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.

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...

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.

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.

Teaching In Izmir, Turkey

Turkey is a young country; its borders were fathered by Ataturk in 1922. It was after World War I and the country had had enough of its invaders and conducted its own cleansing. The Turkish language, spoken today, was also established by "The Father of Turkey"; Arabic script was replaced by Latin, and families were asked to choose a surname for the first time in their lives. Ataturk is as loved and as cherished as our own George Washington. You will see his likeness in every corner of every city and region.

In its 80 years, Turkey has known a great deal of economic hardship while successfully maintaining its complex and rich history of being the most misunderstood nation in the corner of Europe and Asia Minor. Jan Morris wrote, "Neither quite this nor altogether that; terrifically itself yet perpetually ambiguous, Turkey stands alone... formidably on the edge of Asia surrounded in the universal mind, as always, by an aura of mingled respect, resentment, and fear... One treads carefully in Turkish presence. Turkey is no joke."

Hassan owns three kebab shops on the pedestrian zone of Serinyer -- my neighborhood -- with his brothers. I've stopped there for 硹 (chai) twice now. The traditional Turkish tea is served in flute glasses and is also called Rabbit's blood for its deep, red color. Hassan speaks English quite well and has begged me to come to the cafe each and every time that I am bored..."24 hours a day!" I intend to take him up on his offer, but only on occasion, as genuine kindness and a desire for foreign (and female) friends by men tend to be a delicate balancing act. Too eager, and the woman will find that her innocent "companion" is awashed in lustful affection. This is not my first time around the block and I know the signs. Such a friendship ended bitterly and horribly in Ireland and I wish to avoid being put into such an uncomfortable position again. Even if I am bouncing off the tile walls of my flat...

Anyway, the last time, Hassan and I talked about Turkey and its progress or lack thereof. I remind him that it is a young country and that it will take some years before it operates cohesively. I was told gravely and passionately that "Turkish hearts are very good, very warm and very kind." This I know, I tell him, from my experiences in the last week. Even The Fool from Anatalya -- an old men who's lost his teeth and babbles incoherently, which translates to "you are beautiful" -- is gentle and kind, even if he's not "all there". The whole street of shopkeepers makes certain that he is cared for, somehow.

Hassan continued as the Fool wandered away, bored by our discussion. "But, Chrystyna, Turkish government is very, very bad. They are -- how do you say? rotten?" Hassan further explained that the gap between the rich and the poor is excrutiatingly huge. "There is no balance," Hassan expounded.

"No middle class?" I asked.

He wagged a finger at me, his face still very serious and pained, "Exactly." Then, with a sudden flash of a smile and lightened mood, he called to Niger - my favorite waiter -- and ordered more

Neco and I met the first time I came to the cafe. He is sweet, young, strikingly handsome, and a professional server who follows the tourists. He plans to go to Bodrum as soon as the season is ripe. "Very good money!" he nodded as if confiding a big secret to me. But, I have given up waitressing for a lifetime.

Neco also was the first to clue me into the cleverness of wearing rings on my fingers. The first time I sat down to my 硹, he immediately asked where my husband was. When I laughed -- quite surprised by the question --he nodded, again conspiratorially, and said, "Very smart girl. But you are engaged?" I have two gold bands on my wedding finger; one plain and one with a sapphire in it. I was warned about the men by Arzu (who is my director at the school). "They will look," she explained. "But that's it. And if they accost you in the street you tell them you are a teacher at Bilmer. They will leave you alone then. Nobody wants trouble..."

But, I was rather confused that nobody was doing anything really. Until I raised my eyes from the ground long enough to become more aware of my surroundings (the Muslim religion is an enigma to me and I don't know how direct I can be; who will I offend by looking at them. Charms against the evil eye are everywhere in shops too.). When I finally got enough courage to take a look around, they were indeed staring as I walked by. Every one of them. Some made kissing noises, but I have learned the Turkish way of saying the final "No!" You nod your a head a little, click your tounge on the roof of your mouth once and say, "yok!"

