (Rachel: It was a three hour wait.) As soon as we got on the bus, the sun came out and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Our bus ride through the vineyards and villages of Tuscany was great. However, the second we got off the bus in Montalcino, guess what happened? It started to rain… After walking around the deserted town in the cold rain for five minutes with our pathetic umbrella, Rachel had HAD ENOUGH! She took the next bus back, but I stayed. It stopped raining soon, and I took a two hour hike through the country side, passing vineyards, old churches and farms. I finished my day with an excellent glass of local wine in a pub. It turned out to be a great day-trip after all. Rachel visited the Church of San Domenico, where Saint Catherine is buried (the first female saint) and her preserved head and finger are on display for pilgrims. More phrases from Rachel's journal for today: I want to go home! I miss Kitty! We checked our e-mail for reports on our cat (she was doing just fine, but a little lonely).
Italian Adventure: Florence (Part 2)
Part 2: Florence
James: On Monday, 11/5, we took the train to Milan, with the help of Anna from our hostel, then got train tickets to Florence. It was our first time negotiating the train system, but it really was very easy. The Milan train station is an amazing building, built in the 20s by Mussolini. It is a monumental and stunning building with marble walls, fresco paintings, and a glass roof. We found the train system to be a great way to get around. On our first trip, we drove a car, but we could hardly imagine now negotiating Italy and its crazy streets. We got the last two beds in the Florence youth hostel. We were surprised to find most of the hostels and backpacker hotels to be full on our trip. Italy, being warmer, is still popular in the off-season, and the independent travelers have not let the fear of terrorism stop them from coming, so it was always very lively. We could tell that the tour groups and busses were way down, and businesses that rely on them are suffering right now. At night, it was obvious that many restaurants were empty.
Rachel: Our first night in Florence we walked around, and I bought some roasted chestnuts from a street vendor. It was our first time eating them and they were good! Our first view of the duomo at night was stunning. Our first day in Florence was rainy off and on, so I bought a cheap umbrella for $5. We toured the Uffizi art gallery, which was good to see, although a bit overwhelming. After a couple hours, we found it hard to concentrate on the paintings. We liked the Botticelli, Raphael, Carravaggio and Rembrandt paintings especially. The rain stopped in the afternoon, and we walked around town and ate some pizza from a by-the-slice pizzeria, which usually have tasty and inexpensive food. At the hostel, we stayed in a four-bed room with various people, first a couple our age from Australia (nearing the end of their 7 months' long travel), then two young Japanese (Hiro and Takwaya (sp?)), who were very friendly, but didn't speak much English, and a young outgoing Canadian from Toronto, Rob. It was a very nice hostel, with movies every night and breakfast (granola and yogurt). They kept showing The Godfather each night for some reason. Except for the Australian couple, who were our age, the hostel was exclusively younger travelers in their 20s. Although we got to know our roommates, we had a harder time fitting in here. Most of the kids smoked, making the common rooms unbearable. We enjoyed walking around Florence by night also, and always found something good to eat, although our staples were pizza, foccacia, and pasta.
James: It would be rainy off and on throughout our stay in Florence, but it was warm and it didn't bother us much (not yet anyway). We toured the Duomo, one of the largest churches in Europe, with the greatest dome of them all, built by Brunelleschi in the 15th century. We climbed to the top of the dome, which had great (although cloudy) views of Florence. We spent a lot of time walking all over town, especially the Arno River and the famous Ponte Vechio (a multi-story pedestrian bridge from the 14th century). I also had the chance to meet our friends John and Mike from Minnesota for some good food and beer. By chance, we just happened to all be in Florence together at the same time.
Rachel: My idea of fine Florentine dining was getting great pizza slices to go and taking it back to Ponte Vechio to eat on the bridge at night. Our last day in Florence, we took a day trip to Fiesole, and small town overlooking the Arno valley. It rained a bit, but we had a good time walking around town, and we took a long hike through the forests and countryside outside of town. Back in Florence, I found some pretty scarves and a great outdoor market. James hates to hear this phrase, but in my opinion "the best shopping" was in Florence-not that I shopped all that much.
James: On Monday, 11/5, we took the train to Milan, with the help of Anna from our hostel, then got train tickets to Florence. It was our first time negotiating the train system, but it really was very easy. The Milan train station is an amazing building, built in the 20s by Mussolini. It is a monumental and stunning building with marble walls, fresco paintings, and a glass roof. We found the train system to be a great way to get around. On our first trip, we drove a car, but we could hardly imagine now negotiating Italy and its crazy streets. We got the last two beds in the Florence youth hostel. We were surprised to find most of the hostels and backpacker hotels to be full on our trip. Italy, being warmer, is still popular in the off-season, and the independent travelers have not let the fear of terrorism stop them from coming, so it was always very lively. We could tell that the tour groups and busses were way down, and businesses that rely on them are suffering right now. At night, it was obvious that many restaurants were empty.
Rachel: Our first night in Florence we walked around, and I bought some roasted chestnuts from a street vendor. It was our first time eating them and they were good! Our first view of the duomo at night was stunning. Our first day in Florence was rainy off and on, so I bought a cheap umbrella for $5. We toured the Uffizi art gallery, which was good to see, although a bit overwhelming. After a couple hours, we found it hard to concentrate on the paintings. We liked the Botticelli, Raphael, Carravaggio and Rembrandt paintings especially. The rain stopped in the afternoon, and we walked around town and ate some pizza from a by-the-slice pizzeria, which usually have tasty and inexpensive food. At the hostel, we stayed in a four-bed room with various people, first a couple our age from Australia (nearing the end of their 7 months' long travel), then two young Japanese (Hiro and Takwaya (sp?)), who were very friendly, but didn't speak much English, and a young outgoing Canadian from Toronto, Rob. It was a very nice hostel, with movies every night and breakfast (granola and yogurt). They kept showing The Godfather each night for some reason. Except for the Australian couple, who were our age, the hostel was exclusively younger travelers in their 20s. Although we got to know our roommates, we had a harder time fitting in here. Most of the kids smoked, making the common rooms unbearable. We enjoyed walking around Florence by night also, and always found something good to eat, although our staples were pizza, foccacia, and pasta.
James: It would be rainy off and on throughout our stay in Florence, but it was warm and it didn't bother us much (not yet anyway). We toured the Duomo, one of the largest churches in Europe, with the greatest dome of them all, built by Brunelleschi in the 15th century. We climbed to the top of the dome, which had great (although cloudy) views of Florence. We spent a lot of time walking all over town, especially the Arno River and the famous Ponte Vechio (a multi-story pedestrian bridge from the 14th century). I also had the chance to meet our friends John and Mike from Minnesota for some good food and beer. By chance, we just happened to all be in Florence together at the same time.
Rachel: My idea of fine Florentine dining was getting great pizza slices to go and taking it back to Ponte Vechio to eat on the bridge at night. Our last day in Florence, we took a day trip to Fiesole, and small town overlooking the Arno valley. It rained a bit, but we had a good time walking around town, and we took a long hike through the forests and countryside outside of town. Back in Florence, I found some pretty scarves and a great outdoor market. James hates to hear this phrase, but in my opinion "the best shopping" was in Florence-not that I shopped all that much.
Italian Adventure: Menaggio (Part 1)
Introduction
James: Our first trip to Europe was a huge success and tremendous fun. Our three week circle tour of Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Italy was enjoyable from start to finish. For the past several years, I have wanted to return to Europe, especially to Italy. Rachel usually watches Rick Steve's Travels in Euorpe on PBS, and I had been growing increasingly frustrated at watching Rick travel, but not being able to go ourselves. We always had a trip planned six months away. In the spring, we talked about going in the fall, and in the fall, we talked about going next spring. I had been looking into traveling on my own in 2001, which I think finally caused Rachel to realize that I would be going, with or without her, and we finally began to get serious about planning a trip. I left the decision where to go up to her, but we both liked Italy so much on our first trip that it was an obvious choice.
Rachel: We chose November 1st was because the "off season" airfare to Italy starting November 1st drops dramatically from about $800 to $500, thus saving us about $600. Additionally, I did not want to leave Minnesota in the early fall because I wanted to enjoy Minnesota's lovely autumn and Halloween.
James: Rachel's packing began months ahead of time, with a detailed list and preparations. My packing begins the night before. We brought so little that it really didn't take very long to assemble everything. Eventually, Rachel could get me so mad by asking, "Do you think I should bring these pants?," which was a daily event for some time. But I suppose that my packing was made much smoother and easier by her careful planning ahead, so I will give her thanks despite the pulled hair.
Rachel: The night before when James began to pack, the first thing he asked for was my list and then he went through it item by item to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything! It takes careful planning and weighing every ounce-as it turned out each of our packs weighed only 15 lbs. And I had carefully planned and gotten ready many of the items he packed.
James: Our flight to Milan through Newark was very good. Both arriving and leaving Newark, we flew next to the Manhattan skyline, and even saw the powerful lights at the WTC evacuation sight on the way out. We also flew over Ireland, southern England, the English Channel and northern France at night, with all the city lights glowing, and a full moon reflecting on the ocean and lakes. It was perfectly clear and a truly amazing sight, probably the best I've ever had from an airplane. As if trying to top that, we flew over the Swiss Alps at sunrise, which was also spectacular. The only other memorable event was that a little girl sitting across the aisle from Rachel threw up all over the floor when landing in Milan. For some reason, these things always happen to Rachel.
Rachel: The only two little kids on the whole plane had to sit across the aisle from me-coughing nearly the whole trip. It wasn't my fault I sat in the aisle seat. What can I say?
Part 1: Menaggio
James: In Milan, we caught a bus that would take us directly to Menaggio. However, just north of Milan, traffic came to a full stop. Europeans treat a traffic jam as a kind of impromptu party. Every gets out of their cars, people break out food and drink, and wander around talking to other people. It was something to see. A group of college kids in front of us even planted a school or team flag of some sort by the side of the road, and broke out the champagne and set up a buffet. Eventually, many police cars, tow trucks, ambulances, and a crane passed us on the shoulder, and we heard that an accident was blocking the highway. Soon cars were turning around on the highway and heading back on the shoulder. Our bus couldn't turn around, so we waited about two hours before continuing. Three semi trucks had collided and rolled over, requiring the crane to remove them from the highway. I don't know if anyone was hurt, but the trucks didn't appear to be badly damaged, and I think we only saw one ambulance.
Rachel: After finally clearing the accident, we made our way around the beautiful Lake Como to Menaggio, talking with our driver Antonello, who was exceptionally friendly, and a good driver, considering the roads are about 20 feet wide with a nasty drop into the lake if we missed a turn. We had been to Menaggio on our last trip, and it was our favorite city in all of Europe, and it did not disappoint this trip either. The weather was perfect: warm and sunny, with some of the best scenery in Italy. It really is hard to beat. It is a small town in the foothills of the alps, between the steep mountains and the stunning lake. The people were friendly and had a pleasant, warm, and relaxed attitude. Although the town is great, we really came to stay at the La Primula youth hostel. Despite being an exceptional hostel in every conventional way, their real claim to fame is the communal dinners that they serve each night. Italian women work all afternoon to prepare a traditional multi-course meal with wine, bread, salad, soup, pasta, main course and dessert. They even served us vegetarian meals on request, although more often than not, vegetarian meals were served as a matter of course. And best of all were the large communal tables where we shared stories and get to know fellow travelers. We met an American biker, Josh, who is living in Switzerland, two French ladies (Isobel and Veronique), a group of American girls who were studying art and architecture in Florence, a web-designer from Amsterdam (Anna), and many others. It was a great mix of the more numerous younger crowd, and some older folks (like us). The hostel closes on November 5th, and the last night they had a Ska party, with friends from Menaggio and travelers filling the hostel to overflowing. Free (spiked) punch, an excellent buffet, and great (if loud - hey, we're getting old) music made for a great time.
James: During our three days there, we took hikes in the surrounding hills, visiting small towns, country lanes, old churches and spiritual sites, and medieval walls and buildings. It was definitely the best hiking that we would encounter on our whole trip. We were taking a short break in the small village of Camozzi, when the whole town came towards us with flowers and banners. We had sat on benches next to an old war memorial, and this must have been a kind of Memorial Day. All the veterans in the town had their uniforms on, and they read off the names of those who had died in various wars. A priest said a blessing, kids held banners and flags, and the mayor made a speech. After about 30 minutes, it dissolved about as quickly as it had started, and we continued on our way. We visited an ancient oak tree on a hill side called Rogolone, where people used to meet to make important decisions in medieval times, and also the church of San Giorgio with a crypt with rows of bleached skulls on the shelves, and frescoes from the 13th century. About a 5 1/2 hour hike - Rachel even made a new friend on the way. We also took the ferry around the lake to the town of Varenna, where we hiked around and visited the old fort that overlooks the lake (Castello di Vezio). We had to bring warm clothing everywhere, because as soon as the sun set behind the mountains, it turned instantly cold.
Rachel: Our first night in the hostel we slept in separate dorm rooms, but the second night we were told that we could have our own room. There were four bunks, but they said it wouldn't be a problem to have it to ourselves. It was a little surprising when at 11 o'clock that night, a young couple [he was Bavarian; she was from Spain] walked into our room and began unpacking. They had come in late and these were the last beds left. It wasn't too bad sharing, but they were making out together in the morning in the same bunk bed (it's kind of a romantic place). But we had the room to ourselves on the last night. The weekend was actually a long weekend in Europe, as most people have All Saints Day off, so many Europeans were traveling.
James: In the evenings, the Italians come out to stroll around the central piazza, and by the lakeside. It is a wonderful and very social scene (it sure beats everyone staying inside and watching television). I was taking a picture of a Smart Car, when an older Italian gentleman stopped us and talked to us about the little cars, his country, and the war in Afghanistan. Soon, his family and friends joined us and we had a lively little circle around us engaged in a big discussion. It was mostly in Italian, but the man that we first met translated for us. We really didn't get a chance to say much, as they all talked at once. We found friendly Italians all over, but we found that only in the smaller towns that people talked to us on the streets.
James: Our first trip to Europe was a huge success and tremendous fun. Our three week circle tour of Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Italy was enjoyable from start to finish. For the past several years, I have wanted to return to Europe, especially to Italy. Rachel usually watches Rick Steve's Travels in Euorpe on PBS, and I had been growing increasingly frustrated at watching Rick travel, but not being able to go ourselves. We always had a trip planned six months away. In the spring, we talked about going in the fall, and in the fall, we talked about going next spring. I had been looking into traveling on my own in 2001, which I think finally caused Rachel to realize that I would be going, with or without her, and we finally began to get serious about planning a trip. I left the decision where to go up to her, but we both liked Italy so much on our first trip that it was an obvious choice.
Rachel: We chose November 1st was because the "off season" airfare to Italy starting November 1st drops dramatically from about $800 to $500, thus saving us about $600. Additionally, I did not want to leave Minnesota in the early fall because I wanted to enjoy Minnesota's lovely autumn and Halloween.
James: Rachel's packing began months ahead of time, with a detailed list and preparations. My packing begins the night before. We brought so little that it really didn't take very long to assemble everything. Eventually, Rachel could get me so mad by asking, "Do you think I should bring these pants?," which was a daily event for some time. But I suppose that my packing was made much smoother and easier by her careful planning ahead, so I will give her thanks despite the pulled hair.
