Out In Turkey

OUT OF TURKEY

2007-07-02T17:33:00.000-07:00

I've recently moved out of Turkey. All is well and safe. The blog will either continue (somewhat differently) or will be absorbed by another site. Will post updates when possible.

Sorry for the lapse.

My Pa and the Presidency

2007-05-04T00:45:00.000-07:00

Sent: Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Subject: Turkey politics

Wow, Jack. Lots of news coming out of Turkey about the secular-Islam conflict for the presidency. This can be a crucial time for Turkey's future..........and, you are there. Up close and personal. Could make for an interesting blog entry.
Dad

Sent: Thursday, May 3, 2007
Subject: Re: Turkey politics

It's true, but the fact is I don't really feel it too much. I feel it when trying to change money or whatever and perhaps Bursa will feel it depending on the outcome... but I want my blog to be about things I personally see or feel because there are enough headlines telling the news. If I was in Istanbul, say, the other day, that would definitely be up close and personal... Here everything keeps moving. A story I thought about telling was about girls who have tea together and are friends, one wears a headscarf or a veil and one looks like an ordinary western girl. Today I saw one wearing a full black burka and one looking like an American teenager and they were just busy walking down the street chatting. The news talks about the polarization -- the fact is I see more people simply getting along on the streets than politics or the media or demonstrations suggest. Perhaps that's the up, close and personal I should put in the blog. I need a translator to help me stop and talk to a random couple on the street. Until then I don't really have a story. I'd love to post that one though.

It also looks like they're set to decide whether everyone should be able to vote for president. Keep in mind, a president's power is pretty limited, but if one party holds all the cards (like the Republicans in Bush's first term) and if they have pro-Islamic leanings, people here get uneasy. And perhaps we may witness for the first time in modern Turkish history, the military getting marginalized. But don't hold your breath. This is a contest between a rising devout muslim middle class and a muslim secularist elite. In the end I think most on both sides don't want it to be like Iran, but there is some mistrust on the latter side and some on the former side tired of feeling less entitled. Anyway, all is well, I'll keep you updated.. love, J

An Interview with Lale

2007-04-13T13:01:00.000-07:00

This past week the Iranian government released 15 British soldiers after capturing them from disputed waters. The dispute over Iran's nuclear program continues at the UN. President Ahmadinejad, well known for his controversial rhetoric, possibly faces a loss of domestic support. And Americans are by now, all too familiar with being portrayed as 'the Great Satan' in the streets of Tehran. But how many of us actually get an opportunity to speak with Iranians about the issues, the people and the government that was branded by President Bush as part of the Axis of Evil? I was lucky enough to have a chat with one Iranian-expat here in Turkey, Lale, as we discussed, among many things, the good and evil everywhere.

Lale, where did you live in Iran?
I was born in Tabriz and I lived there for 14 years. My father was a soldier so we moved a lot. I lived in Tehran after that and moved to Istanbul when I was 18. My brother lived in Sweden at the time and I wanted to go there too. Because of the political situation, I had to come to Istanbul first, to get a visa. But then something strange happened. I fell in love with Istanbul. It's a city of opposites, so full of life and colors. You could see white, black, rich and poor...

And my brother used to write to me about life in Sweden. He often complained of the relationships there. For example, in Iran it's easy to make friends. But western people have a different concept of friendship. You may say hello and chat with your neighbor one day and the next day, they may not say hello and ignore you. You may have some bad experiences in Iran and some people might cheat you, but it's easy to say hello to people and it is very open to strangers. So, I never wanted to leave Turkey. I learned about life here in the city and clubs, went to a university and ... married a Turkish man.

How does your family feel about you living abroad? They don't want you to come back?
No, no. For years Iranian people have reached a big wall. Nothing can change. We repeat ourselves. Young people change, but the system is the same. And my family wants to stay in Iran. Their roots and history is there. I came here so young at 18 and my brothers left at 23. We had the chance and I established my life here. It's not easy for them to start a new life in a foreign country. It's not easy at the age of 40. But it is no problem for my family to visit. We don't need a visa. Ataturk and the Shah omitted visas. I have a brother in England and the US and it's not hard to get a visa for Canada, Europe, England, but it is difficult to get one to the US. But my brother in the US often flies back and forth.

When did you leave Iran and what was the country like then?
It was 1988 at the end of the war. At the time, in Tehran, there were no theatres, no cinemas or museums. I had a bad experience there and sad memories. At school, we couldn't laugh or wear colorful clothes. Just grey, black or dark brown. That's one reason I was so attracted to Istanbul.

So, you were born before the Islamic Revolution (1979). How did life change before and after?
It changed alot. It got worse and worse. Even though it was not pleasing and there were different classes, people could bare it before the revolution. The government respected some rights. At first people were optimistic because they thought the religious people couldn't govern, but they could and they did. One month after the revolution, a girl couldn't walk outside with her brother without soldiers stopping them, and demand to see documents proving their relationship. After a few months, the government pressured women to cover their heads. They even supported gangs to harass women who walked around uncovered. And now, it's compulsory.

And now? What is life like in Iran now?
Now, things have really changed. Tehran is like a western country. Things changed fast because of technology. Now the police don't stop people. Women cover their heads, but they are more [laughs] fashionable. The youth culture isn't political, but they see the singers and lifestyles of the West and Turkey. And this exerts some pressure on the rules. They have their own rules.

Really? What do you mean?
Most young people are the same and they are a very large number, so the leaders feel their pressure. They know [the youth] are not political but they like the western lifestyle. They want to have fun and party. Alcohol is not legal, but you can find it easily. They don't sell it in the shops. But in the daytime you can go to the shops, make an order, and beer can be delivered at night. I don't think it's good, however. Because it's forbidden, they consume too much. Everybody just wants to have fun, drink and enjoy their time in cafes -- instead of reading books or doing research.

What will the young people do as they get older?
They can produce a big market for western countries. [laughs] That's what upsets me. They are against this system, but they are not for a better one. They just want to have fun, and produce like western countries. So if the future is a choice between this system or being a market for westerners, I would choose the latter because in the current one you can't breathe.

How is the social life compared to Saudi Arabia, where one friend of mine who lived there described as a place where "fun is illegal" -- with secret parties and sexy dresses under burkas?
In Iran, there are lots of parties and they are not secret. The women wear beautiful evening dresses. But they are quiet about the parties. If soldiers come and see you dancing with a strange man, it will be a problem. But the government can't do anything, even though they know about a party. Just in some cases do they interrupt them. If they want to focus on certain people, they can come and arrest them.

How much does the government control information and the Internet?
They try to control everything. Most important to them is censoring any criticism of this system. But the people know, for example, in the US, you can criticize your government.

Speaking of which, what do you think about the relationship between the US and Iran?
I feel sorry for the situation in Iran. I love Iran. It is a rich country, and I'm not talking about petrol. I'm talking about history. I'm still learning about the history of Iran. But when people criticize Iran, like politicians on TV or people from anywhere, I won't feel well. Iran doesn't deserve it. For example, when you think of Iran, what comes to mind?

Well I think of your president and a friend of mine, whose family was from Iran -- and there's a big difference between your president and my friend.
[laughs] When hearing the name Iran, "dark clouds" come to people's minds. The real face is different. I divide a country into background, history, people, lifestyle, etc. The governments change, but the history continues. Not just Iranians are guilty [for creating this current situation]. True, they didn't choose the right government. But there was help by western countries. I think western governments offer democracy but not for others, only for themselves. The US, England, and France helped this political system. What makes me angry is that they pretend they didn't help, that it's just the Iranian people who are guilty. The west produced a war between Iran and Iraq for 8 years for the sake of selling weapons. They supported the war. There was a crisis in the weapon industry, so the West exploited the poorness of Iraq and Iran. The war was a good opportunity. A good chance for the defense industry of America.

Are you also referring to the relations between the West and Iran in the 1950's?
In the 1950's, [Prime Minister] Mossadegh was against a monarchy and against colonization. The Iranian people supported him, but the US supported the Shah. It was about oil. [At the time,] Iranians didn't benefit from their oil -- England did. Mossadegh wanted to change that, but the West sent money to the Shah and Mossadegh was overthrown, sent to prison and died. Today, people feel strongly about that, the young as well. They are not active, but they know what happened. It was a big historical event.

Is this memory related to the Iranian view of the US "as the Great Satan?"
No, that is not related to those events. It reflects a black character of the government. Nothing can be totally bad or good of course. America thinks that everything and all of the events in the world have two main parts; positive, negative, advantages, disadvantages, black or white. They think of benefits, selling weapons, creating war. They shouldn't say they are for democracy. They are not for democracy. They are for the benefit of themselves. And by they, I mean western governments. At the same time, I've learned alot and like many of the aspects of the West. I only talk about the governments.

In Iran's government, who is in control? President Ahmadinejad or Ayatollah Khamenei? Or the clerics?
I say none of them and all of them. There are several conflicts between them. The power changes. There is a hidden war among them. Honestly, I don't follow them. There is no difference between them. I really don't care about them. I'm against the system, but the faces are all the same.

These days, the big international issue is Iran's nuclear program. Do you think it is for peaceful purposes or not?
Nuclear power isn't for peace in any country. Not in the west or elsewhere. Can you say that it's peaceful in the US? It's a threat against others. [The Iranian leaders] don't want to use [a nuclear weapon] because that will spell the end of the world. They want to use it as a threat. But I'm optimistic about this. If they use it, it would be World War III. The end of life on earth.

We spoke about Iran and the West, what about Iran and it's neighbors? Do they have good relations?
How can this government have good relationships? But the people, not the government, they really love foreigners. Americans, Pakistani, etc. And something is very strange. There was an eight year war with Iraq, but they don't hate Iraq. It was really a war between their governments. History has shown [Iranians] like foreigners, anyone.

And Saddam? Are they happy Saddam is gone?
No no no. I think it wasn't fair, because other countries invaded and killed him.

There's no joy, relief or happiness that he's gone?
I don't think so. I'm not sure. They are not happy. They see the bigger tragedy [that is Iraq]. Bush is as guilty as Saddam, why should Saddam be killed? It's not fair.

So, as an American travelling to Tehran, what could I expect?
They would love you. They like foreigners -- not the government, but the people. They will invite you in the house, you will have a good time. The government will ask what do you want to do here? why are you here? There are tours and they are very expensive but I don't know why. But I don't recommend you go alone. Last summer I went to Tehran, and on the plane I saw a Belgium couple. They had no problems, and liked it very much. The case can be different for Americans, if you consider the government. In Iran, everyone can be a president. It's not like the US, with rules. A soldier can act like a president. Even for Iranians, corruption is big. At the borders by car, a soldier can easily ask for a bribe from foreigners -- even my husband.