That, the rings and my constant appearance on the streets between Bilmer and my flat have kept me out of trouble...

There is an oppressive air that hangs around me; it is heavy and thick in the stench of the dirty streets. It is the awareness of how women are viewed here -- so shallowly. I almost will a bit of a confrontation with a man just so he could get a spirited kick in the pants... but I control myself.

The oppression makes me feel even more confined in this city. Back home, I told a few friends -- half joking -- that I wouldn't mind doing a short, short stint in a jail "just to see what it was like and to write about it". I take that back now. I know what it would feel like...

I'm walled in by these cracking, peeling concrete walls. The tired, tiled floor in my apartment is chipped and residued with the sand and dirt cemented into the corners and along the walls. In summer, I know I will be choked by both heat and the already grimy, polluted air. Yesterday, against my anxiety to always have windows open (even in winter), I shut them all, curtained them, and was able to sleep through the night without hearing the screams and wails of starving alley cats (there's a whole underground of them), the arguing of children, the Tarzan-like cries from the mosques and the incessant honking of horns. I knew I had slept hard and long when the first noise that woke me was the exercise-announcing screamer in the schoolyard down the street. (Schoolchildren go in shifts with a recess every hour and a half and exercises done before the morning class and before the afternoon group).

I was walking down the street yesterday, kept from pulling my hair only because of the fear of being picked up by police as some crazy woman. "Shut up!" I was shouting over the din of traffic. A car was honking at me from six blocks away.

"It's a Turkish tradition," Arzu explained after I asked whether horns had just been brought to Turkey last week and installed into cars.

Turkish or Greek tradition, I don't know, but New York must have been invented by one or both of them...

This morning, as I had my coffee above the bustling boulevard (again, my house is located just a few meters from the school), I envisioned a terraced, green lawn surrounded by densely, grouped cypress. I would have breakfast to the mourning of turtledoves (which I love) and songs from birds rather than foggy radio in passing cars. And I would be in my pajamas and bare feet...
You know that saying, "Everyone should live in New York once and before it turns them hard"? I'm doing that duty in Izmir...

My Classes: Unbelievably polite, my students are. The younger ones, with shy smiles always tugging at their mouths, stand when I enter the room as if I were the Queen of England. It's almost embarrassing -- me, who tries so hard to get down on their level (believe me, it's not too difficult). They're shocked when I act out things, dance about, make funny faces and jokes. I believe, to them, I am unconventional as teachers go... I even pretended to slip and fall to illustrate a point (the word "foolish") and everyone got up, in stunned silence, not realizing that I was play-acting. When they realized what word I was trying to have them fill in from their choices on the board, they burst out laughing over being duped.

My teens --the boys especially -- are swimming in hormones. But they are less direct than my adult males: Whereas the latter just came out and asked me my age, 15-year-old Mustafa asked me what year I was born in. They guessed anywhere from 18 to 25 and would not believe me when I told them I would be 32 this year. My reply to that was, "I don't stand still long enough for age to catch me." The more advanced laughed and translated.

Laughter in my classes are common. And I am usually the cause of it. On the other hand, I sometimes succumb to the antics of the juvenile atmosphere and did so especially during one lesson with my largest class (of 10) who were all 13 years old.

The lesson was about Australia. My students had a cartoonish map in their books which included various points of reference: names of cities, landmarks, animals found there, etc. I had to play a tape during which conversations between two different characters occured. Based on those dialogues, the students were to tell me where the characters were and what they were doing. I pushed "play" and a woman's voice in the second example started. She was panting and breathing, groaning and moaning. The boys began to titter and I made motions to silence them. But as the noises continued growing worse, the woman groaned, "Oh! I'm sooo hot!" The boys fell out of their chairs, bursting with laughter and then the girls began because now I was beat red too and giggling uncontrollably.