Rachel: The night before when James began to pack, the first thing he asked for was my list and then he went through it item by item to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything! It takes careful planning and weighing every ounce-as it turned out each of our packs weighed only 15 lbs. And I had carefully planned and gotten ready many of the items he packed.
James: Our flight to Milan through Newark was very good. Both arriving and leaving Newark, we flew next to the Manhattan skyline, and even saw the powerful lights at the WTC evacuation sight on the way out. We also flew over Ireland, southern England, the English Channel and northern France at night, with all the city lights glowing, and a full moon reflecting on the ocean and lakes. It was perfectly clear and a truly amazing sight, probably the best I've ever had from an airplane. As if trying to top that, we flew over the Swiss Alps at sunrise, which was also spectacular. The only other memorable event was that a little girl sitting across the aisle from Rachel threw up all over the floor when landing in Milan. For some reason, these things always happen to Rachel.
Rachel: The only two little kids on the whole plane had to sit across the aisle from me-coughing nearly the whole trip. It wasn't my fault I sat in the aisle seat. What can I say?
Part 1: Menaggio
James: In Milan, we caught a bus that would take us directly to Menaggio. However, just north of Milan, traffic came to a full stop. Europeans treat a traffic jam as a kind of impromptu party. Every gets out of their cars, people break out food and drink, and wander around talking to other people. It was something to see. A group of college kids in front of us even planted a school or team flag of some sort by the side of the road, and broke out the champagne and set up a buffet. Eventually, many police cars, tow trucks, ambulances, and a crane passed us on the shoulder, and we heard that an accident was blocking the highway. Soon cars were turning around on the highway and heading back on the shoulder. Our bus couldn't turn around, so we waited about two hours before continuing. Three semi trucks had collided and rolled over, requiring the crane to remove them from the highway. I don't know if anyone was hurt, but the trucks didn't appear to be badly damaged, and I think we only saw one ambulance.
Rachel: After finally clearing the accident, we made our way around the beautiful Lake Como to Menaggio, talking with our driver Antonello, who was exceptionally friendly, and a good driver, considering the roads are about 20 feet wide with a nasty drop into the lake if we missed a turn. We had been to Menaggio on our last trip, and it was our favorite city in all of Europe, and it did not disappoint this trip either. The weather was perfect: warm and sunny, with some of the best scenery in Italy. It really is hard to beat. It is a small town in the foothills of the alps, between the steep mountains and the stunning lake. The people were friendly and had a pleasant, warm, and relaxed attitude. Although the town is great, we really came to stay at the La Primula youth hostel. Despite being an exceptional hostel in every conventional way, their real claim to fame is the communal dinners that they serve each night. Italian women work all afternoon to prepare a traditional multi-course meal with wine, bread, salad, soup, pasta, main course and dessert. They even served us vegetarian meals on request, although more often than not, vegetarian meals were served as a matter of course. And best of all were the large communal tables where we shared stories and get to know fellow travelers. We met an American biker, Josh, who is living in Switzerland, two French ladies (Isobel and Veronique), a group of American girls who were studying art and architecture in Florence, a web-designer from Amsterdam (Anna), and many others. It was a great mix of the more numerous younger crowd, and some older folks (like us). The hostel closes on November 5th, and the last night they had a Ska party, with friends from Menaggio and travelers filling the hostel to overflowing. Free (spiked) punch, an excellent buffet, and great (if loud - hey, we're getting old) music made for a great time.
James: During our three days there, we took hikes in the surrounding hills, visiting small towns, country lanes, old churches and spiritual sites, and medieval walls and buildings. It was definitely the best hiking that we would encounter on our whole trip. We were taking a short break in the small village of Camozzi, when the whole town came towards us with flowers and banners. We had sat on benches next to an old war memorial, and this must have been a kind of Memorial Day. All the veterans in the town had their uniforms on, and they read off the names of those who had died in various wars. A priest said a blessing, kids held banners and flags, and the mayor made a speech. After about 30 minutes, it dissolved about as quickly as it had started, and we continued on our way. We visited an ancient oak tree on a hill side called Rogolone, where people used to meet to make important decisions in medieval times, and also the church of San Giorgio with a crypt with rows of bleached skulls on the shelves, and frescoes from the 13th century. About a 5 1/2 hour hike - Rachel even made a new friend on the way. We also took the ferry around the lake to the town of Varenna, where we hiked around and visited the old fort that overlooks the lake (Castello di Vezio). We had to bring warm clothing everywhere, because as soon as the sun set behind the mountains, it turned instantly cold.
Rachel: Our first night in the hostel we slept in separate dorm rooms, but the second night we were told that we could have our own room. There were four bunks, but they said it wouldn't be a problem to have it to ourselves. It was a little surprising when at 11 o'clock that night, a young couple [he was Bavarian; she was from Spain] walked into our room and began unpacking. They had come in late and these were the last beds left. It wasn't too bad sharing, but they were making out together in the morning in the same bunk bed (it's kind of a romantic place). But we had the room to ourselves on the last night. The weekend was actually a long weekend in Europe, as most people have All Saints Day off, so many Europeans were traveling.
James: In the evenings, the Italians come out to stroll around the central piazza, and by the lakeside. It is a wonderful and very social scene (it sure beats everyone staying inside and watching television). I was taking a picture of a Smart Car, when an older Italian gentleman stopped us and talked to us about the little cars, his country, and the war in Afghanistan. Soon, his family and friends joined us and we had a lively little circle around us engaged in a big discussion. It was mostly in Italian, but the man that we first met translated for us. We really didn't get a chance to say much, as they all talked at once. We found friendly Italians all over, but we found that only in the smaller towns that people talked to us on the streets.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Poland: Following the Czestochowa (Black Madonna)
It was a breezy, March day when I left Radom to visit Czestochowa, the pilgrimage site in Poland where it is said that five million pilgrims travel to visit Jasna Gora (Bright Mountain). It is the site of the 14th Century Paulite monastery, a monstrous cathedral, and, its highlight is the chapel that houses the icon of the Black Madonna. Hoping for a spiritual experience similar to one I had had in Turkey, I was eager to visit the crowded Polish site. For eight months before, I took a trip with three Turkish friends to Seljuk, just east of Kusadasi. Rich in its historical importance, Seljuk is the city surrounded by the famous ruins of Efes, the Cathedral of St. Paul (also ruins), and Meryemana - the House of the Virgin Mary -- where it is said the Holy Mother was led by St. Luke to spend her last days. The Muslims also believe in the Virgin and she is the only woman mentioned in the Koran (some five or more times). Five million pilgrims also come to Meryemana to pay their respects, leave wishes and prayers, and tokens of gratitude for the miracles they claim she helped make happen.Meryemana is unpretentious in every way. There is an old well and pool where believers are said to have been baptised and there is a small chapel-museum housing a variety of icons. The simplicity was most fitting and I was touched at how the surrounding natural environment was utilized to make the whole place feel more spiritual. Natural well-springs ran with water (it is a very strong belief among the Muslims that water always be available and for free to whomever is passing by); small stone edifices from the ruins were converted into places for leaving tokens and wishes; and, even the church services were held outdoors near a grove of dwarf trees. Inside the house-turned-chapel, I remember one small icon depicting the ascension of the Virgin. She is dressed for burial and Christ is standing over her. In His arms He is cradling a baby, also dressed in white. It took my breath away because I realized the significance of that child in his arms. In most icons, the Virgin is seen holding the Christ Child in her arms, and there - in that beautiful painting - it was Christ who was tenderly carrying The Virgin Mary to heaven. Overall, Meryemana was a worthwhile and beautiful journey for me.
So, I expected something similar in Czestochowa. The history of the monastery is that it was founded in 1382 and that same year, Prince Wladyslaw II of Opole gave the Paulite monks the icon that has become known as the Black Madonna. According to legend, it is said that St. Luke painted the icon in Nazareth, though historians have dated it to as recent as the 6th-7th century Byzantium. How it was acquired by the Polish prince, I am not certain. Most remarkable about the painting are the two scars on the Virgin’s right cheek. The story is that during its journey to Poland, the picture fell into the hands of thieves. Tired of carrying the heavy icon, they slashed at it in frustration with their knives, immediately causing the image to bleed pools of blood. The legend and power of the icon grew when, in 1655 and 1705, Swedish invasions failed to conquer the monastery while the rest of the country was overrun. Eager to see this with my own eyes, I took the train from Radom and arrived in Czestochowa about three and half hours later.
My first impressions were darkened by the sight of Nazi, fascist, and racist slogans splattered along every street leading to Jasna Gora. I even saw one for the Ku Klux Klan which had been painted over by the building’s owners several times, but the hooligans, who seem to run this country, managed to rewrite it each time. Do they even know what the Ku Klux Klan is all about? Isn’t it all a bit too ironic, then, in the city of this holy Christian site? I get enough of these wicked signs in Radom as it is, and to see it so much more in Czestochowa only drowned my hopes.
As I wandered down some back alleys, I heard music and singing from loudspeakers and coming from the direction of the hill and monastery. I was reminded of Turkey and how one can always hear the prayers that float over the air five times a day. I started to relax and, as if pulled by the service being conducted on the hill, made a straight beeline up the main road called the Avenue of Our Lady (but in Polish, of course). My spirits rose just a little. During my stay here, I have become extremely cautious in expecting too much from Poland.
Although the monastery is the site in Czestochowa, the walk up the hill is not at all strenuous. I stopped at the gift shop first, hoping to get more information about the sights I was about to encounter and that was when I first noticed the scars on the Virgin’s face as depicted in the numerous icons for sale. The shop was as kitschy as you can get, but I wasn’t there to shop. I was there for information and I asked a nun in Pidgin Polish about the scars. She replied sharply, “That’s the Virgin Mary! Don’t you know the Virgin Mary?” That’s not what I was asking. I again, patiently, pointed out the scars on the plastic icon and asked again. “Jesu Christi,” she cried, “What language do you need?” Quite stunned by her non-Christian manner, I told her I prefer English. She tossed me a guidebook in English, told me it would be $12.00 and that I could read about it in there. I thanked her quietly and left.
Feeling more than disheartened, I wandered in through the gates, encountering signs warning me that this was a holy place and begging for silence in six languages. However, the areas were all crowded and nobody was paying attention to the any of the warnings in any language. I saw the ugly radio tower of Radio Jasna Gora first. Trying to turn a blind eye to it, I followed signs and wandered from place to place, but nothing drew me until I reached the armory. My guidebook - a year-old, torn-up volume - had stated that there would be a lot of weapons from World War II there and I thought I could do a little research for my book. Although the armory was more than fascinating (and I’m not being facetious), I saw mostly 17th and 18th-century sabers and treasures acquired in the war against the Turks in Vienna (which Poland helped win). So, unless the Poles fought with these in World War II… well, that may explain some things… there was not a lot to see from the 1930s and 1940s. I will, however, add that having already been in Turkey, it was fascinating to see these treasures in Poland and how intricately woven the tapestry of history is.
Moving along, I finally decided to head into the main sites: the cathedral and the chapels. It was time to see what I had come to see, though I had only been on the hill for less than half an hour. I entered the packed chapel just toward the end of a service and was once again surprised to see how many young people were in church. It was Saturday afternoon, after all. Then, I wondered, how many of these same kids are the ones who are spray-painting graffiti in the streets of this country? Many. I can tell you that from my experiences in Radom.
As soon as the service ended, I joined the crowd that was pushing in for the next service, which happens every hour. Everyone was making their way to the front of the altar where, behind barred, iron gates, hung the large icon of the Virgin. It was at least six-feet tall and four-feet wide, so I could understand why the thieves got frustrated. It’s not exactly the kind of treasure you can just run off with without drawing a lot of attention. Around the altar and the surrounding sacristy were thousands of amber prayer beads, hung from every possible place along the walls and facades and creating a warm, autumn glow in the chamber. Except for the murmurs - often impatient at that - of people excusing themselves and the sound of pressed bodies shuffling forward, the chapel was quiet. I was trapped into the crowd before I could change my mind, and I started to pray fervently as soon as I saw the icon looming closer. I wasn’t praying for anything, however, except to survive the attack of claustrophobia that I was having at that moment. My head started to swim and I saw curtains of gray threatening to close off my line of vision. I thought if I collapse there, the crowd would just trample over me. About five rows before getting to the bars (and imagining myself smashed up against the iron with still no breathing room), the loud speakers suddenly started to blare Radio Jasna Gora. Now, mind you, there are still a million signs demanding Silence! and reminding us that this is a Holy Place! A little music wouldn’t have destroyed the atmosphere, had it been the right music. This was not the right music. It was some sort of enthusiastic advertisement for a CD compilation of what I could only fathom to be alternative Christian rock bands. The whole place had turned into a poor excuse for a circus and I frantically tried to get out.
Bruised and emotionally wounded, but finally able to breathe, I headed straight for the outer ring of the monastery and walked in the fresh air. My search for a spiritual uplifting lasted a whole hour. I was ready to go and wanted to leave fast. I headed, instead, for another 3-1/2 hour train ride to Krakow, the real sanctuary for me in this country. In a coffee shop, tucked away in a back alley, is an exhibition of photos from Turkey. I knew that I could reflect on the better pilgrimage I’d made eight months before.
(It is worth mentioning that Czestochowa, solely dedicated to the Virgin Mary, is the only pilgrimage site of its size where there has NEVER been a recorded sighting of the Holy Mother.)
Christmas in Krakow: A Reflection on Traditions
Every culture has its own Christmas traditions, and I am not ashamed to say that I am wholly and partially biased toward the Ukrainian rituals. Though, while I’m in Poland, the Polish is more than good enough and that’s what I was seeking out when I decided to catch an early-morning train to Krakow.Krakow has all the positive vibes Radom - a tough, industrial, idle city -- does not. Krakow’s academics, artists, mixed in with the folksy people who come to sell their wares from outlying villages at Rynek Glowny (the Central Market), create a lively, inspiring atmosphere. Having escaped annihilation in World War II, Krakow is one of the few cities in Eastern Europe that still stands in its original architectural glory. It’s a quintessential European town sought out by visitors from abroad and when I arrived there the weekend before Christmas, my spirits were more than uplifted; they soared the whole day.
From the train station, I took the Royal Way and passed Florian’s Gate, turning onto the cobbled, slush-covered street that suddenly opens onto the enormous square of Rynek Glowny. Kids toted wooden sleds and huddled together on corners, dressed in the fashionable puffy jackets of this season and comic, woolen hats with tassels and pom-poms. As they laughed, the balls of yarn bobbed and bounced in rhythm. Stalls were set up outside of the covered market building and I was greeted by carols sung from somewhere and everywhere. The sun pretended to offer some warmth, and a slight breeze blew down powdered snow from the crevices and crags of the buildings around the square. I was in a real-life crystal snowball. As the bells of the cathedral announced twelve o’clock, people passed me with brown, plastic cups of steaming liquid. I smelled cinnamon and cloves and followed it to the barrel-shaped stands selling real mulled wine. For the converted price of $1.25, I was a cheap date. It’s not often that I have alcohol these days (bardzo expensive), so it went, I’m afraid, straight to my head and I became doubly giddy, practically skipping through the market.