I have read that second to Israel, Iran has the largest Jewish population in the Middle East. How are they treated?
I didn't know that. The largest used to be in Iran, until after the revolution. They are not treated fair. I can't hear about them. It is dangerous for them to live in Iran. I never hear about them.

I find you very optimistic and independent in a country like Turkey, that seems very melancholic to me. Do you notice that too?
If you want to hide your real character, the best way is to talk about others. It is common for some people here to always want to be in a group. It is difficult and dangerous to be different. I like this about westerners--individuality is very important. Over centuries [in this region], it's dangerous to insist on your own ideas. And to be in a group you must talk about others to show you belong in the group -- it's childish. For example, we can be friends, but we can't criticise each other's ideas. That's not common here. I've always tried to live as an individual. I know I'm a part of a group, but I don't want to lose my individuality. Sometimes it is difficult here. But I feel happier if I continue doing this.

What are the top 3 most difficult things about living in Turkey, and your top 3 favorite things about Turkey?
Being an individual. This is most important. That is not a common mentality. Others may be noise pollution. On buses, people easily shout and don't care about others. And in Turkey and Iran: the lack of a system, organization. Everything goes back to the politics. We don't have traditions that respect being on time, or inform people before asking for something. It needs to start on top. For centuries, people have been used to this.
But, it is full of life. I mean the people are friendly, energetic, helpful. The same as Iran. It is not hard to find friends. You can easily find people to talk to. I like it very much.

And the future of Iran? Are you optimistic?
I'm optimistic. In history, there are lots of ups and downs, lots of wars. If we can cope with this government, it can get better. Although the young people are not my ideal, they are a kind of rebellion. Nothing is stable. If something moves, it can get better. I think [the government] will change because people hate them. If people hate something, it can't last forever. Although the majority doesn't support the government, they have no power to change it. But they hate them. Really. The next Iran will be stronger than this one. They will have faced Islam. They will have solved the religious problem. The next Iran will know this. The government will believe in something else -- secularism.

Well, thanks for talking with me.
Thank you for traveling to past days.

Muradiye Cemetery (2)

2007-02-11T02:11:00.000-08:00

A Day Off with Mohammad (4)

2007-02-10T02:08:00.002-08:00

No one takes notice of me until I hear the creaking of stairs above me. This happens after the prayer changes course and the big group up front fans out for individual prayer, dispersing around the mosque. At this point the man in front of me takes a mike and calls something. The man next to him hangs up a set of rosary beads on a nail in the wall. Many of the men are wearing doiled white caps, while others look like everyday business men or merchants. Some men grab their shoes and leave when the prayer changes. Mohammad sits with his hands out, palms up, eyes closed.

The creaking of the stairs comes from an old woman descending from the balcony, or the women's section. A man without turning around, sensing her presence and me on the steps, gestures me to move. It is strictly forbidden to touch a woman in the mosque. I slide to the exit and stand by the door, hoping Mohammad would hurry up because a couple of the men are looking at me, taking an interest. I didn't take this as a threatening look, but Turkish men have a way of looking at you. I'm sure these guys aren't used to foreigners sitting around observing them pray. As the session ends -- "Jazz!" -- Mohammad briskly grabs me and we put on our shoes, me selecting the only blue Adidas running shoes among five long shelves of black loafers. I notice the old woman who came down the stairs, now stands asking for money while a stream of men leave the mosque. Not one man hands her a coin.

Finally we walk down the hill to Altiparmak street to one of the big kebab restaurants. Gratefully we sit down for some food. I have lamb shish kebab and he has the turd-like Urfa kebab. Over tea, again Mohammad rambles in his philosophical discourse, which ranges from him wanting to be a good man and teach his children and not be like other men who smoke, drink and don't care what their kids do. If a boy grows up and commits a crime, Mohammad blames the father because he didn't teach his son right from wrong. He says a woman without guidance from home will become pregnant by some bad man. I ask him if he would let his hypothetical 22 year-old daughter leave home unmarried to move somewhere else. He says it's OK, but it's hard for a woman in Turkey. He seems to be very aware of "bad" men in society and often compares a good way of life, that he apparently lives, to these worthless type of men out there. I ask him if he saw a lot of bad men in his life, but he mentioned only fist-fights and such.

He walks me to the train station and steals a ticket from the ticket-lady without paying. "Mohammad!" she calls out. He laughs and tells her he'll be back and escorts me to the gate, handing me the ticket. He watches me roll away. That girl was his co-worker, but I laugh to think maybe she could be his Bursa finger.

A Day Off with Mohammad (3)

2007-02-10T02:08:00.001-08:00

The city of Bursa trails around all the hills and valleys splitting out from Uludag and it is good exercise walking in and out -- it feels like each one has its own town. Most tourists visit central Bursa so it is very quiet over and down the other side of the Gazi tombs. Except for the buses roaring past, spraying us with foul clouds. Walking down the hill, he asks if I am married. I tell him no, but I have a Turkish girlfriend. He asks if I also have a girlfriend in the US. I laugh, telling him, the one I have is enough. And him? He counts on his fingers one girlfriend for each town he has lived and worked in, which compared to most Turks is alot. It appears he is a rambling man, working random jobs from Van westward, searching for that perfect job and evidently a worthwhile girl.

Cold and hungry we enter the Muradiye complex -- originally built for the living sultan Murat II, complete with living quarters, harem, mosque, and hamam. The mosque and hamam are still in use by the public, but everything else serves as a giant mausoleum for the sultan's family surrounded by hedge gardens and cemeteries. Curiously one section of the cemetery is in good condition, whereas another section is in ruin with broken slabs of marble discarded and weeds overtaking long-empty tombs. "Jazz!" Mohammad points to an angel carved on a chunk of marble. Mohammad said this was the Christian section, left in disarray, while the up-kept section was Muslim. I can't verify this explanation, but the latter's tombs had turbans on the upright headstones, whereas those angels with Greek inscriptions seemed to be cast aside. Perhaps this was result of the Greek Christian-Turk population exchange and Islamic conversions of the past.

I suggest, again, food, but Mohammad asks to stop by the mosque first. He is crazy for camii I muse. This is true but when we enter I realize he wants to participate in the mid-afternoon prayers. I have never seen this before, always by chance entering mosques between one of the 5 prayer times. Mohammad leads me to a space in the back where I quickly and quietly sit on a stair. He joins the others who are standing, bending and kneeling at the calls of the Imam, in the front with a microphone. His calls, short melodic verses, with intermittent pauses with some men muttering things under their breath. One man runs up to the line of devotees, evidently late, and he looks like a child late for class and doesn't want to be noticed.

A Day Off with Mohammad (2)

2007-02-10T02:07:00.000-08:00

"Jazz" he says and leads me to the fountain, he asks me to sit and he explains the process of washing one's self. He tells me the order and process, while also illuminating the moral value of cleanliness, saying a dirty man mirrors his black heart. Mohammad walks barefoot, sleeves rolled up to one of several faucets sprouting around the basin. He briefly puts his arms in diving position and looks at me, pretending to prepare for a swim, as if to say there is indeed comedy in the Muslim world. First, he rinses his mouth, then his nose, blowing out snot-rockets into the trough. Next feet, rubbing his fingers between his toes, then between his fingers, rubbing his arms and face. Women are forbidden to do this. Mohammad doesn't have to tell me that if women can't pray next to the men, they certainly can't sit side-by-side baring their wet forearms, calves and feet. Finally he returns and puts on his socks. We grab our shoes, I awkwardly put them on and tie them while standing, and Mohammad fluidly exits, shoes magically on and waiting patiently.

We walk up the old road up to Tophane, the original section of Bursa, built by a defeated Hannibal and presented to King Prusias, for which the name is derived. Mohammad likes to talk more than me, which is fine because I would rather listen to what he has to say. I already know what I have to say. Now he is talking about religion, describing them as all the same thing whether they bow, put their palms together, hold their hands open and out, standing, on their knees, thumb and forefinger forming a circle, whatever. At least this is what I gather from what little Turkish I know and assisted by one of his three English-Turkish dictionaries.

We enter the tombs of Osman and Orhan Gazi, the first sultans of the Ottoman Empire. All the sarcophagi are covered in triangular green covers and the former sultans boast turbans at the heads. Around them are buried the various sized sarcophagi of children or family. It was not necessary for a new sultan to be the first-born child, so the chosen heir often had their brothers killed to prevent a future coup. Perhaps some of these bodies are unfortunate siblings. Osman Gazi's sarcophagus is the most ornately decorated with ivory and shiny marble trim. Otherwise the tombs are cold, barren and ultimately uninteresting. What is interesting is Mohammad's behavior. Upon approaching the sarcophagi, he rubs his thumb and forefinger down the corners of his mouth to his chin. When leaving a tomb he walks backwards, never turning his back on the entombed sultans. I want food at this point, but Mohammad insists we walk over the hill to the next valley, heading toward the Muradiye Complex.

A Day Off with Mohammad (1)

2007-02-10T01:49:00.000-08:00

I am late but I see him near the mosque.

"Jazz!" he greets me. He thinks this is my name, I don't bother correcting him because I rather like it. We lean over and touch our cheeks, first the left, then the right.

Before we enter we take off our shoes. Guys like Mohammad can step up to the entrance, flip their shoes off and pass through the heavy green tarp in one fluid motion. I tie my shoes too tight, bend down to untie them, and nearly tumble down the steps taking them off. I clumsily enter the mosque, first struck by the cool air and quiet echoes in all wide-open religious sanctuaries. I can feel my feet being chilled through the holes in my socks, but the soft carpet that covers every inch of marble flooring is soft. We put our shoes on wooden shelves where prayer beads are strewn about on top. In fact, there are beads everywhere, 33 beads each. We walk around the mosque orbiting the marble fountain in the center, far below the glass dome, the central one of 20 altogether.

Mohammad tells me a story about the construction of the mosque which I'm sure I misunderstand. The shah ordered an architect to build 20 mosques around Turkey. The architect brought the shah to Ulu Camii upon completion of his task. The shah said it's very grand but where are the other mosques? The architect said, here. The shah confused, asked, where? The architect pointed to the 20 domes and counted "1,2,3..."