Finally, at the end, the woman cries out, "Look! I'm on top!" The rest of the dialogue was lost in the screeching. I was ready to pass them all to a more advanced level...

Then, one very serious girl raised her hand, cautiously, as I wiped tears from my eyes and desperately tried to regain some composure. I finally beckoned her to say what was on her mind. She gave everyone -- including me -- a stern look. "Teacher, they are climbing Ayers Rock."

I didn't dare tell them that my boyfriend had just been there and that they could see picutres of it on the web...

Real Italy: Parma

You won't easily find a small town like Parma anywhere in the world. Its unique blend of art, history and culture will strike you as soon as you start strolling along the wonderful streets lined with beautiful palaces and old churches or in one of the town's parks. Parma is not just a beautiful town, it is a small jewel where you can experience the same stylish atmosphere and ways of life typical of some of the best European capitals, not to mention its fabulous cuisine!

Altitude: meters above sea level
Nearest airport: MILANO and BOLOGNA
Train connections: easily accessible from MILANO and BOLOGNA
Zip code: 43100
Telephone: dial +39.0521 before the number you want to call

Parma was a Roman colony on the Via Emilia founded by the consul Marcus Emilius Lepidus in 183 BC. In became a rich comune in the Middle Ages and over the centuries it was ruled by the Viscontis, the Sforzas, the French and the Pope. Finally, it was made into a duchy by Pope Paul III in 1545 and given to his son Pier Luigi Farnese. The Farnese family reigned in Parma for almost two hundred years, where they left traces of their grandeur. The town was inherited by the Bourbons in the early 18th century, who gave its court and social life a typically French flavor. After the Napoleonic rule, which lasted from 1802 to 1814, it was decided at the Congress of Vienna that Parma should go to Napoleon's wife, Marie Louise, daughter of Emperor Francis I of Austria. When she died in 1874, the duchy returned to the Bourbons until 1860 when it became part of the Italian Kingdom by plebiscite.

Parma is no doubt an outstanding and renowned art town. Start your visit from the famous Duomo (Cathedral). The Battistero (Baptistery) and the Palazzo del Vescovado (Bishop's Palace) are in the same superb square, which has maintained its original medieval flavor.

The Duomo

The Duomo is one of the main example of 12th century Romanesque architecture in northern Italy. Its facade features three orders of loggias and is flanked by a tall Gothic tower in brickwork built in 1294. The inside is divided into a central nave and two aisles by beautiful columns that also support the women's gallery. The presbytery stands exactly on the crypt and is above the floor level. The walls in the aisles are decorated with some precious 16th century frescoes. In the dome you'll see a masterly composition made by Correggio between 1526 and 1530. On the right wall of the right branch of the transept there is the well-known "Deposition" by Benedetto Antelami (1178).


The Battistero

The Battistero is a unique octagonal building made between 1196 and 1270. Outside you'll see three portals adorned by the statues and reliefs by Benedetto Antelami. They are some of the best examples of Romanesque sculpture in Italy. Inside you'll see remarkable niches, two orders of small loggias and the ribbed dome containing some important sculptures representing the months, the seasons and the signs of the zodiac. Most of the frescoes in both the lunettes and the dome were made in the late 13th century. Right in the middle of the building is a font dating from the 13th century and also a stoup. Right behind the cathedral apse stands the church of San Giovanni Evangelista.


San Giovanni Evangelista

It is a Renaissance church built in 1512 with a fa硤e and a tower dating back to the 17th century. It contains a valuable cycle of frescoes by Correggio (1520-1523) and Parmigianino. Michelangelo Anselmi (1520-21) decorated the ceiling supervised by Correggio. There is also a splendid choir by Marcantonio Zucchi (1512-13) in the apse and a Transfiguration by Girolamo Mazzola Bedoli (1556). Its is worth seeing the Sacristy, with its wooden cupboards carved at the beginning of the 16th century and the Cloisters of the monastery dating back to the Cinquecento. The three cloisters are really worth a visit too. The first is called Chiostro di San Giovanni Abate, the second Chiostro del Pozzo or del Capitolo, the third Chiostro Grande or di San Benedetto. The Chiostro del Pozzo features a portal and two marble mullioned windows made by Antonio d'Agrate.