I wound through the Christmas-tree pathways and among crowds of foreigners and locals, passing stalls with beautifully handmade Christmas decorations, as well as necessary, kitschy things (so you could really appreciate the former). A stage was set up just under the clock tower, and I vaguely heard an announcer’s voice over the microphone. By that time I was eyeing a matinee movie when I was yanked out of my reverie by music. It was so familiar that I was forced to float back to the stage and the festival. There they were: young girls, boys, women and men, dressed in the native costume of Halychynna (the area of Ukraine where my family comes from), and singing Ukrainian Christmas carols. I whipped out my camera, trying not to fog the lens with my uncontrollable tears. Home sweet home! The boy on the end was even holding a staff upon which rested the Christmas star. One of the girls recited a poem of Christmas greetings. The crowd laughed and cheered. I got another mulled wine to choke down the tears and read the sign that said, “Bridges Across Borders” in Polish. I had come on the day when the group from Lviv (Lvov) was performing.
Ukrainians love Christmas and I, personally, have a hard time deciding whether Easter or Christmas is my more favorite holiday. Both religious celebrations are performed with such beautiful and happy rituals, that it’s difficult to say which one makes me feel more fuzzy and warm inside. On the other hand, Christmas is such a time of enchantment, of making dreams come true. It’s a fire that warms your heart in chilly surroundings.
In Ukraine, traditions stem from the old pagan rites. The decorating of the tree, for instance, was not something that was introduced with Christianity. Throughout Europe you will find that people do not put up their trees until - at earliest - the 22nd of December. More commonly, it is done on the day of Christmas Eve and is a family event. Candles are placed in the windows to light the way for ancestral ghosts and real, live visitors passing by. In the villages of Ukraine, groups of carolers go from door to door with Shchedryks - carol songs for the Epiphany, and also meaning, “bountiful and generous.” The host of the house prepares mulled wine, or other spirits to warm their wandering guests. The hostess prepares a meal of at least twelve dishes to represent the twelve Apostles that would later serve the Lord. (However, on Christmas Eve a fast is mandated: no meat or dairy products are allowed until after the midnight Liturgy.)
The carolers are bundled up in colorful scarves and carry the staff with the eight-pointed star, representing the star that led believers to Bethlehem to worship the new-born King. After the carolers leave, the family sits down to the feast. Kutia is the first and main dish: a mixture of boiled wheat, honey, poppy seeds and nuts, it’s a thick and warming gruel. The host takes a spoonful, says a prayer before the supper and then flicks the spoonful up onto the ceiling. If the kutia has been well prepared, it will stick to the ceiling and bring luck and prosperity to all those around the table. If it isn’t thick enough - duck! (We did this at our house every year, and my American friends would often comment on the little black specks on the ceiling. Every so often, we would paint over it. The big clumps, not many, were easily removed on Christmas Day.)
After kutia comes the red beet soup, borscht, with small dumplings named after the shape: ears. Inside the dumplings is an onion and mushroom filling. One dumpling will contain only black pepper. The lucky person (or unlucky, depending on your ability to down spices) who gets this dumpling will also have a year’s worth of luck. So even if you are pulling kutia from your hair, you’ve got another chance.
The soup course is followed by a fish cooked with onion and tomatoes (believed to have come to us from the Greeks and, in Poland, retains its name of Greek haddock). Fish, by the way, is not considered “meat” by the Catholic church.
After the fish, unbuckle your belt because the rest just come marching out and onto your plate. Choose a little of everything, from holubtsi, which are cabbage rolls filled with either rice and mushrooms or kasha (barley) and potato, or - after church - with meat and a mixture of any of the above. Sometimes a tomato sauce is served with it, or a forest-mushroom sauce. There are also pyrohy - Eastern European-styled ravioli filled with potato, sauerkraut, or cheese, or fruits; crepes known as nalysnyky and filled with cheese or fruit; a sauerkraut and pea salad; and the list goes on and on. Some people might notice an extra setting on the table or somewhere nearby. Non-Slavic celebrators have often asked us whether we were expecting more guests. The answer is always yes. This setting is for the dukhy - the ghosts of our ancestors who are certain to visit us and will need to eat as well. So a little bit of each course should be left on your plate and added to the dukhy’s plate.
In Ukraine, if you live on a farm, or even in the cities where you have pets, it is customary to be especially kind to the animals on the night of Christmas Eve (which is, by the way, the primary day of celebration). It is said that the animals can speak at midnight, so many farmers would set up some hay under the table and allow their favorite animals to rest there - sheep, dogs, cats, goats -- which would normally be stuck in the stalls in the cold winter. At our house, our pets would just get extra portions of left-overs, be dressed up in ribbons and bows, and there would always be at least one present for them under the tree.
After we eat and help our digestive systems with a good 1:1 ratio of vodka:food, everyone waddles to more comfortable chairs around the tree. Slowly we start to unwrap presents (you must sing a Christmas carol to receive it; everyone joins in if you’ve picked the right key), making our way toward the time when we’ll have to don on our winter gear over our fancy dress and head out to church. Carols greet us in the church, and then - drowsily - we make our one-hour stand through the service. After mass, sweets (now heavily weighed down with butter, eggs, and so on), fruit compote and tortes are served. Sometimes, the odd pierogi is taken from a cooled dish to be nibbled on or, if we were lucky enough, dad is baking the ham for the next day and we get to taste.
The next day, we start all over again at around 2:00 and finish unwrapping presents and exchanging gifts. This time we wolf down turkey, ham, and all the other high-calorie, tasty stuff along with an equal amount of liquids and spirits. Carols are sung until late into the night. Often, when I was younger, we would go caroling with groups from our church and, for hours, one parent or another would drive us to people’s homes. As I got older, these visits often turned into full-blown parties where we’d come to an abrupt halt in the route and just stay on until the morning.
Ahh.. Christmas… I was thinking of all this, with a great happiness outweighing the sadness caused by distances between those you love. I knew that the purpose of my coming to Krakow was to get to Ukrainskyi Smak, a restaurant under the Wawel - Krakow’s crowning hill and castle. I wanted to get there slowly, to work up my appetite and to enjoy my memories. Like an old wine cellar, the Ukrainskyi Smak has high, brick and stone arches and the two chambers leading to the dining rooms are filled with long wooden tables and benches. Carpathian rugs hang on the walls and cushion the benches. My friends, Ivan and Volodia, two musicians from Lviv, were playing the violin and accordion and greeted me like their long-lost sister. I joined an older couple from Krakow at one of the enormous tables and we chatted away in a mixture of Polish (from them) and Ukrainian (from me), over dinners of borscht, and holubtsi and pyrohy. I was smiling. I could feel the cracks in my face. I could feel the lightness in my eyes where sadness has seemed to weigh them down.
After Ivan and Volodia caroled for me (which made me weep with homesickness), I headed back into the darkened streets. Christmas wreaths and lights were hung across the roads and I picked my way along the uneven cobbled streets back through the market (pausing at the cathedral to send up a prayer of thanks). It was time to head back to Radom. I was infused with the Christmas spirit; enough to get me back home to Austria, where I knew my other family and friends were waiting. As were the all-new traditions I would experience in that part of Europe.
P.S. Until the western part of the Ukraine was invaded and, then, ruled by Poland, the country was primarily of the Eastern Orthodox religion. The country is still split between Orthodox and Catholic calendars. Therefore, due to the ancient calendar, most Ukrainians celebrate Christmas on January 6 and 7, Christmas Eve being the primary day of celebration. This is still the case in the Ukraine as well as in the Diaspora. In my family, we had two Christmases, as my father is Byzantine Catholic, and my mother is Orthodox. At our house, we also celebrate Easter twice.
Turkey Reflections
I have been in Izmir on the Asian side of western Turkey for just over a month now and realize that if I don’t start exploring the country soon, I’ll miss the opportunity to visit some spectacular sites. I am not a tourist here. I am doing a summer tenure with an English language school in the heart of the city and far from the NATO and tourist sections of the third largest city in Turkey.
After writing several essays about my initial impressions of Turkey, I wondered if I was giving this country and its people a fair chance? Yes, their culture and mentality are different from mine but does that make them wrong? I have met beautiful spirits here - ones with a gentle nature and some with a vulnerable kindness. I have laughed until I’ve cried with people who have a wonderful sense of humor and a wide-eyed perspective on the world around them. And I have been harassed, stalked and bombarded. You can find both the bad and the good anywhere on this earth.
The woman across the street from me is in her sixties by my guess. She’s out every early morning, keeping her terrace spotless. It is a uniform ritual in this city: Despite the rubble in the streets, there is a tradition of keeping balconies, terraces, sidewalks and those expensive, hand-woven Turkish carpets, clean. The way a family used to hang their coat of arms above their doors, the Turks hang their carpets over balcony banisters.
As I gulp my first dose of caffeine, I remember the first time I saw my neighbor lady. She was craning her neck toward me while trying so hard to pretend she wasn’t staring. All four floors of the same building contain similar matrons on similar balconies. When I noticed the little spy doing the same on the third morning, I raised my hand to wave hello. She quickly turned around and ducked behind the breezy curtain leading, presumably, to her kitchen. It was as if I had just thrown a tomato at her and she was trying to dodge it.
It was with a little stifled laugh that I realized what I may have done. In Greece, my friend Panos had told me that in Byzantine times people would curse you by tossing ashes or dirt at you. This method of cursing, to this day, can still be done with the raising of the hand and slight flicking of the fingers. Our English or American way of waving hello can often be mistaken for this curse. That, and the nazar boncugu - the evil eye - are still feared.
It was with great surprise that I discovered Turkey’s fascinating history. I read up on the country before I came and, yesterday, I spent the whole afternoon reading my outdated guidebook from a used book store. I could feel the creeping, crawling fever and itchy feet I get when I read about other people’s travels. I may be far from home (certainly not "in Kansas anymore") but I’m working six days a week. Though I have plenty of time to explore Izmir's many nooks and crannies, I am anxious to expand my circles.
Orshi, my roommate, and I are trying to pick one place to go before she leaves in July. Our choices are pretty limited but only by time and cash. We have only two full days in which to travel and an overwhelming number of possibilities to choose from.
To the south of us and less than two hours away is Sýðacýk harbor, Ephesus and Kuþadasý. Sýðacýk harbor was once described by 16th century Turkish navigator and cartographer, Piri Reis, as “an anchorage with water like yufka’.” Yufka is a paper-thin, smooth dough from which some of the most delectable Turkish pastries are made. In other words, to borrow from an old cliche, the water is as smooth as silk. Protected by Döganbey Bürnü and Teke Bürnü, it remains a snapshot of Turkey’s rich coastal villages.
In Ephesus, explorers and history lovers, students of mythology and the Bible, will find their curiousity satiated. First and foremost it is the site of the Temple of Artemis - one of the seven ancient wonders of the world. The temple was the first structure built entirely of marble and is four times bigger than the Parthenon of Athens. Even Orshi, who is miserly in handing out compliments, got all breathy when I asked her whether Ephesus was a nice place to visit. “It’s beautiful,” she sighed.
In 50 CE, Saint Paul arrived in Ephesus and converted a small number of Ephesians to Christianity. Though it took some time (and after he was run out of town), the city became the center of Christianity under the Roman Empire.
In nearby Selçuk (Seljuk), travelers will find the sites of the Basilica of Saint John and the House of the Virgin Mary at Bülbüdaðý (Nightingale Mountain). About five years after the death of Christ, St. John brought the sainted Mother to live out her days on the slopes of the mountain. It is now a popular pilgrimage site where both Christians and Muslims leave bits of tissue tied to the branches of dwarf trees to symbolize their prayers and requests.
What I wouldn’t do for a good midwestern American summer storm! A tornado. A violent downpour of rain. In July and August, the temperature will reach 47 degrees Celsius (117 degrees F). The air is already like pea soup in the afternoons and not a drop of rain has fallen in the five weeks I’ve been here. When it reaches 30 - 35, we begin swimming through the reeking smells of garbage from the scattered dumpsters; tripping over exhausted and dehydrated cats and dogs; and drowning in the fumes and heat from buses and cars. If a storm won’t come to clean this up, then I wish for pine forests and fresh lakes; rivers and jagged cliffs. Northern Minnesota is what I want. And that is more possible than a tornado.
To the north of Izmir is a little Turkish sanctuary called Ayvalýk. I have been tantalized by the information that it is a place of terra cotta, tiled roofs, brilliant Mediterannean blues, golden beaches and thick hills of pine forests. A small island just 25 minutes away, by boat, is home to about seven thousand people. Only! Living in a city clogged by four and a half million, Ayvalýk is a ghost town by comparison. Rooms are about five dollars per night and it will cost me six dollars to get there by bus, round trip. Fresh fish is grilled and sold right on the docks, amid the dry, comforting scent of pine trees.You can buy a good bottle of wine for a dollar and a half (Turkish white wines are a delicate and pleasant surprise. They are a gentle testament to what can be wrought from this often savage land, this turmoiled earth).
Or, if Orshi and I are really willing to release ourselves from the promising refreshments which the sea offers from the heat and the dirt, we could go inland to visit my friend's family...
...A few days ago, I served a lunch on my balcony to my friends, Tuðba and Arzu. They had requested a “traditional American meal” and I wracked my brain trying to figure out what that comprised. For a few days I contemplated going to Alsançak or Karþiyaka - where all the NATO workers live and shop on pounds and dollars - and getting peanut butter. What’s more American than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? The hot dog? They’ve got it here (and serve it on their pizzas!) Grilled cheese? That’s English. Hamburgers? German and there are plenty of those available here too. French fries? Belgian. Pizza? Italian. Fried chicken, corn-on-the-cob, and biscuits! Yeah, but troublesome and way too heavy in this heat.
What I ended up doing was Americanizing spin-offs of Turkish foods. For example, basil is a sacred plant in both Greece and Turkey. It was the sacrificial plant to the Mother goddess of the sea and, to this day - even if they don’t know why any more - ship captains keep a basil plant on their boat. It is hardly ever used for cooking by the locals. However, Orshi knows where the foreigners live and eat and she was able to obtain some of the herb for me. I served tomato basil soup, a version which tickled my guests’ tastebuds as tomato soup is a staple in the Turkish diet.
The main course, however, was a divine inspiration thanks to my chats with my friend's father. Doner kebabs, often served "open-faced" on rounds of pita bread, are another regular dish and the Turks love this version of fast food. While brainstorming lunch food ideas, I came upon some thinly sliced steaks for beef kebabs. I bought half a kilo, an onion, green peppers and cheese and then some thick, white bread. I made Philly cheese steak sandwiches with ketchup and mayo and, while serving, winked at my guests. “These were invented in Philadelphia in the U.S., but the original Philadelphia is just two hours east of us...”
It is called Aleþehir (Aleshehir) today, and it is where Tuðba's father Ahmed was raised. It is a haven of vineyards (so, he tells me), fruit and olive trees, dusty, red hills and lakes. Another hour to the southeast and Orshi and I could be in Pamukkale, where natural caves, panoramic views and fresh springs wait to delight the hot trekker. We would rest under olive trees, or apricot trees; or perhaps tangerine and lemon trees. We would hear the bleating of sheep, wave to the weathered, black-sunned faces of the shepherds. Life would be simple for two days; we would eat simply, drink simply. Our accommodations would be sparse and rustic. When I go does not matter for this is a destination which warrants my time and it is part of my travel itineraries over the next three months.