Each dome is trimmed with a unique pattern. On the walls are some signs in Arabic that, depending on what angle you stand, alternate between 3 words. The sign is folded up in such a way that standing from the right it might say "Mohammad", from the center "Allah", etc. The interior is being restored and the echoes of lumber rattle through the open air. This doesn't interrupt men praying to the walls, bowing, on their knees, kowtowing or standing. Some read from the Koran, fathers bring their sons to teach them mosque etiquette. Visitors, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, come here and students on field trips take photos with their cellphones. A group of women stand in the middle discussing matters. To pray, they go to the areas designated in the back corner. Mohammad tells me this prevents the men from admiring them as they pray.

Muradiye Cemetery

2007-01-30T03:20:00.000-08:00

from MONDAY diary (2)

2007-01-29T02:00:00.000-08:00

SILK HEADSCARVES, A FISH, COLD DUSK, STREET MERCHANTS

both ladies wore silk headscarves that showed not a single lock of hair -- interpreted as more devout than those who wear the scarf but still show some hair. the old aunt was extremely kind and at one point, even invited me to visit her home in Istanbul. the uncle was a math teacher in a public school. our conversations over our bulbs of tea ranged from jobs, to the sister, to how I know Mohammad to the girl attempting to explain her job by saying, "I'm a fish." the uncle said I was handsome, so i grabbed the shoulders of Mohammad and his friend, saying no, these guys were the handsome ones.

Mohammad said I was much thinner than before. I believe him, I don't eat enough probably, always the case when i'm abroad. before i left, Mohammad and I planned to meet tomorrow morning and wander around the city. he's a good guy and i hope he doesn't try to convert me. that always spoils a good friendship.

when time became long enough I left and walked the brisk walk, clutching my coat around my neck, back to the train. i walked through a bonafide maze of a bazaar, taking side streets zig-zagging through the old houses, apartments, spinning meat, like people from everywhere came to set up shop in any square foot of street space they could find. i began to notice the various classes of the sellers. the difference between those who had shops and those who had tables and how people work with what they have, poor, poorer, selling and beckoning, but not begging.

from MONDAY diary (1)

2007-01-29T01:18:00.000-08:00

GREEN MOSQUE, DESIGNS, SILENCE, MOHAMMAD, RELIGION, TEACHING TURKISH IN EL PASO

designs, designs, designs, at Yesil (Green) Mosque. the floor is deep red Turkish rugs, trimmed in green and blue. tiles along the lower walls, blue hexagons like a honeycomb -- double domes at the top, a pigeon fluttering in and out of the holes. marble walls - bronze plaques, the altar empty except for the mike, a staircase for the imam to the right, whispered prayers, and quiet when the loud families leave. arabic scripts, intricate geometric turquoise.

the carpet soft on my socks, cool under my feet. giant chandeliers hung low, rainbow stained windows, there's the same quiet peace as in a church or synagogue where quiet is expected and silence is divine. prayer (rosary) beads different sizes, colors scattered about and all the shoes stacked outside.

i close the notebook, turn around surprised to see... Mohammad.

the former copier at my school had always been very cool with me, funny, he was friends with everyone. i guess he quit because his job sucked. I admire that. we exchanged laughs, touched cheeks on both sides of our face, and sat down on the carpet. he has been working in the train station and was trying to become a chess teacher. he said he comes to the mosques to thank Allah for food and everything good in life, noting others just drink and eat and ignore the fact (as he sees it) that Allah gives them everything and they don't care. his sincerity and humility was moving, regardless of my beliefs. he asked me about my faith, and i said i don't know and with him that's ok.

we met one of his childhood friends there too -- they're both from Van, way way out east. both are partly deaf, speaking to each other through sign language. later we went to have tea nearby meeting his friend's uncle, aunt and cousin. through our obstacle-laden communication i gathered the cousin's sister was a Turkish teacher in El Paso. what? of course the cousin asked me if I was christian and if my parents were. why this concerns them i don't know. Eda says everyone cares about these things in Bursa. Bursa is a quiet city at 1.5 to 2 million people and definitely in tune with it's religion. and here it is much more a part of life and concern than anywhere I've ever been, even more than the Bible Belt.

Holiday Wandering

2007-01-29T01:10:00.000-08:00

from SUNDAY diary (5)

2007-01-28T07:45:00.000-08:00

THE SIMPSONS, DEAD SULTANS, TROUBLE IN PARADISE, BITTER TEA, WARM GUTS

my friend refers to Bursa as "Springfield," because like in The Simpsons, it has 2 prominent power plant stacks across the valley. I don't think it's really nuclear though.

at another cafe thinking about that overlooking the city. i'm next to the tombs of Osman and Orhan Gazi, founder and expander of the Ottoman Empire. there's a tall clock tower here too. a couple is fighting in a familiar way. guy says something dumb. girl gets angry. guy tries to laugh it off and touch girl's arm. girl backs away. apologies to follow.

looking out on Altiparmak St. Bursaspor Stadium, the Black Tower ominous, snowy limbs of crooked trees. my food and tea order mechanically and joylessly taken, servers either apathetic or long embittered by tourists and giggling lovers enjoying their romantic spot. there is splat crack of ice melting, dropping on the cobbles, which are dark from the water. i see the couple made up and easy-breezy strolling again.

tea comes, tost comes. yes I spelled that right. they both warm my insides. a man staring at me, maybe distrusting, maybe doesn't know if I'm a critic coming to defame the venue. if he keeps staring at me with that look maybe i will aspire to.

from SUNDAY diary (4)

2007-01-28T07:43:00.000-08:00

STREETS, LOVE, METRIC SYSTEM, DATING, MEAT, ANIMAL RIGHTS

so half of where Bursa revolves in it's free time is Ataturk St. the other half is Altiparmak St. on the former we have a statue of Ataturk himself on his horse, theatres, the famous Iskender kebab houses, the city museum, bars, one sitting above a gorge and live guitarists sadly sing songs about impossible love, a favorite theme here and sometimes I can wonder why. and there you can get big 70 ml beers. this is how an american learns the metric system. there are other sizes but I don't know them -- 70ml is the biggest.

at night I can see my friend Ahmet and discuss the plight. perils, minefields, trapdoors of dating in Turkey. he gives me abstract insight which i'm not sure leads me to any helpful solutions other than to find it felt good just to be discussing girls with another man -- whatever he has to say about it. before that we can eat the popular Kofte, meatballs. my "progressive" San Fran Vegan friends would be appalled -- knowing what they know about the meat industry -- I could be appalled too but I have to suppress that feeling if I want to go to other countries.

the fact is people like eating meat and they don't care in large enough numbers how animals are treated in the process. at least for now. the animal rights activists have a long way to go.

from SUNDAY diary (3)

2007-01-28T07:41:00.000-08:00

GHOST, CAESAR, MORE SNOW, MOVING

I'm just a ghost wanderer who means nothing more than some cash or at times a curiosity; most of the time a ghost who can say: "I came, I saw, I kept going."

snow snow snow. now it's relaxed and drifts, the snowflakes are sitting on invisible rocking chairs sleepily falling down to the black grit street to join the water and rise to the sky and fall again as rain or snow or migrate to another city like I've done myself a few times in a few years. but sometimes i'm happy being like precipitation moving around landing in different spots only to rise and move again. I am snow and sometimes ice and sometimes I cause a car accident.

from SUNDAY diary (2)

2007-01-28T07:38:00.000-08:00

SNOW, WHITE MOSQUES, FROGGER, CURIOUS WAITRESS, BAD COFFEE, GETTING BY, GETTING WARM

Sunday morning on Ataturk Street. Every town has one. from Sehrekustu Station to this Cafe Caffesi, the snow is dumping beautifully -- gloriously! I'm out in it. I walk up the cobbled street from Sehrekustu to Ataturk, a few men out, a photographer, a man calling out something unintelligible pushing a cart of discarded junk -- wires, a broken tennis racket. Coming out under the cover, I follow an off-duty police officer under the snow past the white mosques.

huge flakes drifting down. this is Turkey in its element. 90% of the shops are closed, only a few pillars of kebab meat spinning. the covered markets and bazaar locked up, the minarets cold and snow-covered against a gray wall that is the sky. even Ataturk St. is hard to cross on Sunday morning, and i'm playing an easy level of human Frogger compared to weekdays. no problem i am at the cafe with Turkish rock and snow dancing outside my little window and the lights inside are green, orange and warm. the building is Ottoman-style with its second floor protruding out over the ground floor. the second floor is actually the first floor and the ground floor is a "Z". rattling the coffee cup with my furious pen shaking the table, i get looks from the waitress who attention was alerted when i walked through the door an obvious yabanci (foreigner).

drinking shit instant coffee, which is so popular. don't know why exactly. wondering. oh well, the hell with it. it's warm. and i just need a warm place to write. waiting for Eda. thawing out my head from the cold again. watching boys throw snowballs at shopkeepers just trying to take their tables out on the street. they take no notice. they are men in navy blue jackets and caps, wrinkled eyes, a lifetime of blending into the gritty market streets, black bus fumes grey cobbled walkways, rusted aluminum doors with broken locks. their faces olive and shaded from the dirty shoes of millions passing and going and coming endlessly, scraping their pockets to keep up the struggle, to stretch their lives because what other choice do you have.

but not joylessly. your friends and family and the boy comes around the shops with tea and you talk shop and organize dates for your daughters, hear the gossip, comb the neighbors for pertinent information. stay on top of business, watch your kid's relations. the words are copied on my fingers now. the pen is good and finally warm.

from SUNDAY diary (1)

2007-01-28T07:23:00.000-08:00

PLATFORM, METRO, SHAPES, PASSENGERS, VIBRATOR, FUNK SHOES

now at Nilufer station -- wind cleansing the platform, the new snow covers the mountains, the swish of cars on the wet highways on either side of me -- the green Bursaray slides away and I'm waiting for the roar of another. the screech and squeal of brakes and beeps and electric robot sounds; bump and bling tone of the female intercom; and the train dives in and out of the ground into the tunnels like a dolphin -- passing through triangles of hills, blocks of homes, snowy spikes and domes of mosques -- Uludag mountain lost in the morning mist.

people on the metro are framed in the yellow handle bars -- men with strong faces, rock hard and a steady gaze with a thick blanket of whiskers and burly moustache. strong-faced girls, but attractive.. and i imagine these people ruling the world like they once did. they're dressed in browns, greys, greens, blacks. dark dreary coats.

swiftly past the pharmacies, splitting through the highway, an ax through a hair; banks, restaurants, Tuborg signs, Efes signs, mechanics, pet stores. good bye Nilufer station, Acemler, Pasa Ciftili, Kultur Park, Osmangazi. wave after wave of homes crawling up the mountain, like a race of real estate to the top -- then down into the dark tunnel again, my ears are thawing out but my head still stings because I forgot my hat. my leg is sensitive to my phone. sometimes my brain thinks my leg feels the vibration, but it's not. my shoes are blue; ever since I began listening to Jamiroquai I understand the importance of wearing funk shoes because they can literally lift you over the melancholic drudgery of the rat race into more of a soul-satisfying stratosphere.