Storica Speziera di San Giovanni Evangelista

At the back of the Benedictine Monastery is the old pharmacy founded in 1201 and working till 1766. It was restored and reopened in 1959. Its three big halls are decorated with frescoes of the Cinquecento and contain furniture and shelves dating back to the 16th and 18th centuries, full of 192 15th and 17th century ceramic jars and big mortars.

Camera di San Paolo or del Correggio

This is an important and popular place in town. It served as the private apartment to for the Abbess of the old Benedictine monastery. In 1514 it started to be restored and decorated. Correggio worked on it in 1519 and created a masterpiece of the Cinquecento. The chamber is covered by an umbrella vault divided into sixteen webs on which Correggio painted a pergola decorated with lunettes and tondi containing putti. In the next room you can see frescoes by Alessandro Araldi (1514).

Palazzo della Pilotta

The Palazzo della Pilotta is a large building, with three spacious courtyards, built by Farnese between 1583 and 1622, but left unfinished. It was meant to serve as lodgings for the court servants. Now it is an important cultural center.

It houses the Museo Archeologico Nazionale (National Archaeological Museum), the Galleria Nazionale (National Gallery) and the Libreria Palatina (Palatina Library).
The Galleria Nazionale is one of Italy's most important art museums. It contains works by Correggio, Parmigianino, Beato Angelico, Leonardo, Van Dyck, Tiepolo, Canaletto and many others... The building also contains the wonderful Teatro Farnese, one of the most beautiful playhouses in the world. It was rebuilt according to the original 1617 plan in the 1950s, after it had been destroyed during World War II.


Teatro Regio

The Teatro Regio (Royal Theater) was built by Nicola Bettoli and was opened in 1829. In is one of the most important opera houses in Italy.


Piazza Garibaldi

Piazza Garibaldi (Garibaldi Square), right in the center of Parma, dates back to the 19th century. There you can see a monument to Garibaldi, the Palazzo del Governatore (Governor's Palace) and its tower (1673), and the Palazzo del Comune (Town Hall) (1673).

If you have some time left, then go to Fontanellato, about 18 km from Parma. To get there, take the via Emilia heading west towards Milan, then take the provincial road to Busseto and Cremona just after crossing the river Taro.


The Castle at Fontanellato

The center of the village is basically made of the old Castle perched on the rock called Sanvitale, after the name of the family who lived here for centuries. Square-based, the castle is surrounded by a three-meter deep moat still full of water. The halls inside are furnished with pieces of the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries. Although the towers and the square courtyard were originally built for defensive purposes, later they well suited the needs of the court, who embellished the castle. Parmigianino, for example, painted a small hall with mythological scenes in 1525, a masterly work of the Italian Rinascimento.


Parco di Palazzo Ducale

After visiting the town, don't forget to take a walk in the beautiful park of Palazzo Ducale, bought by Ottavio Farnese in the late 16th century and renovated by Ranuccio II in 1690, when a pond and a small island were also added. It was transformed again in the 18th century, when a small temple and some statues were made.

At the entrance to the park stands Palazzo Ducale, built between 1561 and 1564 on a project by Vignola. It was extended in the late 18th century by Petitot. Its halls contain some precious frescoes by Agostino Carracci, Bertoja, Tiarini, Malorosso and Cignani. Presently it houses the carabinieri headquarters (police). Another beautiful park is inside the Cittadella.