Noah’s Arc rested on a mountain in Turkey after 40 days and 40 nights of storms. Byzantine Christianity was raised from Turkish earth. Mongols came across and brought the art of horseback riding, music, food, and other craftsmanship to Turkey. Ottomans and sultans cultivated the most incredible architecture, art, and culture. Though some of it may be gaudy by today’s standards, they are still a wonder. Gold, silver, marble and tile are only a few of the riches spawned from an earth violent with quakes. And volcanoes have helped to bring sweetness in the form of sugar cane.
Last Sunday, I felt my first earthquake. I was drilling through pronounciation when I noticed that my students were not responding. I glanced up at them from where I was busy, pacing the room, and they were staring into the corner where the media stand was, holding the huge TV. The whole stand was gently swaying back and forth.
“Ummmm...” I started, unsure of what to think. Everything seemed normal outside in the bazaar below us. “Is that what I think it is?”
“It” was a 5.5 on the Richter scale but the quake was underneath the seafloor, far away. We only felt the shockwaves. I would have hated being in a boat. But I didn’t learn all this until I talked with a friend in Istanbul a few days later. “Did you feel it?” she asked.
“It was more like I SAW it,” I said.
“It” also comes at a time when this country, as I just learned, will feel a new, negative effect of the current economic crises (brought on by the two earthquakes in the Marmaris region in 1999 and 2000). I can’t - no, I don’t want to - imagine how this will devastate more families. It will bring more elderly people and young children to the streets, begging for money. Some try to make this business legitimate by selling things: garbage bags, coat hangers, small packs of tissue. Their attempt at obtaining a handful of coins already makes my heart break.
Our school may see fewer students. Even if they have registered for the summer classes, businesses know that they can squeeze the life out of their employees. Ten hour shifts will become fourteen or sixteen hours. It’s too hard to find a job and too costly to hire employees to rotate shifts. Many of my students already cannot afford to pay their bills and I worry about my own bills. When I signed my contract in March, I calculated I would be earning about $550 by US standards. With the dollar reaching for 1.25 per each million lira, my salary is now comparable to $400 a month. On the other hand, with cash, my bargaining chips in the shops and bazaars are that much better. And my guilt, that much heavier.
My neighbor lady recovered from whatever curse I may have unintentionally put on her and she and I silently commune on our early mornings, on our separate balconies. Not a word has passed between us, but we still greet one another. Eye contact travels great distances.
Though I am surrounded by the charms against the nazar boncuðu, the only evil eye I fear here is the one cast by foreigners who come burdened with ignorance, by fear, and by misunderstanding. Perhaps I am naive to cast away those binoculars and seek out, and expect, goodness in all. But, and especially in Turkey, I wouldn’t survive without that vision.
After writing several essays about my initial impressions of Turkey, I wondered if I was giving this country and its people a fair chance? Yes, their culture and mentality are different from mine but does that make them wrong? I have met beautiful spirits here - ones with a gentle nature and some with a vulnerable kindness. I have laughed until I’ve cried with people who have a wonderful sense of humor and a wide-eyed perspective on the world around them. And I have been harassed, stalked and bombarded. You can find both the bad and the good anywhere on this earth.
The woman across the street from me is in her sixties by my guess. She’s out every early morning, keeping her terrace spotless. It is a uniform ritual in this city: Despite the rubble in the streets, there is a tradition of keeping balconies, terraces, sidewalks and those expensive, hand-woven Turkish carpets, clean. The way a family used to hang their coat of arms above their doors, the Turks hang their carpets over balcony banisters.
As I gulp my first dose of caffeine, I remember the first time I saw my neighbor lady. She was craning her neck toward me while trying so hard to pretend she wasn’t staring. All four floors of the same building contain similar matrons on similar balconies. When I noticed the little spy doing the same on the third morning, I raised my hand to wave hello. She quickly turned around and ducked behind the breezy curtain leading, presumably, to her kitchen. It was as if I had just thrown a tomato at her and she was trying to dodge it.
It was with a little stifled laugh that I realized what I may have done. In Greece, my friend Panos had told me that in Byzantine times people would curse you by tossing ashes or dirt at you. This method of cursing, to this day, can still be done with the raising of the hand and slight flicking of the fingers. Our English or American way of waving hello can often be mistaken for this curse. That, and the nazar boncugu - the evil eye - are still feared.
It was with great surprise that I discovered Turkey’s fascinating history. I read up on the country before I came and, yesterday, I spent the whole afternoon reading my outdated guidebook from a used book store. I could feel the creeping, crawling fever and itchy feet I get when I read about other people’s travels. I may be far from home (certainly not "in Kansas anymore") but I’m working six days a week. Though I have plenty of time to explore Izmir's many nooks and crannies, I am anxious to expand my circles.
Orshi, my roommate, and I are trying to pick one place to go before she leaves in July. Our choices are pretty limited but only by time and cash. We have only two full days in which to travel and an overwhelming number of possibilities to choose from.
To the south of us and less than two hours away is Sýðacýk harbor, Ephesus and Kuþadasý. Sýðacýk harbor was once described by 16th century Turkish navigator and cartographer, Piri Reis, as “an anchorage with water like yufka’.” Yufka is a paper-thin, smooth dough from which some of the most delectable Turkish pastries are made. In other words, to borrow from an old cliche, the water is as smooth as silk. Protected by Döganbey Bürnü and Teke Bürnü, it remains a snapshot of Turkey’s rich coastal villages.
In Ephesus, explorers and history lovers, students of mythology and the Bible, will find their curiousity satiated. First and foremost it is the site of the Temple of Artemis - one of the seven ancient wonders of the world. The temple was the first structure built entirely of marble and is four times bigger than the Parthenon of Athens. Even Orshi, who is miserly in handing out compliments, got all breathy when I asked her whether Ephesus was a nice place to visit. “It’s beautiful,” she sighed.
In 50 CE, Saint Paul arrived in Ephesus and converted a small number of Ephesians to Christianity. Though it took some time (and after he was run out of town), the city became the center of Christianity under the Roman Empire.
In nearby Selçuk (Seljuk), travelers will find the sites of the Basilica of Saint John and the House of the Virgin Mary at Bülbüdaðý (Nightingale Mountain). About five years after the death of Christ, St. John brought the sainted Mother to live out her days on the slopes of the mountain. It is now a popular pilgrimage site where both Christians and Muslims leave bits of tissue tied to the branches of dwarf trees to symbolize their prayers and requests.
What I wouldn’t do for a good midwestern American summer storm! A tornado. A violent downpour of rain. In July and August, the temperature will reach 47 degrees Celsius (117 degrees F). The air is already like pea soup in the afternoons and not a drop of rain has fallen in the five weeks I’ve been here. When it reaches 30 - 35, we begin swimming through the reeking smells of garbage from the scattered dumpsters; tripping over exhausted and dehydrated cats and dogs; and drowning in the fumes and heat from buses and cars. If a storm won’t come to clean this up, then I wish for pine forests and fresh lakes; rivers and jagged cliffs. Northern Minnesota is what I want. And that is more possible than a tornado.
To the north of Izmir is a little Turkish sanctuary called Ayvalýk. I have been tantalized by the information that it is a place of terra cotta, tiled roofs, brilliant Mediterannean blues, golden beaches and thick hills of pine forests. A small island just 25 minutes away, by boat, is home to about seven thousand people. Only! Living in a city clogged by four and a half million, Ayvalýk is a ghost town by comparison. Rooms are about five dollars per night and it will cost me six dollars to get there by bus, round trip. Fresh fish is grilled and sold right on the docks, amid the dry, comforting scent of pine trees.You can buy a good bottle of wine for a dollar and a half (Turkish white wines are a delicate and pleasant surprise. They are a gentle testament to what can be wrought from this often savage land, this turmoiled earth).
Or, if Orshi and I are really willing to release ourselves from the promising refreshments which the sea offers from the heat and the dirt, we could go inland to visit my friend's family...
...A few days ago, I served a lunch on my balcony to my friends, Tuðba and Arzu. They had requested a “traditional American meal” and I wracked my brain trying to figure out what that comprised. For a few days I contemplated going to Alsançak or Karþiyaka - where all the NATO workers live and shop on pounds and dollars - and getting peanut butter. What’s more American than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? The hot dog? They’ve got it here (and serve it on their pizzas!) Grilled cheese? That’s English. Hamburgers? German and there are plenty of those available here too. French fries? Belgian. Pizza? Italian. Fried chicken, corn-on-the-cob, and biscuits! Yeah, but troublesome and way too heavy in this heat.
What I ended up doing was Americanizing spin-offs of Turkish foods. For example, basil is a sacred plant in both Greece and Turkey. It was the sacrificial plant to the Mother goddess of the sea and, to this day - even if they don’t know why any more - ship captains keep a basil plant on their boat. It is hardly ever used for cooking by the locals. However, Orshi knows where the foreigners live and eat and she was able to obtain some of the herb for me. I served tomato basil soup, a version which tickled my guests’ tastebuds as tomato soup is a staple in the Turkish diet.
The main course, however, was a divine inspiration thanks to my chats with my friend's father. Doner kebabs, often served "open-faced" on rounds of pita bread, are another regular dish and the Turks love this version of fast food. While brainstorming lunch food ideas, I came upon some thinly sliced steaks for beef kebabs. I bought half a kilo, an onion, green peppers and cheese and then some thick, white bread. I made Philly cheese steak sandwiches with ketchup and mayo and, while serving, winked at my guests. “These were invented in Philadelphia in the U.S., but the original Philadelphia is just two hours east of us...”
It is called Aleþehir (Aleshehir) today, and it is where Tuðba's father Ahmed was raised. It is a haven of vineyards (so, he tells me), fruit and olive trees, dusty, red hills and lakes. Another hour to the southeast and Orshi and I could be in Pamukkale, where natural caves, panoramic views and fresh springs wait to delight the hot trekker. We would rest under olive trees, or apricot trees; or perhaps tangerine and lemon trees. We would hear the bleating of sheep, wave to the weathered, black-sunned faces of the shepherds. Life would be simple for two days; we would eat simply, drink simply. Our accommodations would be sparse and rustic. When I go does not matter for this is a destination which warrants my time and it is part of my travel itineraries over the next three months.
Noah’s Arc rested on a mountain in Turkey after 40 days and 40 nights of storms. Byzantine Christianity was raised from Turkish earth. Mongols came across and brought the art of horseback riding, music, food, and other craftsmanship to Turkey. Ottomans and sultans cultivated the most incredible architecture, art, and culture. Though some of it may be gaudy by today’s standards, they are still a wonder. Gold, silver, marble and tile are only a few of the riches spawned from an earth violent with quakes. And volcanoes have helped to bring sweetness in the form of sugar cane.
Last Sunday, I felt my first earthquake. I was drilling through pronounciation when I noticed that my students were not responding. I glanced up at them from where I was busy, pacing the room, and they were staring into the corner where the media stand was, holding the huge TV. The whole stand was gently swaying back and forth.
“Ummmm...” I started, unsure of what to think. Everything seemed normal outside in the bazaar below us. “Is that what I think it is?”
“It” was a 5.5 on the Richter scale but the quake was underneath the seafloor, far away. We only felt the shockwaves. I would have hated being in a boat. But I didn’t learn all this until I talked with a friend in Istanbul a few days later. “Did you feel it?” she asked.
“It was more like I SAW it,” I said.
“It” also comes at a time when this country, as I just learned, will feel a new, negative effect of the current economic crises (brought on by the two earthquakes in the Marmaris region in 1999 and 2000). I can’t - no, I don’t want to - imagine how this will devastate more families. It will bring more elderly people and young children to the streets, begging for money. Some try to make this business legitimate by selling things: garbage bags, coat hangers, small packs of tissue. Their attempt at obtaining a handful of coins already makes my heart break.
Our school may see fewer students. Even if they have registered for the summer classes, businesses know that they can squeeze the life out of their employees. Ten hour shifts will become fourteen or sixteen hours. It’s too hard to find a job and too costly to hire employees to rotate shifts. Many of my students already cannot afford to pay their bills and I worry about my own bills. When I signed my contract in March, I calculated I would be earning about $550 by US standards. With the dollar reaching for 1.25 per each million lira, my salary is now comparable to $400 a month. On the other hand, with cash, my bargaining chips in the shops and bazaars are that much better. And my guilt, that much heavier.
My neighbor lady recovered from whatever curse I may have unintentionally put on her and she and I silently commune on our early mornings, on our separate balconies. Not a word has passed between us, but we still greet one another. Eye contact travels great distances.
Though I am surrounded by the charms against the nazar boncuðu, the only evil eye I fear here is the one cast by foreigners who come burdened with ignorance, by fear, and by misunderstanding. Perhaps I am naive to cast away those binoculars and seek out, and expect, goodness in all. But, and especially in Turkey, I wouldn’t survive without that vision.
Turkey: In Search Of The Garden Of Eden
IN SEARCH OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN
I leapt out of bed at six a.m. Enough, I thought, I'm going for an early morning walk. By some lucky chance I might find a cafe open and actually satiate this nostalgic need for my mornings back in Minneapolis...
It's amazing what a person will see of their neighborhood when they aren't busy fighting for space on the cracked and treacherous sidewalks; when they aren't dodging traffic or shrugging off the stares and gapes of the locals, or having to decline invitations to spend money in their shops. It's amazing how many buildings you begin to realize exist and that it isn't just one big wall of concrete. There are splashes of personality and texture; secret gardens on terraces and balconies. Other people ache as much as I for a bit of green -- for a bit of life -- in this concrete, pastel hell.
The apartment buildings and storefronts are nothing spectacular. In the post war era, these buildings were erected to house the millions of people who flooded to the city for work. They are very Communist Era looking, but most have been trimmed and washed in a variety of pastel colors that remind me of those UFO-shaped suckers -- the Sweetart ones with swirly colors. Just like those suckers, these buildings all "taste" the same no matter which color you choose to live in: salmon pink and turquoise, lemon yellow and pistachio green, baby pink and baby blue, or washed out lavendar-brown like my building. Any of the above can be combined, mixed, etc. But few have gardens or room for terraces, though many balconies are decorated with gernaiums in painted olive-oil cans.
During a walk last weekend with two other foreign teachers, I showed them a special street where each house had at least two or three trees. Some of the homes were brand new, modern-styled, European-looking homes but they were all houses. It was a wealthy neighborhood hidden from the rest of Buca. My companions were breathing "ooohs" and "aahhhs" and Bridie, from Ireland, stopped in front of a garden with real vegetables and flowers growing in it. We stepped beside her as she reached through the iron bars of the gate, pointing. "Do youz t'ink we'd find a worm thar?"
At the moment it wasn't meant to be a funny question until I pointed out how repressed we must seem to the woman sitting on her four-season porch across the street. It was like we had come upon the Garden of Eden... It has become a serious and desperate mission of ours to find as many natural getaways as possible in this area...
On another day, while walking with Tugba, I saw a grove of trees behind a high, stone wall. I smacked her arm and said, "I saw this park the other day. But it looks like you have to pay an entrance fee." I pointed toward the gate where a little box with a guard was set up. "How much does it cost to get in?"
Tugba was laughing uncontrollably. "You don't have to pay a single lira. Just kill somebody."