Chimbo: The Wild Years (4)

2007-01-28T02:28:00.000-08:00

from SATURDAY diary (3)

2007-01-27T05:39:00.000-08:00

BALCONIES, CHATTING, THE BLACK TOWER, TEXAS, TRANSSEXUALS, EUROPEAN UNION...

Turks emphasize the importance of balconies and open places to chat over tea or Nescafe. in general most apartments have a balcony and half of them have a small hearth where people can barbecue their kebab. more often than not they serve as a shelf for a a flower vase. the strangest building among the mosques the ottoman style homes, hamam domes, Zafer Plaza with it's Vegas style entrance, most be the Black Tower. South of central bursa, near the Terminal, stands alone and peculiar a black high-rise apartment building, and no other building like it. it stand against a mountainous backdrop as if space and time folded over some ordinary American city building and transported it to Bursa.

Texas is a state in the USA. It's also a word spray-painted as graffiti around the city. it refers to a gang of Bursa football fanatics. They supposedly chose the name because tough people come from Texas. They are well-known for extreme rioting at football games, vandalism, fighting, etc. They probably joined the Association of Tradesmen for Bursaspor (football team) to threaten and prevent a planned demonstration in August by an organization for the rights of homosexuals and transsexuals. The police ordered the cancellation of the protest due to concerns for "public safety" -- was is in order to protect its citizen from harm or from homosexuals? The city has since tried to close down the organization known as Rainbow. So far they have been unsuccessful, probably due to the watchful EU and Turkey's bid to join it.

from SATURDAY diary (2)

2007-01-27T04:52:00.000-08:00

NIGHTLIFE, DESSERT, WOMEN, VIDEO STORES, CHECK-OUT LADIES, TOOTHY SMILES....

in Nilufer on weekday nights when we don't want to cook we struggle to find a place to get food and beer. we found two places. Kirimizi -- which does everything it can to live up to its name, Red. there's some other place that doesn't matter. some bars here and there -- but the conservatism doesn't embrace a bar scene, yet everyone needs a vice and in Bursa it's cigarettes and dessert. I like cheesecake and coffee -- divine opposites in compliment. I think Turks like that too -- and souffle, Nescafe followed up by a sweet puff of a marlboro. then there are always trays and tray of bahlava -- rectangular deserts with syrup. and always tea, tea, tea which we recently realized prevents iron from being absorbed into the body, tiring alot of women who already have enough to worry about. it's not easy for a woman in Turkey, especially in Bursa. the best chances a woman who yearns for independence has is to move to Istanbul for work, leaving the family in another hometown. the rest of the girls, before they are married, have to deal with stricter rules, can't live alone and be home by 11, for example.

but i strayed off course. the course was to dissect the Bursa sprawl. other areas of interest in Nilufer, my suburban home, are the video stores --one after another all with a handful selection yet aspiring and open for business. strange for me because i'm used to the movie mega-stores. i'm spoiled. my favourite owners are the guy who doesn't charge me for late fees and the two awkward smiling brothers in ill-fitting suits, supporting sincere heads and souls. one guy has dandruff sitting on his shoulder without exception. they're always eager to push dumb action movies on me, shrugging off classics or more thoughtful films for the former they often deem "perfect." but they're cool dudes and they have a translator program on their computer so I can write messages for them, but they pretty much know what i'm saying anyway.

the supermarket check-out ladies have finally begun to warm up to me after 5 months or so, even giving me smiles when they see me. it's harder for women to show these kind of feelings to strangers even though the men, like the deli man, shake my hand and always ask how I'm doing. and always with a big toothy smile.

from SATURDAY diary (1)

2007-01-27T04:45:00.000-08:00

NILUFER, CATS, NEIGHBORHOOD, AGGRESSIVE DRIVING, SUPERMARKETS, BURSA'S SLOPES...

apartment in Nilufer.. in my cave wedged in between the apartments -- when Eda drives away at night I'm left standing with the dark buildings looming over me with the golden lights in the windows, eyes looking down at my lonely bones silently sad giants waiting for me to walk inside and nurse me alongside all the other inhabitants, parasites in their compartments and wait for morning. inside I hear the cats. the cats cast out in the night with twisted crying and supernatural screams -- counterparts of the coyotes in Kentucky who come under my bedroom window and laugh at me in child-like wailing and screeching.

I look out my window and sometimes I might see the neighbor looking at me from her window directly across from me before she quickly pulls the curtain over. if I poke my head out I see the mosque rising prominently from the blocks of apartments. the refreshing round dome accompanied by the minaret like a warrior laying down with his shield and spear with one last attack against the sky. maybe saving the people from it's fall. if i turn my head the other way i can see Eda driving up and hear the bad dance music from the fitness center. other than that it's a maze of apartment blocks - like one of the original first-person shooter games -- Wolfenstein or something -- there ore pockets of interesting sites -- the parking lot/driving education courses turned bazaar on Saturdays. the barren filed turned carnival in the Fall. and the dangerous roads come morning when perpetually impatient Turkish drivers bulldoze through each other to get to work. drivers cut through school children, school bus-drivers run over teachers, public buses pound through everyone. other than that it's one different franchise of super market after another -- it's a war of supermarkets, hitting the mattresses, as many as political parties in the government vying for a larger constituency. blocks and domes and blocks and --

i need to take the train that saws Bursa in half from west to east leaving two sectors, one on the plain, the other rising up the slopes of the mountain Bursa hugs. The train leaves the blocks of efficient new developments and hurtles intermittently at various stops into the heart of Bursa. here, the streets zig-zag up and down -- splitting forking spiralling through the shopping districts of Ataturk St., Altiparmak St into Cekirge -- hotels and kebabs up the hill where you can climb from one tea garden to another, like Shoots and Ladders, up to the clock tower and the old walled part of the city near the tombs of Orhan and Osman. On the other side of town, on the opposite side of my home in Nilufer is Cumalikizik, an attractive village that gives you charm and breakfast. below the metro line sprawls the endless roads of auto-part shops and crunched up neighborhoods -- women headscarved, grizzled men and boys and girls that for now, let their hair go free.

Through the Eyes of the French

2007-01-24T06:22:00.000-08:00

This is what 5 months in Turkey will do to you if you happen to be my French friends.

Barkamsiniz! Pardon! I'll have what they're having.

Photo courtesy of Pilou

Better Know a Turkish Smoker (Part 2): The Narghile

2007-01-23T21:52:00.000-08:00

"Hos Geldiniz."

Open the door and walk into the haze. Hear the clicking of OK, the CRACK! POP! of players brutally slapping down the backgammon pieces. Sit down, and join the big hall of card tables. An old man offers a tea from his tray of red glass bulbs. Take one, let him mark it on your bill, and order a narghile. I recommend apple. Let him set down the blue glass bottom and here comes another man with a hot tin of coals. He selects a few embers with his tongs, then sets it on the foil. Give it a few strong sucks and voila! a fire-breathing narghile smoker. Breathe in, not down the lungs and release. Feel the stimulating blast and the brain will levitate in the skull. The mouth may get dry, so I recommend an Ihlamur tea with a little sugar and lemon.

Bubbling at the floor, sits the glass base of shisha, the hookah, the water-pipe, or here in Turkey -- the narghile. A word descending from Persian "nargil," meaning coconut, which comprised the original narghile. From the base stems a tube the water passes through from the tobacco on top. Snaking out of the side is the smoking tube with a mouthpiece and a disposable reed. Putting it between the lips, draw air through the coals into the bowl, heating the tobacco. The air passes down the tube into the base, which is cooled by the water before slipping up the smoking tube into your mouth.

From there many people believe the effects are less damaging than cigarettes due to the water-filtering process. Most studies conclude that although this is partially true of some toxins, it isn't true for a significant amount of carbon monoxide (from the charcoal), carcinogens, heavy metals and nicotine. Most people don't smoke narghile as often as cigarette addicts and therefore, studies are limited. The few suggest, due to the large amounts of smoke inhaled, a 60-minute narghile session can be the equivalent of smoking a pack of cigarettes.

A limited message on these hazards certainly hasn't helped to quell a rising trend of narghile bars and cafes sprouting up in masses around the Eastern Mediterranean countries. The trend also extends to its growing popularity around college campuses in the US. The water cools the tobacco making it less harsh than cigarettes, therefore more tolerable and even relaxing --though -- no doubt as relaxing as hashish, which was the common smoking substance until the import of tobacco hundreds of years ago from the Americas. The wide variety of flavored tobacco add to the appeal, from fruit to bubblegum to cappuccino.

Most narghile bars are spacious areas with card-tables and chairs, or bean bags and low-level tables with patrons sipping teas, orange juice, apple cider, or the usual unidentified concoction. Like most restaurants in Bursa, alcohol usually isn't served. Although, I doubt it's a gateway to becoming an addict for me, a defiant non-smoker here in Turkey, I can quite easily be persuaded to sit down with the narghile and some friends once a month or so. If I can pull that off living in Turkey for a year, then that ain't so bad.

That is until you consider the 100+ hand narghile smoke.

Chimbo: The Wonder Years (3)

2007-01-23T07:24:00.000-08:00

Eda and I Meet God at a Bar in San Francisco

2007-01-18T10:28:00.000-08:00

The first bar of the night, light shifting hazily between shadowy waterfalls and colorful jungles. At the tropical bar top I swung my brother's shoulder around and said, "You gotta meet Eda." A soft touch on her shoulder, and her hair turned around.

"This.. is Eda."
"Nice to meet you," he said. And so, between the three of us, began a 3 month party.