La Cittadella

Pier Luigi Farnese decided to have the fortress built in 1546. The works began only in 1591, however. It comes in the shape of a pentagon with five ramparts originally surrounded by water, now replaced by lawn. The inner area is a public park that offers some sports facilities. Don't miss a walk on the bastion.

Real Italy: Finale Ligure

Finale Ligure is a beautiful seaside resort, where many people like to spend their holidays, both in summer and in winter, thanks to its good climate, lovely beaches and great historic heritage.

The town is actually made up of three different smaller towns: Finale Ligure, Finale Pia and Finalborgo. The first two are right on the coast. Here you?ll like strolling about the many narrow streets busy with shops and tourists or lazing in the sun on one of the beautiful beaches. Finalborgo lies further back inland instead and has maintained the typical atmosphere of an ancient walled town.

The area where Finale Ligure is was heavily inhabited in both prehistoric and Roman times. In the Middle Ages all the land belonged to Bonifacio del Vasto and the Del Carrettos, who made it into a mighty marquisate whose capital was Finalborgo. The marquisate was under Genoese control all through the 14th century. The Genoese rulers had the old port silted up in 1341. In 1469 Alfonso I del Carretto got the title of marquis back from Massimiliano. In 1558 a popular uprising made Genoa lay claim to the marquisate again. This was followed by imperial claims till the Spanish Governor had the marquisate occupied in 1571. In 1602 it became Spanish possession. It was bought by the Republic of Genoa in 1713. Many of the architectural traces of the town's history are in the old Finalborgo.


Finalborgo

The old village of Finalborgo is one of the main tourist attractions in the whole area of Finale Ligure. It was walled in the 13th century, then razed to the ground by Genoa and finally rebuilt.


The old Finalborgo is still encircled by crenellated walls and towers near the two main gates: Porta Reale and Porta Testa. Near to the Porta Reale is the Collegiata di San Biagio, originally a gothic church, then reconstructed in the baroque style. In the large nave and two aisles you can admire some valuable works of art of the Cinquecento and Seicento (16th and 17th centuries). The octagonal bell tower was built on one of the town wall tower in the 15th century.

From the Collegiate di San Biagio you can easily walk to Piazza Garibaldi, the heart of the village, where all the bars and shops are, always crowded with tourists. Not far away you'll find the Convent of Santa Caterina. This grand building was founded in 1359 and rebuilt two centuries later when the two Renaissance cloisters were added.


Today it houses the Town Museum of Finale, which contains some interesting archaeological finds of prehistoric, Roman and medieval times. The attached Chiesa della Superga contains the tombs of the Del Carretto family and a cycle of frescoes of the Quattrocento (15th cent.) Wherever you are in Finalborgo, just raise your head and you'll see the Castle, a fortified complex newly restored which guarded the village in the olden days.


Finale Marina and Finale Pia

Originally two separate villages, Finale Marina and Finale Pia are now practically one town. They are the tourist and business area of Finale Ligure. The heart of Finale Marina is Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II, which stands out because of its imposing arch dedicated to Margaret of Austria.

The square and all the narrow streets around it are always teeming with tourists attracted by the bars, restaurants, hotels, boutiques and typical tiny shops.

The square looks straight on to the sea and the beautiful promenade lined with tall palm trees. Here you can walk or just relax in the shade after tanning on the nearby beach.

The old church of San Giovanni Battista, or of the Capuchins, was built on the ruins of an older medieval church not far from the sea.

If you walk beyond Finalborgo, you can get to Perti and visit the church of Sant’Eusebio with its 15th-century Romanesque crypt and further away the church of Nostra Signora di Loreto amidst the olive trees.

Of course the sea is the best natural resource Finale has to offer. It is very clean and the sandy or rocky beaches are wide. From Finalborgo you can go on an excursion into the inland. You can follow the river Aquila through a narrow gorge up to Feglino or Orco or you can reach Mount Melogno, the crossroads between Piedmont and Liguria. You'll probably come across one of the many prehistoric caves on your wanderings.