I didn't understand her and believed she had mistranslated my question. As we walked a little further, where I could look past the openings of the barred gate at the entrance, I saw the rolled, barbed wire at the tops of other walls, and a guard was walking a large German shepherd in a distant field. I stopped where I was and gaped at Tugba. Orshi, my roommate, had just mentioned that she believed there was a prison somewhere down our street. I had laughed at her since she's paranoid about everything. But she had been right!
This morning, Orshi and I walked to the end of our boulevard where we can see some of the old bunkers of the original prison. She stopped short on the walk and said, dryly, "How could you tell this was it? It looks like the rest of Buca."
THE PEOPLE INSIDE THE PASTEL SHELLS
During my early morning walk, I reflected on the people of Turkey. It is impossible to create a fair judgement of an entire nation, so I must just give my own personal impressions of those whom I have met. It would be plainly obvious to any American that the Turkish family is much closer than it is back home. I have never seen so many fathers who truly take part in their child's life. You see them on the streets with their sons and daughters and the love and closeness is apparent. I see it in the grandfathers and fathers of my students when they are escorted to school. The family exists as a community. Elderly parents and in-laws live with their children's families and help raise their grandchidren. Indeed, when a woman is married to a man, the new bride has been chosen carefully as her duty is now take care of her mother-in-law as well as her husband and their yet-unborn children.
EFENDIM
The elderly here are taken care of by their children. Since the economic crises (which followed the two earthquakes in this country), many parents have either moved in with their children or vice versa.
These are a respective group of people. Even the most hooligan-looking teen will stop to pay his or her respects to the "Efendim". They greet them with formality - for example, "Iyi Aksamlar, efendim" if it's evening. The youngster may even -- if they know the elder -- kiss the efendim's hand and then, bowing, the younger will bring the hand to his or her forehead.
I pass by many salons during my walks in Serinyer. They are reminiscent of the American VFWs. Here, as a widower, you come for your breakfast, your 硹, or coffee. You sit with other widowers and play dominoes or a traditional Turkish game of tiles. And you gape at the American woman who passes you by, shrouding her with instantaneous, unspoken judgements regarding how she looks today.
BAYAN
There is a disturbing sugar-coating of warmth and kindness on the women here. I once wrote about the phoniness of Dublin girls I encountered -- how they were so overly concerned about fashion and vanity that they seem to have lost touch with who they are. Here, I think that the women are trying to forget who they are.
Choices are quite limited here. It's not all bad, however. Ahmed tells me that the women here hunt for rich husbands so that they can bathe in wealth and luxury. "Vultures," he declared, half-joking while glancing at his wife's enormous pile of shoes she's horded for herself from his shop. I turned to him and asked, "But if you do not allow the woman to have an education, to be an independent person, to offer something in return, what else do you expect? Of course she's going to try and find someone to provide it for her."
He chuckled at this and raised a finger and an eyebrow at me, simultaneously. "Touche."
The best job you can have as a woman here -- besides the typical, posh position as a civil service worker -- is to be a teacher. And even they are told what they should teach, for how long, and at what level.
As much as Izmir is modern, it still harvests a set idea of woman's place. Underneath the country's struggle to appear civilized, a woman can expect very little. And we women foreigners are regarded with extra measures of caution, resentment, hesitation, fear and jealousy. And then they starve themselves and dress themselves to look just like the cover models they see in British and American magazines...
BAY
I was forewarned about the men from the very start and have found them to be like any other southern macho: like the Latin Americans and the Greeks, they are passionate about owning the woman. They love you desperately and become violent if things don't work out the way they want them to.
I was walking with Neco one day, and we came upon two other men -- at different times -- that had introduced themselves to me in my neighborhood. I want to make it perfectly clear that, when introduced, I claim to be married. Though it may be difficult for my Turkish counterparts to understand why I would be here without my husband, they seem to realize that whether it's true or not, I am way off limits. Anyway, when we met these two other men, Neco became obviously uncomfortable in their presence over brief exchanges with me. I was reminded of dogs sniffing each other out on what they thought was once solely their territory. I became irritated with this. Neco agreed but shrugged, "That's how we are."
On the flip side, I have met a handful of men who are genuinely good natured, and who respect me as a teacher, and as a friend. The mentality of the culture may dictate what they feel and think inside, but to me they have been nothing but kind and lack ulterior motives. And this, you can find anywhere in the world. It's a reminder that I am indeed still on Earth and not on another planet as I tend to sometimes think.
THE CHILDREN
They are gems. They are precious jewels here. There are masses of them and they face incredible odds in overcoming and closing the gaps of poor education and economic hardship. Orshi mentioned that it was depressing sometimes to think of the number of kids who will realize so little here. I suggested that there will be -- especially with today's technology making the world smaller -- someone or a group of intellectuals who will say "enough is enough" to the corrupt government. There will be an intellectual uprising, or at least a fight back. Hopefully, anyway.
My students are normal kids with a lot more fear and respect for their adult leaders. Parents are very strict, but my neighborhood reminds me of where I grew up as a child and how we all played until midnight on summer nights. We didn't fear guns; we didn't fear molesters or kidnappers; we didn't fear gangs and drugs. All we feared were June bugs and whether our parents would call us in before we could finish our game. My neighborhood is filled with kids who play the same kinds of games I used to play. And so, when they kick the soccer ball around in the street below me while I'm trying to sleep, I try to bite my tongue before sending down a harsh "Sus!" After all, it is 12:30 in the morning.
At the little park on my way to school, there is another group of kids. The poor ones; the street kids. They are shining shoes and harrassing people for "para" - money. Shoe shining is a big business here. There are five well-dressed men lined up along the park wall first thing in the morning. They work until at least eleven at night. And they shoo the Dickensonian street urchins away from their reputable stands. When they do this, I can't help wonder if these same, youngish men started out just like these kids...
Overall, children are considered everyone's business. Anybody can come up to your baby, pick her or him up, smother him or her with kisses, bless the child and say a protective word from the evil eye (aha! The Evil Eye -- it's still apparent everywhere. Mugs, keychains, candles, everything you could possibly paint it on, you will find it). Unlike in America, as well, your business is everybody's business. Nobody turns away from a victim of danger and I have quickly caught on to this wonderful community effort in protecting our kids...
Along one of my streets, an electrical wire snapped in two and one piece of it was hanging above the sidewalk. Two children rounded the corner and the younger -- a boy of about five -- grabbed the wire and started to swing from it. I nearly had a heart attack. I cried out, "No, no Schatzele!" and gave him the tsssk common here for a scolding. He smiled shyly at me and walked away, embarrassed. An older man, coming towards me on the street, nodded his approval and we shared our concern over the wire with a mutual frown. It takes someone fourteen hours to remove a dead cat from a sidewalk flocked with passing people. I have no idea how long it takes for someone to climb up a pole to repair a live wire...
WEDDINGS
I have been so lucky - or unlucky, depending on how you look at it -- to attend two weddings already. Just like the Olden Days in America, this is how the woman gets away from her parents. There really is very little choice. Getting an apartment on one's own is mostly unheard of.
The first wedding was of one of our teachers. I attended but didn't feel a part of it. It all happened so fast, too. The two other Turkish teachers who escorted me to the ceremony had gone to have their hair done and dressed up so nicely, I thought for sure this was going to be some huge event. We entered an auditorium-like room. On the stage was a table decorated in white flowers, linens and some bows. Suddenly, the betrothed couple walked down a side aisle and mounted the stage together. A civil clerk and some relatives were also seated at the table. A large register was passed in which the couple signed their names and then the civil clerk asked some questions to the couple. She held out the microphone to the bride who responded with "evet". Yes. Her new husband did the same. Then there was clapping and the couple dismounted the stage and entered a receiving room. Behind me, a new couple was getting ready to go through the whole previous procedure.
Enormous boquets and wreaths were lined up near the platform where the newly married couple greeted their guests and received pieces of gold: medallions in red ribbons, bracelets, necklaces, etc. When everyone kissed, and the guests all received a little wedding token (almond candies), we were finished. Next, we moved outside and waited for the couple to get into their car and drive away, honking. Inside the receiving room was a new couple already...
As we passed the prison and turned onto the busy street, Orshi and I took one look at each other and ducked into a side street. "The pollution is so bad," she started, "that sometimes it feels like the grit bites your lungs... is that how you would say it?"
"That's pretty good," I said. " 'Bites your lungs' works for me."
Orshi is Hungarian, studied in Iowa, met her Turkish husband there, came back here with him to live and now he's back in America looking for a job to match his MBA. She's finishing her term with Bilmer and will rejoin him in a few months. "I think the correct term is 'burn'," she reflected.
"Yeah, either way it sucks." I winced at having sworn, knowing Orshi is kind of sensitive to it.
Ahmed has been sharing history stories with me and he has a funny way of swearing. One night he was starting a new lecture with me and began with, "When those Ottomans kicked their asses,..." He pauses and nods, squeezing out "kicked", "their", and "asses" as if someone might overhear him - like his mother - understand, and scold him. I laughed before he continued, "Ahmed! If you had been in charge of writing history books for my school, I would have paid more attention!"
I think we all would have...
I leapt out of bed at six a.m. Enough, I thought, I'm going for an early morning walk. By some lucky chance I might find a cafe open and actually satiate this nostalgic need for my mornings back in Minneapolis...
It's amazing what a person will see of their neighborhood when they aren't busy fighting for space on the cracked and treacherous sidewalks; when they aren't dodging traffic or shrugging off the stares and gapes of the locals, or having to decline invitations to spend money in their shops. It's amazing how many buildings you begin to realize exist and that it isn't just one big wall of concrete. There are splashes of personality and texture; secret gardens on terraces and balconies. Other people ache as much as I for a bit of green -- for a bit of life -- in this concrete, pastel hell.
The apartment buildings and storefronts are nothing spectacular. In the post war era, these buildings were erected to house the millions of people who flooded to the city for work. They are very Communist Era looking, but most have been trimmed and washed in a variety of pastel colors that remind me of those UFO-shaped suckers -- the Sweetart ones with swirly colors. Just like those suckers, these buildings all "taste" the same no matter which color you choose to live in: salmon pink and turquoise, lemon yellow and pistachio green, baby pink and baby blue, or washed out lavendar-brown like my building. Any of the above can be combined, mixed, etc. But few have gardens or room for terraces, though many balconies are decorated with gernaiums in painted olive-oil cans.
During a walk last weekend with two other foreign teachers, I showed them a special street where each house had at least two or three trees. Some of the homes were brand new, modern-styled, European-looking homes but they were all houses. It was a wealthy neighborhood hidden from the rest of Buca. My companions were breathing "ooohs" and "aahhhs" and Bridie, from Ireland, stopped in front of a garden with real vegetables and flowers growing in it. We stepped beside her as she reached through the iron bars of the gate, pointing. "Do youz t'ink we'd find a worm thar?"
At the moment it wasn't meant to be a funny question until I pointed out how repressed we must seem to the woman sitting on her four-season porch across the street. It was like we had come upon the Garden of Eden... It has become a serious and desperate mission of ours to find as many natural getaways as possible in this area...
On another day, while walking with Tugba, I saw a grove of trees behind a high, stone wall. I smacked her arm and said, "I saw this park the other day. But it looks like you have to pay an entrance fee." I pointed toward the gate where a little box with a guard was set up. "How much does it cost to get in?"
Tugba was laughing uncontrollably. "You don't have to pay a single lira. Just kill somebody."
I didn't understand her and believed she had mistranslated my question. As we walked a little further, where I could look past the openings of the barred gate at the entrance, I saw the rolled, barbed wire at the tops of other walls, and a guard was walking a large German shepherd in a distant field. I stopped where I was and gaped at Tugba. Orshi, my roommate, had just mentioned that she believed there was a prison somewhere down our street. I had laughed at her since she's paranoid about everything. But she had been right!
This morning, Orshi and I walked to the end of our boulevard where we can see some of the old bunkers of the original prison. She stopped short on the walk and said, dryly, "How could you tell this was it? It looks like the rest of Buca."
THE PEOPLE INSIDE THE PASTEL SHELLS
During my early morning walk, I reflected on the people of Turkey. It is impossible to create a fair judgement of an entire nation, so I must just give my own personal impressions of those whom I have met. It would be plainly obvious to any American that the Turkish family is much closer than it is back home. I have never seen so many fathers who truly take part in their child's life. You see them on the streets with their sons and daughters and the love and closeness is apparent. I see it in the grandfathers and fathers of my students when they are escorted to school. The family exists as a community. Elderly parents and in-laws live with their children's families and help raise their grandchidren. Indeed, when a woman is married to a man, the new bride has been chosen carefully as her duty is now take care of her mother-in-law as well as her husband and their yet-unborn children.
EFENDIM
The elderly here are taken care of by their children. Since the economic crises (which followed the two earthquakes in this country), many parents have either moved in with their children or vice versa.
These are a respective group of people. Even the most hooligan-looking teen will stop to pay his or her respects to the "Efendim". They greet them with formality - for example, "Iyi Aksamlar, efendim" if it's evening. The youngster may even -- if they know the elder -- kiss the efendim's hand and then, bowing, the younger will bring the hand to his or her forehead.
I pass by many salons during my walks in Serinyer. They are reminiscent of the American VFWs. Here, as a widower, you come for your breakfast, your 硹, or coffee. You sit with other widowers and play dominoes or a traditional Turkish game of tiles. And you gape at the American woman who passes you by, shrouding her with instantaneous, unspoken judgements regarding how she looks today.
BAYAN
There is a disturbing sugar-coating of warmth and kindness on the women here. I once wrote about the phoniness of Dublin girls I encountered -- how they were so overly concerned about fashion and vanity that they seem to have lost touch with who they are. Here, I think that the women are trying to forget who they are.
Choices are quite limited here. It's not all bad, however. Ahmed tells me that the women here hunt for rich husbands so that they can bathe in wealth and luxury. "Vultures," he declared, half-joking while glancing at his wife's enormous pile of shoes she's horded for herself from his shop. I turned to him and asked, "But if you do not allow the woman to have an education, to be an independent person, to offer something in return, what else do you expect? Of course she's going to try and find someone to provide it for her."
He chuckled at this and raised a finger and an eyebrow at me, simultaneously. "Touche."
The best job you can have as a woman here -- besides the typical, posh position as a civil service worker -- is to be a teacher. And even they are told what they should teach, for how long, and at what level.
As much as Izmir is modern, it still harvests a set idea of woman's place. Underneath the country's struggle to appear civilized, a woman can expect very little. And we women foreigners are regarded with extra measures of caution, resentment, hesitation, fear and jealousy. And then they starve themselves and dress themselves to look just like the cover models they see in British and American magazines...
BAY
I was forewarned about the men from the very start and have found them to be like any other southern macho: like the Latin Americans and the Greeks, they are passionate about owning the woman. They love you desperately and become violent if things don't work out the way they want them to.
I was walking with Neco one day, and we came upon two other men -- at different times -- that had introduced themselves to me in my neighborhood. I want to make it perfectly clear that, when introduced, I claim to be married. Though it may be difficult for my Turkish counterparts to understand why I would be here without my husband, they seem to realize that whether it's true or not, I am way off limits. Anyway, when we met these two other men, Neco became obviously uncomfortable in their presence over brief exchanges with me. I was reminded of dogs sniffing each other out on what they thought was once solely their territory. I became irritated with this. Neco agreed but shrugged, "That's how we are."