For the time being everyone dispersed and rejoined at the next bar -- the one way down on Post and Leavenworth. The Cafe Royal with the unlevel pool table dark jazzy home to many beers, many nights, conversations with the people of the world about the world and nothing. This night they struck up one of the three no-nos. When Eda walked up I was holding my mike, which was my beer, in the midst of an oft-repeated monologue:

"So why can't people just be comforble not knowin? Why they feel like they haf to splain it all, subscribe to some institution for meaning in life. They gotta lunge for some higher-design to tell them how to respect, how to love, why to love, why to respect, somethin that eases the thought that maybe in the end, when we die, there's nothing. People cant stand not knowin. But you know what? I have no problem not knowin. I don't need any being to tell me how or why we should respect and love each other."

"Yeah," she said. "And if there is God, what if God is one of us, like in that song, one of us around here? And maybe he's here just playing with us."

"You mean like amusing himself?"
"Yeah, he's saying weird things to people, just to get them all excited and do funny things."

"Like some sort of divine Ali G?"

"Yeah. And he's like laughing off his ass."

"You mean laughing his ass off?"

"Whatever."
"Hmmm. So who in this bar is God?"
"Maybe that man," she reveals a grey man .at the bar looking forward, minding his own business, drinking his beer .

"You should ask him."
She turns to the man. "Are you God?"
His face lights up. "Of course!"
"Wow! Really?" we all say.
"Yes," he assures us. "Everybody has God inside all of us. You, me, him, her over there. That guy over there..."

He went on until we all realized none of us had spoken for awhile. Then we started wishing he'd stop talking. That's what you get for starting up a conversation like that in SF. We escaped him eventually. But after some more Boddingtons at one point God, a little tipsy, approached Eda.

"You left me."
"...Uh...um...thank you," she replied. He gave her a funny look and walked away. She laughed.
"I don't think 'thank you' was the right response after ditching God," I said.

Just then her boyfriend pulled up in his red convertable Mercedes. I watched her walk out and zoom away. I sighed.

"Could I get another Boddingtons?"

Chimbo: The Early Years (2)

2007-01-18T00:21:00.000-08:00

Some Song about Cats in Dutch by WINTERJONG

2007-01-12T09:05:00.000-08:00

Kapadokya (Cappadocia) Part 4

2007-01-10T06:52:00.002-08:00

The next day I wake up in a cave with pictures on my camera holding a rifle and someone else's rental car parked outside.

After more of Jacky's breakfast and coffee we jump in the car, pick up the owners (who turn out to be our French friends from Bursa) and drive to another extraordinary phenomenon of Kapadokya. Beneath the villages, caves and fairy chimneys is a network of three underground cities. We drive through barren winter plains to Derinkuyu, where our guide, Mehmet, illuminates the sometimes desperate, mostly hopeful and always ingenious lives of the ancient troglodytes. In times of invasion, and in Turkey there were many, the people of this land would descend into a world unto itself. Down here in the deep black depths, despite the lack of sunshine and ensuing skin problems, the townsmen were able to live up to 6 months at a time and fend off bulky-armored warriors, who would otherwise decimate the population. No invaders ever took the entire city.

Not only a haven for defense, this was a fully functional town, complete with classrooms, churches with corridors designed as a cross, a morgue where bodies were hoisted out through vertical tunnels, a well, a winery, a torture chamber, false tunnels to deceive the enemy and a ventilation system where any smoke would immediately find its way to the surface. There was even a wedding tunnel, where the bride and groom would run in and out 7 times and be married. Then the lucky couple would head to the "honeymoon suite," a romantic little hole, where a donkey would be tied up nearby, whose breath provided cozy warmth.

But alas! that is a time long gone and for warmth and comfort tonight, we head to the hamam. The sweat, the humidity, the vapors, the splashing water, the man scrapes big black slivers of dead skin from my entire body, a big belly behind his stocky arms muscles out the tension from my spine. I lay swallowed on the hot marble by a big cloud of bubbles. Rinsing off with tin bowls and sitting down on a lawn chair with some tea and candles, my entire skin is as soft as the ass I was born with.

My thoughts leave my body on that chair in central Turkey where rocks have been massaged by time and elements to create a visual wonderland with hotels, clubs and gift shops sprouting from the foot of the canyon to support and lavish its visitors. Here, a man and a woman haul their relationship to further explore it, inevitably continuing their life sagas and their chapters together. The rocks and people and wine and cold winds pound upon their worlds affecting it as they will. In turn, I can sleep here wondering how the elements, the people, and the rocks are shaping us.

Kapadokya (Cappadocia) Part 3

2007-01-10T06:52:00.001-08:00

A creak, a scrape and a bump opening the door and -- "Whoa!" -- a sunny, cool cavern morning. The shadows and spirits have been chased away by the dawn and the people, critters and chimney smoke are stirring. It's time to go out and play. But not before Eda opens her eyes and we charge ourselves up with some coffee and french toast, courtesy of Jacky, Mustafa and Elif of our pension, the Elif Star. Eda gets up.

"Where are you going?" I ask lazy-eyed, fat and happy.
"I'm going to watch some stones."

From here on out it's rock, boulders, stone and more rock. This is Kapadokya. A region of underground cities, eroding caverns, and alien rock formations -- indeed, there is even a UFO museum here which I assume attempts to describe some extraterrestrial goings-on. But a more rational mind will accept the scientific explanation of what is undoubtedly the Grand Canyon on acid.

Millions of years ago one or more volcanoes spread hot ash and rock called ignimbrite across the region. Layer upon layer of ignimbrite piled upon each other, the hardest layer being at the surface. The water, wind and erosion sculpted many strange formations in the region. The oddest and arguably most entertaining of all, depending on your humor, must be the fairy chimneys. These rock towers have eroded faster in the softer middle and bottom, leaving a larger and wider "hat" on top. The continuing process of erosion and the elements have also produced rocky mushrooms, dunes, slopes and columns.

We watch all these stones on an embattled, bickering walk from Goreme up through a cavern to Uchisar, where a large fortress oversees the land. Eda describes the hike as "hard paths which you have to walk like your ass off."

But you never feel alone. Man and pigeon's presence can be seen to this day, as the initial visitor will notice all the holes of various sizes in the cave. Men have built churches (the area was Christian before it was Muslim), food depots, and homes for pigeons in the rock. The pigeons are valuable to the farmers for their fertilizer. Today most villagers have built homes, pensions and nightclubs for themselves and for the blooming tourist industry. As we take several wrong turns, and get lost more, pass a camel-leg next to a scorched patch of earth, we traverse through hibernating wine vineyards, the produce of which awaits us at the Museum Restaurant in Uchisar.

Ahh, the wine. We would bring some back to Bursa with us, but we can't help ourselves. Once you settle in a nice wine state, the bottles easily flow and who cares? Our favorite is a bottle of Turasan Okuzgozu (Bull's Eye) Eda loses in a game of tavla (backgammon). The winner is happy to share this and his personal plastic bottles of home-made raki with us, too. After that I forget that I didn't care about what I couldn't remember in the first place. Only echoes of laughter, smoke, confusion, I think two boys just walked by the window carrying sacks of animal parts, blurry golden light, fuzzy final drinks.

Kapadokya (Cappadocia) Part 2

2007-01-10T06:51:00.001-08:00

I love the bus from Bursa to Istanbul. I love it because it parks on the ferry in Yalova in order to cross the Marmara Sea. I can sit in the cozy bus if I want, but I prefer to get out with the wind and waves and the seagulls. Sometimes, the boatmen will throw crusts of bread into the air, playing catch with the incredibly agile seagulls following the boat. They're more coordinated in the air than people on two feet. I don't usually run into anyone I know, but this morning I run into one of my students and his proud father.

"Jack Teacher!"
"Well hello Kemal!" I shake his and his father's hand. A moment of weird silence follows as we all try to figure out if we're going to speak English or Turkish and do we actually know each other's language? My girlfriend chimes in.
"So, you're the famous Kemal!" she says. Then turns to me, "Is he in your strategic class?"
Kemal's father smiles, hinting at some acknowledgement of the joke. But I can't really tell.
"Why, yes he is. Where are you going, Kemal?" I ask. He is unusually, but not surprisingly with his father, exhibiting calm behaviour.
"Istanbul." he says, looking around. The conversation doesn't really go anywhere after that, and they walk up to the canteen. Eda finishes her cigarette. We see them again and politely say hello but I'm totally focused on "tost" -- a hot pressed sandwich of cheese and "socuk," lamb sausage. It's just a minor snack before we gorge ourselves on Istanbul, a tradition every time we have the opportunity to come.

Gorging consists of thick cappuccinos, shopping Istiklal St., Taksim tea gardens, simplistic dilapidated coffee shops -- the kind where a thousand revolutions never gained momentum -- terraced beers and candle-lit dinners overlooking the Bosphorous River where thousands of seagulls harass the minarets of the golden mosques. We take Istanbul like a shot of tequila and a lime: lick it, slam it, suck it. Because we have to catch a plane. "We're going to Kapadokya!"

It's getting dark now and that means more cold. It's a chilly climb up the stairs into the plane. It's even colder in Kapadokya as we search for a way to get from the Kayseri airport to Goreme at midnight. We realize as we stiffly throw our bags in the trunk of a taxi, that we are in another world of cold. My toes are little icy flames. Eda and I smash together in our swishing nylon coats in the back seat. I only have gloves, so I wear one and she wears one. It's stupid but it keeps us laughing. And that's a good distraction. Another good distraction for Eda is the taxi driver. I have no idea what they are talking about. Evidently, it's interesting and funny. But my mind is cashing in. It's one cold, dark, barren 100 YTL ride to our cave pension.

We arrive in Goreme in the quiet shadows. I can't see much, but I know that there are many and large shadows cast. These must be from the fairy chimneys I read about. I hear nothing. It's been a long time since I've been to a place on Earth where there's nothing to be heard. I only see the dark holes of my room carved into the round slopes of the rocks. A ghost jumps out of his warm bed in all white pajamas and leads us to our room. Then our spectre disappears, leaving us to our cave. we turn on the lights and find the walls draped with carpets (for sale) but we only want to jump into the bed that we find pleasantly heated. Wondering how it it's heated I look under the mattress. I'm fantasizing about some ancient technique still employed -- a pile of steamed rocks under the bed maybe. It's not until the next morning that I see the cord snaking out of the mattress into an electric socket.

Kapadokya (Cappadocia) Part 1

2007-01-10T06:49:00.000-08:00

At the start of the Bayram holidays, when some people kill a sheep, a cow or a camel and offer the meat to the less fortunate, at a time when over 3000 US servicemen and women and countless Iraqis have been killed in Iraq, as Saddam is hanged, as 2007 looms, I sit down at my quiet Saturday morning eggs in my apartment in Bursa before stepping out in the gushing cold air. Today I'm headed to Kapadokya.