On the flip side, I have met a handful of men who are genuinely good natured, and who respect me as a teacher, and as a friend. The mentality of the culture may dictate what they feel and think inside, but to me they have been nothing but kind and lack ulterior motives. And this, you can find anywhere in the world. It's a reminder that I am indeed still on Earth and not on another planet as I tend to sometimes think.
THE CHILDREN
They are gems. They are precious jewels here. There are masses of them and they face incredible odds in overcoming and closing the gaps of poor education and economic hardship. Orshi mentioned that it was depressing sometimes to think of the number of kids who will realize so little here. I suggested that there will be -- especially with today's technology making the world smaller -- someone or a group of intellectuals who will say "enough is enough" to the corrupt government. There will be an intellectual uprising, or at least a fight back. Hopefully, anyway.
My students are normal kids with a lot more fear and respect for their adult leaders. Parents are very strict, but my neighborhood reminds me of where I grew up as a child and how we all played until midnight on summer nights. We didn't fear guns; we didn't fear molesters or kidnappers; we didn't fear gangs and drugs. All we feared were June bugs and whether our parents would call us in before we could finish our game. My neighborhood is filled with kids who play the same kinds of games I used to play. And so, when they kick the soccer ball around in the street below me while I'm trying to sleep, I try to bite my tongue before sending down a harsh "Sus!" After all, it is 12:30 in the morning.
At the little park on my way to school, there is another group of kids. The poor ones; the street kids. They are shining shoes and harrassing people for "para" - money. Shoe shining is a big business here. There are five well-dressed men lined up along the park wall first thing in the morning. They work until at least eleven at night. And they shoo the Dickensonian street urchins away from their reputable stands. When they do this, I can't help wonder if these same, youngish men started out just like these kids...
Overall, children are considered everyone's business. Anybody can come up to your baby, pick her or him up, smother him or her with kisses, bless the child and say a protective word from the evil eye (aha! The Evil Eye -- it's still apparent everywhere. Mugs, keychains, candles, everything you could possibly paint it on, you will find it). Unlike in America, as well, your business is everybody's business. Nobody turns away from a victim of danger and I have quickly caught on to this wonderful community effort in protecting our kids...
Along one of my streets, an electrical wire snapped in two and one piece of it was hanging above the sidewalk. Two children rounded the corner and the younger -- a boy of about five -- grabbed the wire and started to swing from it. I nearly had a heart attack. I cried out, "No, no Schatzele!" and gave him the tsssk common here for a scolding. He smiled shyly at me and walked away, embarrassed. An older man, coming towards me on the street, nodded his approval and we shared our concern over the wire with a mutual frown. It takes someone fourteen hours to remove a dead cat from a sidewalk flocked with passing people. I have no idea how long it takes for someone to climb up a pole to repair a live wire...
WEDDINGS
I have been so lucky - or unlucky, depending on how you look at it -- to attend two weddings already. Just like the Olden Days in America, this is how the woman gets away from her parents. There really is very little choice. Getting an apartment on one's own is mostly unheard of.
The first wedding was of one of our teachers. I attended but didn't feel a part of it. It all happened so fast, too. The two other Turkish teachers who escorted me to the ceremony had gone to have their hair done and dressed up so nicely, I thought for sure this was going to be some huge event. We entered an auditorium-like room. On the stage was a table decorated in white flowers, linens and some bows. Suddenly, the betrothed couple walked down a side aisle and mounted the stage together. A civil clerk and some relatives were also seated at the table. A large register was passed in which the couple signed their names and then the civil clerk asked some questions to the couple. She held out the microphone to the bride who responded with "evet". Yes. Her new husband did the same. Then there was clapping and the couple dismounted the stage and entered a receiving room. Behind me, a new couple was getting ready to go through the whole previous procedure.
Enormous boquets and wreaths were lined up near the platform where the newly married couple greeted their guests and received pieces of gold: medallions in red ribbons, bracelets, necklaces, etc. When everyone kissed, and the guests all received a little wedding token (almond candies), we were finished. Next, we moved outside and waited for the couple to get into their car and drive away, honking. Inside the receiving room was a new couple already...
As we passed the prison and turned onto the busy street, Orshi and I took one look at each other and ducked into a side street. "The pollution is so bad," she started, "that sometimes it feels like the grit bites your lungs... is that how you would say it?"
"That's pretty good," I said. " 'Bites your lungs' works for me."
Orshi is Hungarian, studied in Iowa, met her Turkish husband there, came back here with him to live and now he's back in America looking for a job to match his MBA. She's finishing her term with Bilmer and will rejoin him in a few months. "I think the correct term is 'burn'," she reflected.
"Yeah, either way it sucks." I winced at having sworn, knowing Orshi is kind of sensitive to it.
Ahmed has been sharing history stories with me and he has a funny way of swearing. One night he was starting a new lecture with me and began with, "When those Ottomans kicked their asses,..." He pauses and nods, squeezing out "kicked", "their", and "asses" as if someone might overhear him - like his mother - understand, and scold him. I laughed before he continued, "Ahmed! If you had been in charge of writing history books for my school, I would have paid more attention!"
I think we all would have...
Turkey Landscape: Sweet Peaches and the Sea
We were sucking off the juices of our peaches -- Tugba and I -- and I could taste the saltiness of the sea on my fingers. Content, I leaned back into my beach chair and let the Cesme sun -- cooler than the one in Izmir just an hour north of us -- do its work.
Turkey's little miracles and surprises have been keeping me busy. Living here is like being on a constant rollercoaster ride; there is no continuity for the foreigner. But the things I am learning, discovering and experiencing -- the people I meet who open their hearts or their mouths (whether I want them to or not) -- are only available to the traveler who digs for them. I am conducting my own excavation in a land layered by ruin and treasure; in a land filled with boldness and humility; brashness and gentleness.
TURKISH TELEVISION
In the same way a person is revealed by what's in their bathroom medicine cabinet, TV reveals what is important to a country's people. It reveals the sense of humor, and defines the various classes (in Turkey, there are only two: making it and barely making it). It also unveils the role in which government plays in people's lives, or doesn't in some instances.
I catch a lot of old films, something like our classic Westerns. They're mostly set in the country, have a lot of hokey music and singing, and are always about boy loses girl to another bumpkin (one that doesn't beat her) and how the jilted boyfriend goes chasing down the robbing, thieving lover only to drag his sweetheart back by the hair and give her a good licking for her troubles. There are shootouts in the mountains that always end up on a seashore, somehow. Other older films I have seen include a story about two girls (in the early Seventies) who biked around Antalya in the south on a little holiday. They were from Istanbul and dressed in western style clothing: short skirts, tank tops, nicely done hair. All of the Muslims and country people they met scorned them or tried to rape them. In the end, one of the girls was raped and murdered. The message was clear: You will be punished if you run around half-naked, pretending to be something you aren't.
There are a lot of soap operas too, usually airing in the evening (movies, by the way, in the theaters are in English with Turkish subtitles, so I'm not totally stranded with Turkish TV. Except that Keanu Reeves sucks as an actor, even in Turkey). The soaps -- surprisingly -- show a lot of older people (widow/er, mostly) looking for new love. It's kind of sweet. But there is always a bit of violence no matter what the show. Either the mothers are beating their kids or the husbands are beating their wives. And this is in contradiction to how close the families really are here... but that's to be discussed later.
Music is a huge industry here. The most famous singer is Tarkan -- a dark-haired, blue-eyed, Benetton-styled hunk who even makes the most dowager housewife swoon. He's unbelievably handsome, running about in longish hair, an incessant five o'clock shadow, and those almond shaped blues that look like sapphires caught in pearls. Oh, yeah -- he's got a really great voice too. My personal favorites, however, are a woman called Burcu Gundes, Tarik (a guitar player and singer) and Alabina (actually from Saudi Arabia I believe) to whom I was introduced by my father.
I have gotten to know the music through videos on television. There are several stations that play music videos and there are ten videos for you to see. When the videos aren't airing, the three minute commercials (with the same songs highlighted) are. If you get tired of Turkish pop music (what my father used to call Bubble Gum Rock), you can watch American videos. There is an independent channel which apparently hijacked various MTV episodes, recorded them on bad video tapes, and now airs them for your viewing pleasure. The sound? You'll have a hard time hearing much, the quality is so bad, but you can practice your lip reading.
Then there is the news, which airs for about two wasted hours, on all of the channels so that if you only have two hours in which to relax and watch television, you have only one choice: the news. Apparently, film is a limited commodity here because during a fifteen minute news story, you will see the same photographs six or seven times over (but, sometimes they are shown at a slower speed just in case you didn't catch the flip of the prime minister's wife's hair the first fifteen times they showed it). The journalists also have a morbid sense of humor. They love to show people in anguish -- men trapped in rolled over trucks crying out over and over. They slow the tape down enough so that the men's cries become comical. In case you can't distinguish the curly, black hair of the victim's head against the dark, night sky as they pull the stretcher out to the ambulance, someone circles it for you in white while you listen, over and over, to the poor man's screams. If you happen to be a Turkish politician, on the other hand, be careful! The photographers are waiting for you to fall asleep or to trip on one of the uneven sidewalks just so that they can do instant replays twenty times.
I think you get the idea...
THE TIME
I meant to buy an alarm clock when I first got here, but I have learned that I don't need one. Here's how my day breaks down:
5:20 - The once-enchanting wails from the Mosques begin for the first of five daily prayers.
7:45 - The children pass beneath my bedroom window on their way to school. I'm usually up before that and having my coffee on the balcony.
8:00 - The selected ring leader at the school begins to shout out exercises and Turkish cheers to which all six million students respond. This lasts for ten minutes.
8:25 - "Buyurun Buca!!" - Buyurun is used when someone enters a shop, or is invited to partake in something. Buca is the name of our section of Izmir. This is hollered by various men who walk along the streets. In addition, they call out what they are selling. "Ekmek! Semit!". That's bread and little bagel-styled rolls with baked sesame seeds. These are piled onto a board and balanced on the men's and boys' heads. They are not allowed to quit working until they've sold all six dozen rolls. Other men are selling watermelons from their tractors (25 cents per kilo -- a kilo is almost two pounds), bed linens (five bucks for a bed-in-a-bag), plastic buckets, trashcans, mops, Pokemon baseball caps, and colanders (which melt on contact with hot water) for just BIR MILYON! Or, one dollar. Take your pick... it's all available to you at this early bird sale! It lasts until at least midnight.
9:00 - The first recess and break. The kids are wildly screaming in the yard. Somewhere in between, the second call is made for prayer from the mosques.
1:00 - Third prayer. School shifts are made. A new flood of kids start and a new session of chants and exercises are drilled through the loudspeaker and repeated by six thousand eager youngsters.
5:20 - Fourth prayer. Dinner time.
10:20 - Fifth prayer and time to do my exercises and stretches.
12:00 a.m. - the last football is kicked by the children playing outside my window and the cats begin to wail, looking for food or, worse yet, screaming and fighting while defending what measly thing they have found. This lasts until 5:20 in the morning.
Pretty simple and no need for a clock. I saved fifty cents.
TRADITIONAL AMERICAN DANCE
There is something about song and dance that bring people together and the Hokey Pokey has become my favorite ice breaker. It's unbelievable how receptive kids are to this adult-despised dance...
I was on my way to Bilmer (the school where I teach) and was stopped by a gaggle of girls in their red tartan-plaid school skirts and white blouses. Each grade/level has its own uniform so I recognized this group to be about 11 or twelve.
"Chrystyna!" They called out to me. I didn't recognize any of them. In fact, a few times I heard voices outside my window sounding as if someone was calling my name and now I recognized the girl's voice. But this group did not consist of any of my students. Try as I might to remember Turkish names (I have 110 students altogether), I cannot. But faces, I always recognize. And these were none of mine.
"Where are you going?" the ring leader asked. Her long, straight hair was pinned back by two plastic, blue butterflies. Their little sparkles gave off light even in the shadow of the evergreen under which she was standing. She was beautiful and fearless.
"I'm going to my class," I responded, smiling. "What are you doing?"
By this time, like the schools of fish in a coral reef, the whole group of girls had gravitated around her, smiling in silence. If I had demanded it (in Turkish), they would have fallen to the ground and worshipped me. But the leader was confident in our exchange as she spoke for all of them. "We are cleaning up the school yard."
"Aha!" I laughed, nodding at them all with approval. "That's good, because it needs it."
It was too much said. They giggled nervously and shyly. I had used vocabulary they did not know. Probably the 'aha' threw them for a loop. I decided to give them something they could use. "I have to go now. Good bye!"
They lit up again, and tittered among one another before starting their chorus of "good byes" and waving their hands. On my way to school, I decided that Hassan -- the shop owner next door -- must have told them my name.
Indeed, the next day, as I came home, several of the same girls were in their play clothes. When they saw me coming, they lined up on both sides of the walk. They waited patiently until I was close enough and there was a new spokesperson -- a dark-haired, dark-skinned, lithe girl. She was smiling when she burst out, "You are too beautiful!"
It stuns me every time either my students or the men here say this to me. It doesn't matter what their age. Many women have told me the same thing and I am thoroughly at a loss as to how to respond to the "too" part. I have learned, recently, that they mean "very" and not "too". Before realizing this, I'd wondered if I shoudl be apologizing. Now, I thanked the girl graciously and told her that she was beautiful as well. This embarrassed her in return. But it did not deter her from more conversation.
"Where are you from?"
"America," I replied.
There was wonder in their voices as they said "Ooooh" as if the concept was as unlikely as if I had come from the moon. The leader hesitated and I knew she was forming another question, her brain's dictionary flipping furiously. But she gave up and I kept walking on as she repeated the news to her friends that I was from America.
I popped into Hassan's shop for a bottle of water and when I came out, she was back to interrogate me, having successfully completed the translation in her head: "How old are you?" There is no shame in this question...
"Thirty two," I said, showing her with my fingers."How old are you?"
Her eyes seemed to roll into the back of her head as she processed the question. The other girl from the day before had crept up alongside me and, assuredly, waited for her companion to come up with the correct answer in English. She gave her a whole two seconds. Then she proudly said, "I am eleven years old."
The dark-haired girl followed suit, "I'm eleven too!"
I pulled out a pop quiz on a third girl who had also come nearer. "My name is Chrystyna. What's your name?"
"My name is Olya," she replied, grinning shyly. I told her my grandmother's name had been Olya. I was met with a blank look. I tried another one. "How are you?"
Olya snapped to attention on that one and replied, the way all my students reply in robot fashion, "Finethanksandyou?"
This became our daily exchange on my way home and on my way to work. Last night I got tired of it. On my way home, I stopped and taught them the Hokey Pokey for a few short minutes. They laughed and their watching mothers laughed. Hassan and his wife as well as their mothers were on their shop porch drinking chai. As I walked by, still smiling, they asked me to come and have tea with them. I waited for my cup and the girls, in the meantime, had clustered around like the fish again. They wanted more Hokey Pokey. I made it more complicated this time, though Hassan tried to shoo them away. I gave in and we did some more dancing and laughing. I taught them the parts of the body, left and right, we swung our tails, turned and clapped our hands. Then it was tea time and they dispersed, though regretfully.
I promised I would teach them more the next day. Since then I have taught them the Chicken Dance. During a little get together of mixed Turkish and foreign friends, the girls saw us sharing Hungarian, Turkish, Ukrainian and Irish dance steps to each other. I threw in the Chicken Dance for more hysteria. The girls have learned it since and I am afraid that this little number is turning into all the rage on our block. Remember the Macarena?
The Cesme sun was hot, but the wind was blowing and the sea was crested with waves. Though Tugba and I went swimming, it was a challenge to stay warm. I told her I didn't care. Wednesdays are my only day off for the next couple weeks and I intend to take full advantage of them. We tossed our peach pits into a nearby bin and decided to walk into town.
We followed the shore and found a spot where only the locals go swimming. There are no ritzy beach bars or hotels, just a wide pool near where the boats dock. We regretted having left our things at the other beach. Here the wind did not exist and the sea was mirror calm. We walked on to the farther docks which were built into the breakers stretching out to the sea. Beyond them was wide open water, again filled with waves. On the inside, however, were several small pools formed of rock and people were soaking in them, some hidden by enclaves beneath the actual barrier. Tugba and I wondered what these people, with such satisfied, smug faces, were up to. I dipped a toe in and proclaimed, with astonishment, "It's a natural thermal here!" I stripped off my beach dress and got in. It was like a hot tub. Tugba wasn't so sure about the idea and she asked a Turkish man what this spot was all about. He explained that, from the earthquakes, there was a crack in the seafloor and that explained the hot water.
As I soaked in the surroundings and the calmness, I wondered again at the contradictions of this country. Just around the corner from my rock was a wild, beating sea, while there, in that pool, I was calmed by gentle waters created from a furious earthquake. I ate sweet peaches, tinged with salt, and found the taste satisfying. I am finding that same satisfaction in the elements of this country.
Turkey's little miracles and surprises have been keeping me busy. Living here is like being on a constant rollercoaster ride; there is no continuity for the foreigner. But the things I am learning, discovering and experiencing -- the people I meet who open their hearts or their mouths (whether I want them to or not) -- are only available to the traveler who digs for them. I am conducting my own excavation in a land layered by ruin and treasure; in a land filled with boldness and humility; brashness and gentleness.
TURKISH TELEVISION
In the same way a person is revealed by what's in their bathroom medicine cabinet, TV reveals what is important to a country's people. It reveals the sense of humor, and defines the various classes (in Turkey, there are only two: making it and barely making it). It also unveils the role in which government plays in people's lives, or doesn't in some instances.
I catch a lot of old films, something like our classic Westerns. They're mostly set in the country, have a lot of hokey music and singing, and are always about boy loses girl to another bumpkin (one that doesn't beat her) and how the jilted boyfriend goes chasing down the robbing, thieving lover only to drag his sweetheart back by the hair and give her a good licking for her troubles. There are shootouts in the mountains that always end up on a seashore, somehow. Other older films I have seen include a story about two girls (in the early Seventies) who biked around Antalya in the south on a little holiday. They were from Istanbul and dressed in western style clothing: short skirts, tank tops, nicely done hair. All of the Muslims and country people they met scorned them or tried to rape them. In the end, one of the girls was raped and murdered. The message was clear: You will be punished if you run around half-naked, pretending to be something you aren't.
There are a lot of soap operas too, usually airing in the evening (movies, by the way, in the theaters are in English with Turkish subtitles, so I'm not totally stranded with Turkish TV. Except that Keanu Reeves sucks as an actor, even in Turkey). The soaps -- surprisingly -- show a lot of older people (widow/er, mostly) looking for new love. It's kind of sweet. But there is always a bit of violence no matter what the show. Either the mothers are beating their kids or the husbands are beating their wives. And this is in contradiction to how close the families really are here... but that's to be discussed later.
Music is a huge industry here. The most famous singer is Tarkan -- a dark-haired, blue-eyed, Benetton-styled hunk who even makes the most dowager housewife swoon. He's unbelievably handsome, running about in longish hair, an incessant five o'clock shadow, and those almond shaped blues that look like sapphires caught in pearls. Oh, yeah -- he's got a really great voice too. My personal favorites, however, are a woman called Burcu Gundes, Tarik (a guitar player and singer) and Alabina (actually from Saudi Arabia I believe) to whom I was introduced by my father.
I have gotten to know the music through videos on television. There are several stations that play music videos and there are ten videos for you to see. When the videos aren't airing, the three minute commercials (with the same songs highlighted) are. If you get tired of Turkish pop music (what my father used to call Bubble Gum Rock), you can watch American videos. There is an independent channel which apparently hijacked various MTV episodes, recorded them on bad video tapes, and now airs them for your viewing pleasure. The sound? You'll have a hard time hearing much, the quality is so bad, but you can practice your lip reading.
Then there is the news, which airs for about two wasted hours, on all of the channels so that if you only have two hours in which to relax and watch television, you have only one choice: the news. Apparently, film is a limited commodity here because during a fifteen minute news story, you will see the same photographs six or seven times over (but, sometimes they are shown at a slower speed just in case you didn't catch the flip of the prime minister's wife's hair the first fifteen times they showed it). The journalists also have a morbid sense of humor. They love to show people in anguish -- men trapped in rolled over trucks crying out over and over. They slow the tape down enough so that the men's cries become comical. In case you can't distinguish the curly, black hair of the victim's head against the dark, night sky as they pull the stretcher out to the ambulance, someone circles it for you in white while you listen, over and over, to the poor man's screams. If you happen to be a Turkish politician, on the other hand, be careful! The photographers are waiting for you to fall asleep or to trip on one of the uneven sidewalks just so that they can do instant replays twenty times.
I think you get the idea...
THE TIME
I meant to buy an alarm clock when I first got here, but I have learned that I don't need one. Here's how my day breaks down:
5:20 - The once-enchanting wails from the Mosques begin for the first of five daily prayers.
7:45 - The children pass beneath my bedroom window on their way to school. I'm usually up before that and having my coffee on the balcony.
8:00 - The selected ring leader at the school begins to shout out exercises and Turkish cheers to which all six million students respond. This lasts for ten minutes.
8:25 - "Buyurun Buca!!" - Buyurun is used when someone enters a shop, or is invited to partake in something. Buca is the name of our section of Izmir. This is hollered by various men who walk along the streets. In addition, they call out what they are selling. "Ekmek! Semit!". That's bread and little bagel-styled rolls with baked sesame seeds. These are piled onto a board and balanced on the men's and boys' heads. They are not allowed to quit working until they've sold all six dozen rolls. Other men are selling watermelons from their tractors (25 cents per kilo -- a kilo is almost two pounds), bed linens (five bucks for a bed-in-a-bag), plastic buckets, trashcans, mops, Pokemon baseball caps, and colanders (which melt on contact with hot water) for just BIR MILYON! Or, one dollar. Take your pick... it's all available to you at this early bird sale! It lasts until at least midnight.
9:00 - The first recess and break. The kids are wildly screaming in the yard. Somewhere in between, the second call is made for prayer from the mosques.
1:00 - Third prayer. School shifts are made. A new flood of kids start and a new session of chants and exercises are drilled through the loudspeaker and repeated by six thousand eager youngsters.
5:20 - Fourth prayer. Dinner time.
10:20 - Fifth prayer and time to do my exercises and stretches.
12:00 a.m. - the last football is kicked by the children playing outside my window and the cats begin to wail, looking for food or, worse yet, screaming and fighting while defending what measly thing they have found. This lasts until 5:20 in the morning.
Pretty simple and no need for a clock. I saved fifty cents.
TRADITIONAL AMERICAN DANCE
There is something about song and dance that bring people together and the Hokey Pokey has become my favorite ice breaker. It's unbelievable how receptive kids are to this adult-despised dance...
I was on my way to Bilmer (the school where I teach) and was stopped by a gaggle of girls in their red tartan-plaid school skirts and white blouses. Each grade/level has its own uniform so I recognized this group to be about 11 or twelve.
"Chrystyna!" They called out to me. I didn't recognize any of them. In fact, a few times I heard voices outside my window sounding as if someone was calling my name and now I recognized the girl's voice. But this group did not consist of any of my students. Try as I might to remember Turkish names (I have 110 students altogether), I cannot. But faces, I always recognize. And these were none of mine.
"Where are you going?" the ring leader asked. Her long, straight hair was pinned back by two plastic, blue butterflies. Their little sparkles gave off light even in the shadow of the evergreen under which she was standing. She was beautiful and fearless.
"I'm going to my class," I responded, smiling. "What are you doing?"
By this time, like the schools of fish in a coral reef, the whole group of girls had gravitated around her, smiling in silence. If I had demanded it (in Turkish), they would have fallen to the ground and worshipped me. But the leader was confident in our exchange as she spoke for all of them. "We are cleaning up the school yard."
"Aha!" I laughed, nodding at them all with approval. "That's good, because it needs it."
It was too much said. They giggled nervously and shyly. I had used vocabulary they did not know. Probably the 'aha' threw them for a loop. I decided to give them something they could use. "I have to go now. Good bye!"
They lit up again, and tittered among one another before starting their chorus of "good byes" and waving their hands. On my way to school, I decided that Hassan -- the shop owner next door -- must have told them my name.
Indeed, the next day, as I came home, several of the same girls were in their play clothes. When they saw me coming, they lined up on both sides of the walk. They waited patiently until I was close enough and there was a new spokesperson -- a dark-haired, dark-skinned, lithe girl. She was smiling when she burst out, "You are too beautiful!"
It stuns me every time either my students or the men here say this to me. It doesn't matter what their age. Many women have told me the same thing and I am thoroughly at a loss as to how to respond to the "too" part. I have learned, recently, that they mean "very" and not "too". Before realizing this, I'd wondered if I shoudl be apologizing. Now, I thanked the girl graciously and told her that she was beautiful as well. This embarrassed her in return. But it did not deter her from more conversation.
"Where are you from?"
"America," I replied.
There was wonder in their voices as they said "Ooooh" as if the concept was as unlikely as if I had come from the moon. The leader hesitated and I knew she was forming another question, her brain's dictionary flipping furiously. But she gave up and I kept walking on as she repeated the news to her friends that I was from America.
I popped into Hassan's shop for a bottle of water and when I came out, she was back to interrogate me, having successfully completed the translation in her head: "How old are you?" There is no shame in this question...
"Thirty two," I said, showing her with my fingers."How old are you?"
Her eyes seemed to roll into the back of her head as she processed the question. The other girl from the day before had crept up alongside me and, assuredly, waited for her companion to come up with the correct answer in English. She gave her a whole two seconds. Then she proudly said, "I am eleven years old."
The dark-haired girl followed suit, "I'm eleven too!"
I pulled out a pop quiz on a third girl who had also come nearer. "My name is Chrystyna. What's your name?"
"My name is Olya," she replied, grinning shyly. I told her my grandmother's name had been Olya. I was met with a blank look. I tried another one. "How are you?"
Olya snapped to attention on that one and replied, the way all my students reply in robot fashion, "Finethanksandyou?"
This became our daily exchange on my way home and on my way to work. Last night I got tired of it. On my way home, I stopped and taught them the Hokey Pokey for a few short minutes. They laughed and their watching mothers laughed. Hassan and his wife as well as their mothers were on their shop porch drinking chai. As I walked by, still smiling, they asked me to come and have tea with them. I waited for my cup and the girls, in the meantime, had clustered around like the fish again. They wanted more Hokey Pokey. I made it more complicated this time, though Hassan tried to shoo them away. I gave in and we did some more dancing and laughing. I taught them the parts of the body, left and right, we swung our tails, turned and clapped our hands. Then it was tea time and they dispersed, though regretfully.
I promised I would teach them more the next day. Since then I have taught them the Chicken Dance. During a little get together of mixed Turkish and foreign friends, the girls saw us sharing Hungarian, Turkish, Ukrainian and Irish dance steps to each other. I threw in the Chicken Dance for more hysteria. The girls have learned it since and I am afraid that this little number is turning into all the rage on our block. Remember the Macarena?
The Cesme sun was hot, but the wind was blowing and the sea was crested with waves. Though Tugba and I went swimming, it was a challenge to stay warm. I told her I didn't care. Wednesdays are my only day off for the next couple weeks and I intend to take full advantage of them. We tossed our peach pits into a nearby bin and decided to walk into town.
We followed the shore and found a spot where only the locals go swimming. There are no ritzy beach bars or hotels, just a wide pool near where the boats dock. We regretted having left our things at the other beach. Here the wind did not exist and the sea was mirror calm. We walked on to the farther docks which were built into the breakers stretching out to the sea. Beyond them was wide open water, again filled with waves. On the inside, however, were several small pools formed of rock and people were soaking in them, some hidden by enclaves beneath the actual barrier. Tugba and I wondered what these people, with such satisfied, smug faces, were up to. I dipped a toe in and proclaimed, with astonishment, "It's a natural thermal here!" I stripped off my beach dress and got in. It was like a hot tub. Tugba wasn't so sure about the idea and she asked a Turkish man what this spot was all about. He explained that, from the earthquakes, there was a crack in the seafloor and that explained the hot water.
As I soaked in the surroundings and the calmness, I wondered again at the contradictions of this country. Just around the corner from my rock was a wild, beating sea, while there, in that pool, I was calmed by gentle waters created from a furious earthquake. I ate sweet peaches, tinged with salt, and found the taste satisfying. I am finding that same satisfaction in the elements of this country.
The Turkish Time Machine
To A Friend's Honor
The bay was sparkling silver in the hazy dusk; a ship merged with a black-blue hill in the distance and disappeared into its dark folds. Alsancak was starting to light up as night fell, and the music inside the Karisma Bar and Cafe changed to a mix of techno and belly dancing.
Neco prodded me, 'What you t'ink, Chrystyna?'
I glanced at him and flashed him a guilty grin. I was thinking about how it would be Oliver sitting across from me in just 13 weeks and I would introduce him to raki -- lion's milk -- a mixture of anise liquor and water. I didn't want to tell Neco this because I had been talking about Oliver all day as things reminded me of him (which was everything). Then it hit me and my reply was true and honest. 'I'm thinking, Holy Moley, I'm in Turkey! How did I get here?'
My new friend, playing tour guide, was pleased with the answer. "Guzel, madame?"
"Evet. Chok guzel." Yes. Very good. I raised my glass to clink with his. "Sherif, arkadash." To your honor, my good friend.
The dictionary lay between us -- I've already begun to wear it down and there are notes scribbled in every blank space between the covers and title pages. Neco speaks about as much English as I speak Spanish -- very little, but enough to be understood with the help of charade talents. My Turkish, on the other hand, is raw. But its music and rhythm are beginning to seep into me. And this country has started to grow on me -- like the barnacle on a whale. There's no way I could ever find where it grows and no way for me to remove it.
Some places are meant to fall in love with instantly: Ireland, western Austria, Cinque Terre in Italy, Nova Scotia, northern California. It takes very little for me to feel at home in those places. Other places require an acclimation period: Antwerp, Belgium; Ukraine, Toronto, England and Izmir. I may fall in love with other places in Turkey, but Izmir was a battle.
The next day was my day off. Neco called me shortly after lunch and we met at the corner of my block (he lives only six blocks from me). We were on our way to check out the thermal bath at Balcova.