It's the cold, early morning hustle and bustle with people going places and me too. It's a chilly wait on the metro station bench, an awkward seat on the train with stranger stealing glances from stranger, and an exposed moment among the Turks when my girlfriend calls me and I'm speaking English. Then, it's a hop on the endless circulation of the city's shared taxis to the long-distance bus terminal. And there, surrounded by the random collection of characters and personalities that only a long-distance bus terminal could cluster I order a tea, a warm cup of familiarity in an otherwise sea of strangeness. My adrenaline is pumping. I am alert. I am traveling.

I am waiting for my girlfriend, who is being dropped off unwittingly by her parents. They think she is traveling alone to meet with a group of college friends in Istanbul. I feel like I'm in one of those French films in the 60's waiting for a secret rendezvous in a European train station. But no, I'm actually here waiting for a secret rendezvous in a Turkish bus station.

The minutes digitally increase on my cell phone. I'm holding it in my hand because I can't feel it vibrate in my pocket. Also, it's cheap, so the ring is annoyingly stupid. Where is she? More tea? No, it'll just get my heart rate up and make me more anxious. Where is she? BRRRRRRR. The table rattles as if the plate-tectonics under me are shifting. No, that's my cell phone.

"We're going to Kapadokya!" She sings in a fairly boppy little tune. "We're going to Kapadokya!"

And with that a new hit single is born. It will continue to play on the airwaves in our minds for the next few days. We're going to Kapadokya.

Eda arrives with a kiss for both cheeks and her luggage. Days later, in "a couple moment" she will accuse me for not bringing soap or shampoo, depending on her to carry it, which may or may not be true, and come to think of it, not a bad idea. But of course, being a good southern gentleman, I'm happy to haul one of her suitcases through bus stations, airports, and across the city of Istanbul. But all that's foresight, because now "We're going to Kapadokya!"

Birth of Chimbo (1)

2007-01-07T01:57:00.000-08:00

"Merhaba! I'm Chimbo please keep me for 5 minutes in the water. Everyday soak me 2 - 4 times. My hair will starts to grow after about one week. You can cut my hair in any style you want."

kompost@kompost.com.tr

Whose funeral could bring together Kid Rock and Turkey's foreign minister Abdullah Gul?

2006-12-18T11:45:00.000-08:00

In 1923, Ahmet Ertegun was born the son of a diplomat and close adviser to Ataturk. Indeed, before the Ottoman Empire collapsed, his father was sent to ask the founder of the Turk Republic not to resist the Allies. He was quoted by his son years later as saying to Ataturk, "Now I've done my duty to the sultan and if you need my services I am ready to resign from my post and join you."

A much different kind of revolution was to occur within young Ahmet when, having grown up in embassies throughout Europe, would be led by his older brother, Nesuhi, to a London concert featuring Cab Calloway and Duke Ellington. "I had never really seen black people except I had seen pictures of great artists," he would say in an interview years later (slate.com). "And I had never heard anything as glorious as those beautiful musicians, wearing great white tails playing these incredibly gleaming horns with drums and rhythm sections unlike you ever heard on records... So I became a jazz fan quite early and never went off the path thereafter."

After his father moved to Washington D.C. as ambassador to the US and died 10 years later, Ahmet and his brother stayed as the rest of the family returned to Turkey. Ahmet Ertegün was studying classical philosophy at St John's College in Annapolis, Maryland, then at Georgetown University, though he was more interested in hanging out in nightclubs and record shops. "I was totally unemployable," he explained (news.independent.co.uk). "So naturally I decided to go into the music business."

With his friend, Herb Abramson, and $10,000 loaned from the family dentist, Atlantic Records was founded. "We started Atlantic simply because we wanted to sign a few artists whose music we liked, and make the kind of records that we would want to buy. I honestly never imagined I would be able to make a living from doing something that was so much fun. I am very glad I was wrong."

Very wrong, he would be credited not only for discovering and propelling the career of Ray Charles among countless others, but with bridging black music to white kids, thus contributing to the de-segregation of the 50's. In the 60's, he introduced a long list of white rockers to the world's youth, most notably Led Zeppelin, and personally negotiated with Mick Jagger to begin a 14-year working relationship with Atlantic. He also co-founded the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in the 80's and would be inducted himself a few years later. His brother, Nesuhi, whom also worked at Atlantic, would become the first teacher of a jazz course at an American university.

On October 29th, Ertegun fell into a coma after suffering a head injury at a Rolling Stones concert. He died on Dec. 14th and was buried today in Istanbul after a muslim ceremony. As far as his own views on Islam, he once said: "Well, look I'm Muslim by birth—and the rest I'll have to explain when I write my autobiography."

above photo by Fred Prouser/Reuters

The Laz

2006-12-11T09:41:00.000-08:00

One day, Cemal calls Temel from New York to tell his friend, "You must come and work over here! There's so much money here you'll be sweeping it off the streets!" So, Temel flies to New York and when he steps out of the airport he notices a $100 bill. Without picking it up, he continues on, saying to himself, "I just had such a long flight, I'm tired, and I don't want to start work just yet."

With such jokes, the Laz are often stereotyped as amusingly stupid. Because the name Temel is like the John of this ethnic minority from the Black Sea region, jokes almost always feature this gullible character. When I first heard these jokes, which run from the silly:

Temel is drinking too much. To show him the harm, his friends throw a worm into his glass of whiskey. When the worm dies, one of his friends says, "Look Temel, what can you learn from that?"Temel looks up blearily. "You should drink whiskey if you have worms in your body," he says.

to the sexual:

In a state of high anxiety, Temel telephones the doctor. He can hardly get the words out, "Doctor, doctor...Our baby just swallowed a condom! Come quickly!" The doctor drops everything and hurriedly readies his instrument case. As he starts running out the door, the phone rings again. Once more it's Temel, but his voice is relaxed and cheerful as he says, "You can take it easy doctor. All's well. You won't have to come. We found another one!"

to the sexist (Western for religiously conservative):

Temel's teacher told the class to rewrite the following sentence using different words but retaining the meaning: "The young girl opened the window without her mother's permission, looked outside, and smiled." As the teacher watched his students thoughtfully scribbling on their paper, he noticed Temel just sitting there doing nothing. "Why aren't you writing?" the teacher asked. Temel replied, "But teacher, I've finished." The teacher looked at his paper and read merely one word: whore.

...I thought it might be irreverent discrimination. But now I realize it's more like a nicer Polish joke in the States. Irreverent at least, but considering the people around me don't know any Laz personally, it's hard for them to have the opportunity to discriminate.

However, while it's perhaps easy to laugh them off, organizations like the International Helsinki Federation for Human Rights, don't let the government off so easily. They accuse the government of squashing minority rights in an effort to "Turkify" the republic. One such technique is to restrict their access to the media. Only 5 minority languages are allowed to be broadcast on Turkish television, and the Laz language, which has only recently been recorded in written form, is not one of them. One recent example of this, according to freemuse.org, is when a well-known Laz musician, Birol Topaloglu, was invited and then not allowed to perform on a TV musical special.

The Laz are considered to have a rich musical tradition, a style that features the keremche, a long thin fiddle played upright, and the tulum, a bagpipe. By this description, perhaps you're thinking Scottish Bluegrass. Um, I don't know what that is exactly, but that's definitely not the Laz sound. Check it out for yourself and learn a little more here.

Paradoxically to the irreverence, it is said that the Laz are sharp businessmen and used to fiercely command respect as great and terrible warriors. Lonely Planet also says the Laz, dressed in black, were handpicked by Ataturk to be his personal bodyguards. If anyone can offer any more information regarding this info, please post a comment. I'm open-sourcing this paragraph. The only thing I have found was a reference to a Mohammed Laz-Oglu, picked by an Egyptian ruler to protect the throne while the latter was out of town conquering places.

As for other stereotypes, the Laz are said to have big noses, cook a million recipes with hamsi, Black Sea anchovies, dance wildly, and speak with a bizarre accent. Although, they are the butt of jokes, the best ones are supposedly created and told by the Laz themselves. My only personal experience with the Laz was as follows, which I'll italicize because it might as well be my own Temel joke:

Last Sunday, Eda and I were riding the ski-lift up Uludag mountain, when suddenly we saw a cell phone sliding down the steep slope. We mused over the misfortune of someone in a lift in front of us. Suddenly, a man flat on his back with a pained look on his face flew down under us. Seemingly to follow them both was a brown wallet. And not long after that another man. As we continued riding we saw two men below watching their companions' journey down the mountain. As they were speaking and I was laughing, Eda told me their accent wasn't typical Turkish. "What was it?" I asked, still amusingly confused at the sequence of events.

"Laz," she replied.

Oh Class with Eda

2006-12-04T20:53:00.000-08:00

One day she came to my class. It was the first time since that first time.

I had a couple other newcomers so I did my stock-standard introduction: ask why they came to the US and why they're studying English. I can focus my lessons to their needs that way. Until I actually did that, I was going to talk about what I wanted: living together before marriage, crazy laws in our countries, cultural taboos, multi-cultural relationships. Today I was going to make them customs officers giving or withholding green cards from each other. We went around the room and I got the stock-standard answers.

"I want to get into an American university."

"I need to improve my TOEFL."

"I need to improve my English to get a job."

"I want to be an airline stewardess."

"The shopping at Union Square is good!"

"I'm here to take the TOEFL, get a masters and introduce my father's products in a trade show." She says.

"What are your father's products?" I ask.

"Press machines."

"Like dry-cleaning?"

"No."

"Who knows what dry-cleaning is?" I ask, attempting to keep the class involved.

"They shape car parts."

"Oh really? Who knows what "to shape" means?

"A circle?"

"Yes that's a shape, but this shape is a verb."

"It means to make something into a circle." Some student says.

"What shapes do they make?"

"Not shapes, a press. Here, I'll draw it." (She goes to the board, class snickers)

"Like a mold?"

"What's a mold?"

I draw on the board, but I have no idea what this shit means -- but for some reason my students expect me to know every word in English no matter how specialized the industry.

"Ah, yes. And he makes laser machines."

"Who knows what a laser is? (silence) What's a laser? (silence) It's a hot light. It cuts things. Like Star Wars. You know, Star Wars? Light sabers? Who has seen Star Wars? Anway, so what kind of cars do you mold things for?"

"We don't mold things for companies, we sell the machines to companies."

"What are the parts?"

"Parts?"

"Yes, what do the machines press or mold?"

"Oh-- doors to cars and buses."

"So you work for him?"

"Yes, but I don't want to."

"Really, what do you want to do?" (what lesson? what class?)

"By the way do you know where trade shows are given in San Francisco?"

"No, but I will definitely get back to you."

"Get back to me?"

"Yeah, um, I'll tell you tomorrow."

"Okay thanks." (smiling at me, half-suspcious, half-amused because she can tell I'm interested. Girls can always tell.)

"No problem. Let me know if you want to know anything about San Francisco. Ok class is over. (no reaction) Class is over. Sorry. Class is finished. We're finished. Go home!"

Better Know a Turkish Smoker (Part 1)

2006-11-30T09:08:00.000-08:00

A supermarket is a supermarket, wherever you are in the world these days. A mall is a mall. And a hypermarket is a hypermarket is a hypermarket. But one thing is remarkably unique about the Carrefour in Bursa. It has an escalator to the clouds. Yes, its true! Make your way past the shoe shops, the computer stores, the dry-cleaners, the Starbucks and you will find a stairless escalator that slides silently up to a misty summit.

However, this is no sacred pilgrimage. This moving path leads merely to the food court. A very, very smoky food court. Somewhere through the haze of smoking patrons you can see all the food you expect: the Burger King, the KFC, pizza and the food you don't: Iskender kebab. Grab a bite and sit down with everyone. After your meal, enjoy a smoke. After your meal, maybe you want to see a movie. Put your hands out and feel your way to the ticket booth. In the middle of the film don't be surprised at an intermission. This allows everyone to take a smoke break. You might notice in the cloudy corner a pitiful, little sign of a cigarette with a red line striking through it. Don't worry about that. Enjoy your smoke and if you don't smoke, enjoy everybody else's.

What? You say you don't enjoy second-hand smoke? Get used to it. This is Turkey baby.

Standing at the tables you might notice a young girl awkwardly unwrapping her Marlboros, trying to look casual as she struggles to cooly hold her cigarette. Don't laugh, she has only just recently embarked on a lifetime commitment to the pockets of Philip Morris. Turkey has about 70 million people. Nearly half of them smoke and this girl has just begun her rite of passage. Cha-ching.

Despite what you may think, it wasn't always like this. When tobacco finally reached here from Mexico via Europe the old Sultans used to ban smoking, some even going so far as to pour molten lead down the throats of anyone lighting up. Islamic law even forbade it, because the Koran said one must neither "squander" nor "make their hands contribute to their own destruction." Of course, that concern was short-lived and surely smoking was breathed new life with the establishment of a secular, European-embracing culture. Ever since, the Turks have been smoking like, well, like Turks.

They used to smoke cigarettes from Tekel, previously a state-owned company and still the majority market share-holder. They enjoyed serving Turks with their smokes under a comfortable monopoly, pricing and distributing all cigarettes -- foreign and domestic. They didn't need to advertise and they didn't even need to deliver their supplies. Mom and Pop had to go pick them up from the factories if they wanted to sell cigarettes from their shop.

Then came Philip Morris and RJ Reynolds (now Japan Tobacco International). Since the WTO has relaxed international trade on tobacco and tobacco sales have declined in developed countries, notably the US, Big Tobacco is setting their scopes on the developing world.

Faced with decreased revenue in the US, where only 23% smoke, Philip Morris began looking at Turkey. Although there were tough restrictions in Turkey, Philip Morris did what Big Tobacco does best. Lobby. With lots and lots of money. In this case, with a little help from Turk gazillionaire Sakip Sabanci, with promising millions of dollars of investment to a very needy economy, and a reform-minded Prime Minister, tough regulations disappeared. And so came the Marlboro Man with $100 million in his pocket.

Poor Tekel, not used to competition, didn't see what hit it. It was no match for a slick cowboy, a relentless marketing campaign, and state-of-the-art cigarette factories -- i.e. corporate America. Now, Mom and Pop are not only getting their smokes delivered, they are dressing for the occasion -- garnishing their shops with promotional hoopla. It's war.

As Tekel, Philip Morris and JTI battle for addiction, who are the casualties? What are the human costs of free trade and tobacco in the developing world? Where has that escalator really gone? What is the cloud of Marlboros, Camels, Paliaments, Winstons that you may or may not smoke, but that you absolutely must breathe if you want to have a social life, doing to Turkey?

To be continued...

Here ends Part 1 of a multi-part series: Better Know a Turkish Smoker

There Goes the Neighborhood...

2006-11-27T09:08:00.000-08:00

I hereby declare this Bursa Appreciation Week! Why? Because, for once, I'm glad I'm not in Istanbul. I like to stay as far away from religious conflict as possible. Then why'd I move here from California? (scratching own head)

The pope will begin his four day visit to Turkey tomorrow. So?

Allright, so maybe you don't care. The truth is I really don't care. I just feel like I have to blog this because I'm in Turkey and this is some big event in the middle of this West vs. MidEast rumble going on. So, whatever, here's a quick rundown: Awhile back this Greek Orthodox Patriarch, Bartholomew guy, invited this Pope Benedict guy to Istanbul to talk about getting the eastern and western Christians back together. Then the Pope guy made a speech in Germany where he quoted this medieval Byzantine guy who talked shit about Islam and the Prophet Mohammed, calling them evil and stuff. The question is (or wasn't if you ask well, anybody, what exactly the Pope said, because they probably don't know): was it the Pope's real feelings or was it just taken out of context? Regardless, Turkey's Chief of Religious Affairs and cleric guy, Ali Bardakoglu, got pissed off. Then Muslims all over the world got pissed off. Then the Pope decided to come to Turkey anyway and 25,000 went out on the streets Sunday and got...well...more pissed off and said stuff like "Papa Gelmesin," which either means "Pope, don't come!" or "Papa Don't Preach," by Madonna.

Oh boy.

So tomorrow he comes to Istanbul, where the Prime Minister may or may not visit him at the airport with a "Pope Benedict" sign. Then he will go to Ankara (the capital) and meet the President and Ali Bardakoglu. On Wednesday, he'll go to mass in Ephesus, where St. John brought to Mary to be sent to heaven. Then, he'll visit the Blue Mosque and the Bartholomew guy. Hey, this actually sounds like a fun trip. On Thursday, it's to Istanbul and the Aya Sophia, once the greatest Church in the world, then a mosque and since 1935, a museum. They say if he prays and crosses himself before entering people are gonna seriously freak out.

There goes the neighborhood.

But thank (insert divine name here) for the precautions! “The security measures being taken for the Pope in Turkey are higher than taken for George W Bush,” said Turkey's Foreign Minister, Abdullah Gul. Wow, the highest security measures suggest you're hated more than Dubya. That's quite the accomplishment. Regarding the security measures, here are some bullet points, no pun intended:

*3 different routes are prepared from the Istanbul airport to the city center.
*Certain roads will be closed to traffic in Istanbul.
*12,000 police deployed in Istanbul along with rooftop snipers.
*750 extra riot police from other provinces will be sent to Istanbul for back-up.
*Nearly 3 thousand policemen deployed during the 20-hour stay in Ankara.
*All roads on the Pope's route will be periodically patrolled with explosive detectors.
*The Pope will be protected by Turkish and his own personal bodyguards.
*A vehicle escorting the Pope will be equipped with frequency-mixing devices.
*A special forces team stationed at Ankara’s Esenboga Airport and an extensive operation to scan for explosives carried out.

You know, that all seems really serious. Here, let's lighten up a little. I mean, after all, it was just something he said, whatever it was.

"There's a lot of tension in the world. Over the weekend, Pope Benedict apologized to the Muslims. Altar boys, on the other hand, are still waiting for their apology." --David Letterman

"Last week at Germany's University of Regensburg, which as you know is a safety school, Pope Benedict gave an address in which he discussed Islam's concept of jihad by quoting 14th century Byzantine emperor Manuel Paleologos II. You know if you're going to make a wholesale generalization, say it in German. It gives it that extra 'oomph." --Jon Stewart

"The Vatican has increased protection around the Pope. How ironic is that -- A Catholic using protection?" --Jay Leno

"Muslims all over the world are rioting because they are upset with the Pope. Again, I don't think President Bush understands these issues. Like today, he said, 'These Muslims, why can't they ask themselves what would Jesus do?" --Jay Leno

"In the West Bank a group calling itself the Lions of Monotheism fire bombed four churches, telling the Associated Press the attacks were carried out to protest the Pope's remarks linking Islam and violence. The irony of the statement, and this is often the case we find, was lost on them." --Jon Stewart

above photo: Aya Sophia, Istanbul

Happy Thanksgiving! (A Special Comment)

2006-11-23T01:06:00.000-08:00

Turkey jokes aside, I would like to wish everyone a very Happy Thanksgiving. Reflecting on this world, I only know two absolutes. Neither of them are about science or religion, though people on both sides would argue their involvement. And not one of them has to do with change because some things never change. On planet Earth, there has always been poverty, hunger, violence, despair and tragedy. Pain. On the other hand, there has also been family, friends, beer, sex, goodwill from strangers, large and small acts of kindness. Pleasure.

The purpose of this day, as it appears to me, is to remember the pain and give thanks for the pleasure at home and in the world. Our tradition is to be home with our families this day and have dinner together. Unfortunately, my family is parted this year. The paths we choose don't always coincide for the holidays, do they guys? However, each of us is thankful that at least, physically, we are out there... somewhere. Our encouragement and support is with each other always, no matter where we may be. I'm thankful for this. This goes for my friends also. You know who you are.

This morning, I woke up and, as usual, turned on CNN. As I shake the cobwebs out over a cup of tea, I like the background noise of anchormen forcing puns on today's headlines. But today there was no pun. I watched a segment about Baghdad where, due to the obscene number of killings, families are flooding the morgues, searching for their lost ones. There are so many people waiting in the lobby, that the workers at the morgues can't allow the families downstairs to identify the bodies. So, they've provided video screens. Dozens, if not hundreds, are all jammed in their together watching images of the deceased, one after another. They are watching to see if they recognize a family member. Some are difficult to recognize because they haven't even been cleaned up. Once a family identifies a body, they wait out in the street with a flimsy coffin.

Waiting for my classes to start, I'm reminded of one of Ataturk's famous sayings (in Turkey, aren't they all?): "Peace at home, peace in the world." For all those aid-workers, volunteers, fund-raisers and peacemakers out there, I'm thankful for you.