It was a rare day off for him. Like most working Turks, he's on the job twelve to sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. For the equivalent of $10 per DAY. Neco (pronounced Neh-jo) is a waiter at the cafe I frequent. Next door, is Ahmed's shoe shop and Ahmed himself pops out to have cay (tea) with me to discuss his hippie days in America when he lived in West Viriginia. His daughter, Tugba (Arabic for 'heaven'), is taking me on a girl's night out to Karsheka (across the bay by ferry) this Saturday. Among them, I have made good friends and placed myself into good hands. Inshallah.
The bus to Balcova was hot and dusty, just like the outdoors. To carry on a conversation with Neco requires patience and time. The smallest item of discussion can take up to a half hour to clarify, but it's always done with a mixture of good humor and frequent apologies on both ends. We often burst out laughing because belaboring a point simply becomes comical. Neco has mentioned that I'm very good at guessing what he means and I remind him that I get paid to do that every day.
When we finally reached the top of the hill of the small city, we stepped through the gates of the spa. The quiet hit me like a rock from nowhere. I stopped in mid-stride and looked at Neco with wondernment: all I heard were birds and the careless breeze playing with the leaves of the palm trees. Flowers were bursting in blooms of reds and pinks, whites and lavendar. And then I saw it: It was the most shocking and beautiful sight to my eyes and I wish I could tell you the name of the tree, but I haven't a clue yet. Like an apple or a cherry tree, but more delicate in blossoms and branch, this tree burst into a fire of blue violet. Against the dusty, sage-green hills, it was a celebration to life, fanning out like the Japanese trees we used to paint with plastic straws and ink in grade school.
"Anybody can come here?" I asked as we proceeded to the domed building housing the spa and hospital.
"Yes, of course. No problem," Neco replied, sounding just like the students reading out of their books in yesterday's class. ("I'm cold. Could you close the door please?" "Yes, of course. No problem.")
I picked up a price list for the spa; our purpose was to see as much as possible in and around Izmir so that I could get to these places on my own later. Neco, afterall, must follow the money and go to Bodrum for the tourist season in a few weeks. However, there was certainly time for a bit of r&r and coffee. We climbed the terrace gardens, gradually making our way to the umbrellas and tables we saw above us. However, when we were level with the outdoor patio, I gasped. Before us spread a little area of stubby olive trees, umbrellas and a haven of straw kilims and huge pillows. Before various sets of pillows were short coffee tables and a small group of people scattered about, sipping water or coffees; cay served in the delicate flute glasses; and wine.
"You want to sit here," Neco said in response to my gaping mouth. I nodded enthusiastically and we found a place where we could flop down. A lazy hour passed with quiet conversation and private reflection. Before us, the hills climbed above our umbrellas, disappearing behind the fringes.
After Balcova, we went to Konak in Izmir, which is a stretch of neighborhood on the sea. We walked through Basmane, then into Fuar where we wandered into the large but depressed Kultur Park. It's an attempt at a small scale Central Park, but sadly deserted and the cafes are heavily overpriced. I realized how lucky I am to live in Serinyer -- away from the tourist traps and inflated prices.
We were exhausted by six and grabbed another hot, dusty bus back to Serinyer. I never believed I would be happy to see my streets again, but I was. Back home, after kissing each other's cheeks twice, the way good friends do in Turkey (and Austria, for that matter), I threw myself on the couch, opened a bottle of red wine and dug into some cold chicken and a fresh shepherd's salad. It had been the perfect day. And I was pleased to be discovering parts of this city...
Old Smyrna: A Walk Between the Rich and Poor
As you may or may not know, Izmir used to be Greek Smyrna. A port town, it holds four million-plus people. It is simply enormous. And it's crumbly, economically weak (you are either rich or you are poor), and it contains secret places. Places probably not wise to walk around in as a foreign woman.
But I wanted to explore and so I made a long walk to the east of my neighborhood into Buca. Ancient, crumbling walls and houses, where the doors were sunk half a meter below the pavement, took me by surprise. This was the abandoned section where the Greeks used to live. An American-style cafe, with its warped and peeling English sign, was deserted eons ago but way after 1921 when the Greeks were pushed out of Turkey.
There were old stone fountains, and statues of Ataturk everywhere -- the father of Turkey -- usually surrounded by children holding his hand, or bronze youngsters gathered around his likeness, reading books. The parks I passed were sad excuses for a getaway in the city. Granted, there are some trees, but they are mostly paved squares with a cafe or two dotting the little landscape and blaring Turkish music (which isn't that bad, but when you want peace and quiet...).
As I walked by delipadated shops and sad, dark and dingy markets, I felt a heavy blanket of stares fall on me. There were times I grew nervous.. especially when cars brushed close by the sidewalk, blaring their horns at me -- the drivers' and passengers' heads turned to see who I am as they pass by. That was Buca...
On my way to Kemer, through Bucabalcova, I was struck with more poverty. This time, I walked toward the 'Turkish Delight Hill' -- the one that looks like a giant's pile of the sweets - and was struck by the colors again as the morning sun lit up the houses and clay-tiled roofs. But below me, from the uneven and high pavements, were the stone steps leading into the alleyways and roadways of the neighborhood. It reminded me a little of how the villages in Cinque Terre were laid out but dustier and dirtier. Pollution is a huge problem and there is no recycling. The problem with trash is an altogether separate piece I will have to write about (as well as the cats, rats and dogs).
Again, in Bucabalcova, I was stared at, honked at, whistled at. I turned the corner at the cemetery (currently being torn up to make a road, old marble tombs have been raided, robbed and left to waste until the bulldozers come to burry them over). Two girls with nappy hair and dusty, shabby clothes, were totting two toddlers. They followed me with shy smiles, and finally asked me, "English?" I stopped and smiled back at them. They were the same street urchins from Dickens. One girl made the international hand gesture for begging for money. I gave them some loose coins I had... enough for two loaves of bread and vegetables. And then I wanted to save them all... It was so hard and so sad.
I took the bus back because I was sick of the attention I was drawing. It's one thing to be followed by beggar children and another to simply be eyed up and down as if you are the next cow on the chopping block.
When I returned to Serinyer, I told Neco, Ahmed and Tu𢡠about my experiences. That was when Neco 'quit' his job for two days and insisted on showing me nicer places.
Because of his experiences in travel and his love for history, philosophy and politics, Ahmed is able to give me not only the Turkish perspective of things (I spend hours asking questions and obliterating stereotypes in the process), he also offers me an bird's eye view regarding Turkey's past. Learning about Turkey's present -- or trying to understand it -- is impossible without the history lessons. As for its future... there's a political cartoonist who said, "It has a past. You can't have expect to have everything." It was said about Greece, but I am learning through books and discussions that there is very, very little difference between the two cultures. They lived together for over 600 years and have become so mish-mashed that to try and find the root of one or the other is like trying to untangle the roots of a 600-year-old tree.
The bay was sparkling silver in the hazy dusk; a ship merged with a black-blue hill in the distance and disappeared into its dark folds. Alsancak was starting to light up as night fell, and the music inside the Karisma Bar and Cafe changed to a mix of techno and belly dancing.
Neco prodded me, 'What you t'ink, Chrystyna?'
I glanced at him and flashed him a guilty grin. I was thinking about how it would be Oliver sitting across from me in just 13 weeks and I would introduce him to raki -- lion's milk -- a mixture of anise liquor and water. I didn't want to tell Neco this because I had been talking about Oliver all day as things reminded me of him (which was everything). Then it hit me and my reply was true and honest. 'I'm thinking, Holy Moley, I'm in Turkey! How did I get here?'
My new friend, playing tour guide, was pleased with the answer. "Guzel, madame?"
"Evet. Chok guzel." Yes. Very good. I raised my glass to clink with his. "Sherif, arkadash." To your honor, my good friend.
The dictionary lay between us -- I've already begun to wear it down and there are notes scribbled in every blank space between the covers and title pages. Neco speaks about as much English as I speak Spanish -- very little, but enough to be understood with the help of charade talents. My Turkish, on the other hand, is raw. But its music and rhythm are beginning to seep into me. And this country has started to grow on me -- like the barnacle on a whale. There's no way I could ever find where it grows and no way for me to remove it.
Some places are meant to fall in love with instantly: Ireland, western Austria, Cinque Terre in Italy, Nova Scotia, northern California. It takes very little for me to feel at home in those places. Other places require an acclimation period: Antwerp, Belgium; Ukraine, Toronto, England and Izmir. I may fall in love with other places in Turkey, but Izmir was a battle.
The next day was my day off. Neco called me shortly after lunch and we met at the corner of my block (he lives only six blocks from me). We were on our way to check out the thermal bath at Balcova.
It was a rare day off for him. Like most working Turks, he's on the job twelve to sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. For the equivalent of $10 per DAY. Neco (pronounced Neh-jo) is a waiter at the cafe I frequent. Next door, is Ahmed's shoe shop and Ahmed himself pops out to have cay (tea) with me to discuss his hippie days in America when he lived in West Viriginia. His daughter, Tugba (Arabic for 'heaven'), is taking me on a girl's night out to Karsheka (across the bay by ferry) this Saturday. Among them, I have made good friends and placed myself into good hands. Inshallah.
The bus to Balcova was hot and dusty, just like the outdoors. To carry on a conversation with Neco requires patience and time. The smallest item of discussion can take up to a half hour to clarify, but it's always done with a mixture of good humor and frequent apologies on both ends. We often burst out laughing because belaboring a point simply becomes comical. Neco has mentioned that I'm very good at guessing what he means and I remind him that I get paid to do that every day.
When we finally reached the top of the hill of the small city, we stepped through the gates of the spa. The quiet hit me like a rock from nowhere. I stopped in mid-stride and looked at Neco with wondernment: all I heard were birds and the careless breeze playing with the leaves of the palm trees. Flowers were bursting in blooms of reds and pinks, whites and lavendar. And then I saw it: It was the most shocking and beautiful sight to my eyes and I wish I could tell you the name of the tree, but I haven't a clue yet. Like an apple or a cherry tree, but more delicate in blossoms and branch, this tree burst into a fire of blue violet. Against the dusty, sage-green hills, it was a celebration to life, fanning out like the Japanese trees we used to paint with plastic straws and ink in grade school.
"Anybody can come here?" I asked as we proceeded to the domed building housing the spa and hospital.
"Yes, of course. No problem," Neco replied, sounding just like the students reading out of their books in yesterday's class. ("I'm cold. Could you close the door please?" "Yes, of course. No problem.")
I picked up a price list for the spa; our purpose was to see as much as possible in and around Izmir so that I could get to these places on my own later. Neco, afterall, must follow the money and go to Bodrum for the tourist season in a few weeks. However, there was certainly time for a bit of r&r and coffee. We climbed the terrace gardens, gradually making our way to the umbrellas and tables we saw above us. However, when we were level with the outdoor patio, I gasped. Before us spread a little area of stubby olive trees, umbrellas and a haven of straw kilims and huge pillows. Before various sets of pillows were short coffee tables and a small group of people scattered about, sipping water or coffees; cay served in the delicate flute glasses; and wine.
"You want to sit here," Neco said in response to my gaping mouth. I nodded enthusiastically and we found a place where we could flop down. A lazy hour passed with quiet conversation and private reflection. Before us, the hills climbed above our umbrellas, disappearing behind the fringes.
After Balcova, we went to Konak in Izmir, which is a stretch of neighborhood on the sea. We walked through Basmane, then into Fuar where we wandered into the large but depressed Kultur Park. It's an attempt at a small scale Central Park, but sadly deserted and the cafes are heavily overpriced. I realized how lucky I am to live in Serinyer -- away from the tourist traps and inflated prices.
We were exhausted by six and grabbed another hot, dusty bus back to Serinyer. I never believed I would be happy to see my streets again, but I was. Back home, after kissing each other's cheeks twice, the way good friends do in Turkey (and Austria, for that matter), I threw myself on the couch, opened a bottle of red wine and dug into some cold chicken and a fresh shepherd's salad. It had been the perfect day. And I was pleased to be discovering parts of this city...
Old Smyrna: A Walk Between the Rich and Poor
As you may or may not know, Izmir used to be Greek Smyrna. A port town, it holds four million-plus people. It is simply enormous. And it's crumbly, economically weak (you are either rich or you are poor), and it contains secret places. Places probably not wise to walk around in as a foreign woman.
But I wanted to explore and so I made a long walk to the east of my neighborhood into Buca. Ancient, crumbling walls and houses, where the doors were sunk half a meter below the pavement, took me by surprise. This was the abandoned section where the Greeks used to live. An American-style cafe, with its warped and peeling English sign, was deserted eons ago but way after 1921 when the Greeks were pushed out of Turkey.
There were old stone fountains, and statues of Ataturk everywhere -- the father of Turkey -- usually surrounded by children holding his hand, or bronze youngsters gathered around his likeness, reading books. The parks I passed were sad excuses for a getaway in the city. Granted, there are some trees, but they are mostly paved squares with a cafe or two dotting the little landscape and blaring Turkish music (which isn't that bad, but when you want peace and quiet...).
As I walked by delipadated shops and sad, dark and dingy markets, I felt a heavy blanket of stares fall on me. There were times I grew nervous.. especially when cars brushed close by the sidewalk, blaring their horns at me -- the drivers' and passengers' heads turned to see who I am as they pass by. That was Buca...
On my way to Kemer, through Bucabalcova, I was struck with more poverty. This time, I walked toward the 'Turkish Delight Hill' -- the one that looks like a giant's pile of the sweets - and was struck by the colors again as the morning sun lit up the houses and clay-tiled roofs. But below me, from the uneven and high pavements, were the stone steps leading into the alleyways and roadways of the neighborhood. It reminded me a little of how the villages in Cinque Terre were laid out but dustier and dirtier. Pollution is a huge problem and there is no recycling. The problem with trash is an altogether separate piece I will have to write about (as well as the cats, rats and dogs).
Again, in Bucabalcova, I was stared at, honked at, whistled at. I turned the corner at the cemetery (currently being torn up to make a road, old marble tombs have been raided, robbed and left to waste until the bulldozers come to burry them over). Two girls with nappy hair and dusty, shabby clothes, were totting two toddlers. They followed me with shy smiles, and finally asked me, "English?" I stopped and smiled back at them. They were the same street urchins from Dickens. One girl made the international hand gesture for begging for money. I gave them some loose coins I had... enough for two loaves of bread and vegetables. And then I wanted to save them all... It was so hard and so sad.
I took the bus back because I was sick of the attention I was drawing. It's one thing to be followed by beggar children and another to simply be eyed up and down as if you are the next cow on the chopping block.
When I returned to Serinyer, I told Neco, Ahmed and Tu𢡠about my experiences. That was when Neco 'quit' his job for two days and insisted on showing me nicer places.
Because of his experiences in travel and his love for history, philosophy and politics, Ahmed is able to give me not only the Turkish perspective of things (I spend hours asking questions and obliterating stereotypes in the process), he also offers me an bird's eye view regarding Turkey's past. Learning about Turkey's present -- or trying to understand it -- is impossible without the history lessons. As for its future... there's a political cartoonist who said, "It has a past. You can't have expect to have everything." It was said about Greece, but I am learning through books and discussions that there is very, very little difference between the two cultures. They lived together for over 600 years and have become so mish-mashed that to try and find the root of one or the other is like trying to untangle the roots of a 600-year-old tree.
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