For you vegans, animal-rights activists and environmentalists who see the meat industry as destroying our planet, if you are right, then good luck. It's not easy going against tradition.

The world is a painful place for all Earth's creatures, I'm thankful for any pleasure any time we can get it.

So, I lied. I'll end this special post on a turkey joke.

A few weeks ago, I was watching the football match between Turkey and Hungary with some of my Turkish friends. They were joking about Hungary's name: "Hey, I'm Hungary." "What do you wanna eat?" -- this kind of thing. As they were laughing and carrying on, I said, "If you're so Hungary, why don't you eat a Turkey?" The smiles dropped from their faces.

"That's not funny."

Happy Thanksgiving! love, Jack

Little Did I Know...

2006-11-21T09:49:00.000-08:00

... after four desperate months of trying to land a job in San Francisco, then finally doing so, an encounter on the first day would ultimately lead me to Bursa, Turkey. I sat down in the director's office that day.

"You'll be teaching General English in the mornings and Business English in the afternoon," Gordon said.
"That's fine," I agreed. "But I've never taught Business English."
"Well let me put it to you this way. If an employer hands you a class and says this is what you're teaching, what do you do?"
"I teach it?"
"Right. So talk about cover letters, job interviews, talking on the phone, etc. Oh, and just so you know, they're going to be a little hostile because they've had a few different teachers the last couple weeks. So, just take control and tell them you are THEIR teacher and you're here to stay. No matter how much they complain. Just tell them that's it. You're THEIR teacher."

So I walked in the class and there was a mixture of silence, shock, cynicism -- but most of all -- attitude.

"Who are you?"
"Are you a student?"
"Where are you from -- you're a teacher!?"
"Another?"
"What happened to Janice?"
"Where's Eda? Is she coming today?"
"What's wrong with this school?"

"I'm going to talk to Gordon!"
"So how long will you be our teacher?"

I was diplomatic. A teacher can always say to another teacher "that's the industry," but you can't exactly pass the buck like that to a class who's ultimately paying your bills. These guys had a legitimate complaint, but it wasn't my fault. I just got here.

"I know you guys have had a lot of teachers and the class has changed alot. But I'm here and that's it. So I'm happy to be here, so let's start our lesson. Is everyone here? No? Who? Eda? From Turkey? Ok. Got it. Alright, (ahem) ... so, this is, uh, Business English. Who knows what a sweatshop is?"

Just then a girl walked in the room. She didn't take a seat. There was murmuring and snickering and I gathered that this was Eda. I felt the other students were about to enjoy this. Three observations struck me at the same time. She definitely had an attitude, she was going to cause me trouble... and she was stunning. Tall, with this long, wavy black skirt, a style I didn't understand -- something clearly foreign. Ah, she's Turkish, I remembered. She had this long curly hair. And big. That hair was big! So big and dark, the likes of which I have never seen in the US. Certainly not in my last 3 years in Asia. Those dark eyes were like two black cups of espresso because, at the time, I didn't know about Turkish coffee. Beautiful. I almost didn't notice she had gotten herself all ready to pounce on whatever teacher was in this room. However, what she got from this teacher was a big bright --

"Hi!"

It seemed she was a little taken aback and some of her intensity waned. But as I would get used to later, she never gave in easily. She said cooly:

"Look, I'm Eda and I'm going to make my TOEFL practice test in the computer lab. I'm just telling you because Gordon said I should. So, I won't be here."

"Ok," I said attempting a half-interested shrug.

Almost as if she expected more from me, she hesitated and said shortly "ok, bye" then walked out the door. I had a nanosecond to be sorry to see such a gorgeous girl leave my class -- and with such fire! I mean, I just got here. Where was she going?

"...so that's why I think sweatshops are good for a country's people," a Belgian student finished.

Where was she going? Where was I going? And just what the hell was that Belgian talking about?

Oh what little we knew.

"Why are you going there? Go to Istanbul."

2006-11-19T13:10:00.000-08:00

I can't tell you how many astonished Turks told me this before I came. Of course most of these were young students at my last gig in San Francisco and I guess I can understand why they don't like it here. It's tough being Bursa. Three hours away from it's rowdy, rocking neighbor to the north, it is a city well known for religious and cultural conservatism, and yet paradoxically where, according to a few Turks I've spoken with, "all the gays come from." Clearly, these type of generalizations might not appeal to the average young cosmo-Turk accustomed to all night club-spelunking and cocktails overlooking the glowing mosques of Istanbul.

So, Bursa gets bashed alot by non-Bursans (and sometimes Bursans alike). And it goes without saying most foreigners who haven't visited Turkey have probably never even heard of her.

Yeah, it's tough being Bursa. Or is it?

Actually, Bursans enjoy low unemployment and a booming automotive and textile industry. Companies like Renault and Fiat arrived awhile back and have gotten the first capital of the Ottoman Empire up and running again since the days of the Silk Trade, which actually never went away. According to the Lonely Planet, "if you visit in June or September, you may see some 14000 villagers...haggling over huge sacks of precious white cocoons." In addition to cars and silk, I've been told there is no shortage of towels being created here either.

As far as the people, I'm not sure if they're any more conservative than any other town. It's hard to compare her to bigger cities like Istanbul or Izmir or Ankara, just as it is comparing Louisville, Kentucky (with roughly the same population as Bursa) to New York. What Turkey's fourth largest city doesn't have in the way of infinite nightlife or multi-culturalism, it must make up for in kebab, mineral baths, hamams, notable mosques and historical importance. None other than Osman Gazi, founder of the Ottoman Empire, established Bursa as its first capital, and is buried up in the hills in the center of town alongside his successor Orhan.

And if you enjoy a perverse amount of meat over pita bread topped with copious amounts of butter, you can't beat Bursa's very own Iskender kebab. I personally can only eat it about once every 2 months, but the locals love it as do a few of my French friends. On the next day you may as well dislodge the chunks of cholesterol from your arteries with a little ski down Uludag mountain. Apparently it's the best ski resort in the country.

Although none of the above really answered the curious young Turks in San Francisco who asked me "Why are you going there?", my reply left little room for further wonder...

"GITMFVJSEN SDFJVJOSEN!!!!"

2006-11-16T11:36:00.000-08:00

He said.

At least that's what the driver sounded like to me. Actually,it was more like a desperate pouting from his greying head. Yeah yeah yeah. I'm coming dude. And with that he stomps off to the bus and leaves me there with the Bulgarian customs officer, who had just thrown my passport down in disgust. That was right before he walked off with it across the highway.

I would have worried a bit more had the Bulgarian woman not rushed up to me and say soothingly through her tar teeth and hoarse throat, "No problem!" She was the coach attendant-- the coach which engine was being revved up and the coach whose driver was yelling at me. That's one of the minor inconveniences of filling up your passport with stamps from around the world -- it's never exotic to baffle the border patrol.

I had just crossed over from Turkey and was headed to, well, Turkey. It was one of those visa runs you learn how to do from reading the forums on Dave's ESL cafe. We have to do it every 3 months to teach here. Some say the Ministry wants to keep unemployment down by retorting, "Why hire native English teachers at your school when you can hire Turkish English teachers?" That's a good question. I'll think about that on my way to Bulgaria and back.

I heard in Greece they want you to stay a night before going back, but in Bulgaria you can just go back immediately, which is clearly what the bus driver wanted. I was getting ready to give them some sob story about my girlfriend's in Turkey and I have to get back -- after all I'm not trying to do anything illegal. Not like the leather jacket smuggler on the bus from Istanbul. They call the highway up to Bulgaria the Laundry Line, due to all the illegal trafficking of clothes. This guy on the bus schmoozed me with a very warm polite conversation before asking me to to carry two leather jackets for him through customs.

"How many do you have?" I asked. There was no way I was gonna do it. He could have like heroin sewn in there somewhere. I've seen that movie.
"Four," he said.
"Just tell them they're for your family," I suggested.
"Yes. Tell them they for your family," he suggested.
"No. From YOUR family! Look man, maybe you can ask somebody else," I said. "I'm trying to get back into Istanbul squeaky clean."
"Yeah. I ask somebody else. No problem." he said amiably enough twisting to the guys seated behind us.

Nice guy. That is until my girlfriend called to check up on me and overheard their conversation.

"By the way, who's sitting next to you Jack?" she asked.
"Just some Turkish guy. He's ok."
"He's complaining about how foreigners are very rude to Turks."
"He just asked me to take some jackets through customs for him."
"DON'T DO IT!!!"
"I know, I know. I've seen that movie."
"Ahh. The hell with that movie!" None of the Turks are happy about that movie. What's the movie? I'll give you a hint: What's the only movie you have seen about Turkey? -- Which is precisely why they aren't pleased with it.

The bus driver revved it up again. He was stressed out trying to keep to his schedule. Finally, the same Bulgarian woman cajoled the customs guy to hand over my passport and let me get on the bus. So ZOOM we were off!!!

50 feet and we had to get off again and then I had to keep the driver waiting again because I was the only one who had to go to the police for a visa (which clearly states "Employment Prohibited"). Then I had to walk over to the white shack to pay for it. Then I had to go back to the polis (police) for a stamp. Then I ran back on the bus and ZOOM we were off!!!

50 feet and we had to get off again for the baggage inspection. And before I knew it I was back in Istanbul for a glass of wine, a glass of cognac and 6 glasses of beer.

Awaiting bag inspections (Background: burning trash, smells good)

In the Middle there was...

2006-11-16T00:09:00.000-08:00

A Faithful Reader! Welcome!

"Faithful?" You are no doubt scoffing. "Why, it's rather easy to be faithful in the beginning of a journey!" But dear reader, you are in fact, not at the start, but in the middle of a long tale -- 28 years in length no less. And as it is, your hero now resides in the bridge between the West and East. His road has led him from his cradle in Kentucky, to the wood of Indiana across the Heartland to the Gold sapped mountains of California, valliantly crossing the high seas to "nukyular" Korea, around the Peninsula to the Great Rising China, shooting back east through San Francisco for a year-long beer with his brother to his current snow soft home in Turkey with his girlffriend. And plenty of excursions in between you must read to believe!

And so it is now that I sit in suit and tie, drinking black Turkish tea with a clink clink clinkety of a small silver spoon in the glassy bulb of my glass, awaiting to educate the youth of Turkey in the global language (in which you read its very words!)

In the following posts, I believe you'll find a riveting story of adventure, intrigue, desire, darkness and love -- a yarn with it all! (hard work being the exception). But alas, that is the tale and this tale begins here.......... in the middle.