Cyprus

I went to Cyprus. As a tourist with an American passport, of course. I booked my trip through a travel agency. An all-inclusive package with cab rides to and from the airport. All that was left up to me was the in-between. I flew into The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, recognized only by Turkey, and, by default, a place that does not exist in the eyes of the rest of the world. I had no agenda.

I saw all of Guirne by the end of the first day, which consisted of a harbor and a castle. The next day I went to one pool and two casinos. I immediately lost 20 lira on video poker. Afterwards I took advantage of the free drinks and an overly friendly waiter who offered me cigarettes with my coke. I refused but he gave me chocolates instead. A consolation prize, I thought. First place money, second place smokes, third place sugar. At the second casino, the power went out twice over the course of a few minutes. No one moved. I imagined the legalities, and then remembered I wasn’t in the U.S. Everyone stood silent and motionless waiting for the lights to go on. I imagined the anticipation of the high rollers at the roulette wheel and craps table. Listening to the dice or that little white ball plunk on their lucky number, knowing their fate was sealed but unable to divine the outcome from darkness. We tried to go back the next day, but they wouldn’t let us in because my friend was wearing flip flops. I didn’t mind.

I figured we should cross the border into the Greek side because, well, because we could. You can’t say that about every border between contentious nations. When I looked back into Turkish Cyprus, a sign above the concrete boat reads: Northern Republic of Turkish Cyprus FOREVER. Didn’t have the same appeal as Welcome to Las Vegas or anything. I walked into Greece.

We took a shared taxi from our hotel in Guirne to Lefkosa, the border city. From there, we walked past a park, past a pile of bloody sheepskins surrounded by a halo of flies (likely slaughtered recently during Kurban Bayram - the sacrifice holiday), past deserted looking stores and down a tree lined street toward red and white striped security hatches in the distance. When the Turkish army invaded/intervened (your choice - depending which side of the fence you’re on) in 1974 during the Greek coup d’etat, their actions were justified/rationalized (again, choose your own adventure) by this statement: "each of the three guaranteeing Powers reserves the right to take action with the sole aim of re-establishing the state of affairs created by the present Treaty.” I will leave this ambiguous and open to interpretation, as did they.

We arrived at what appeared to be a ship sailing in cement. Actually, it was just a white oblong building with circular windows like portholes. As far as borders go, I was unimpressed. It wasn’t the vast militarized desert I looked upon through a fence on the Israel – Lebanon border. There was no hurry up and wait or excitement that comes with the potential nefarious activities as when heading to Tijuana. A border is a neutral zone, a no man’s land, neither here nor there. In theory. In practice, they are highly controlled and defined. Anyway, I went up to the window and displayed my passport. The woman behind the desk looked at my face, then down at my passport, then up at my face again. Stamp, stamp, stamp, and I was free run for the border.

Mythologically speaking, Cyprus is the birthplace of Aphrodite. Goddess of beauty and love. I’d like to be her, especially if I could look like Botticelli’s version. I would straddle the border and distract the military until they no longer knew what they were fighting for. These days, Goddesses get about as much respect as the tooth fairy.Just beyond the border, we passed an incongruous Ivy League looking building surrounded by a fortress style brick wall. I would’ve guessed it had some official function, not only because of the UN’s olive branch seal on the doors, but because privilege and power are always hidden behind impenetrable walls. A coil of barbed wire snaked atop the wall like an elongated notebook spiral. Heavy chains bound the doors, and through the crack I saw an armed guard. Buildings that looked as though they belonged on a southern plantation and cars with ornate hood ornaments were interspersed with charred, dilapidated houses. I wondered if it was left that way for effect.

On the Greek side I went to Starbucks and McDonalds. I went to a department store that resembled every other department store in the (first) world to the currency exchange on the top floor. I was bored and restless and intrigued. Every move I made. How disgustingly predictable, how totally pointless, how to make sense of the fact there was nothing out of the ordinary to make sense of. What was I supposed to do? Grab the microphone from the grade school choir singing Christmas carols in Greek and start interviewing people on the spot about what really happened? I drank my latte.

So throw me a bone – a time machine, a crystal ball, fluency in five or more languages, so that I can at least have the means to tell you more than you can read on Wikipedia.

I like to shop and eat, and when that is over, I like to walk around until it is time to shop and eat some more. Then I can put another pushpin on my National Geographic world map (or that silly places I’ve been Facebook application) and tell everyone about fantastic times here, there and everywhere. Or I could simply tell you this.

Winter Wonderings

It finally feels like winter here. Yesterday the air smelled deceptively of snow, but it turned out the heavens were only brewing cold air and freezing rain. Unless it is the bone chilling cold of the winters I grew up in, I refuse to believe I need a hat and gloves. In my mind Istanbul is still the sweltering city I came to over four months ago now. This is a new side of the city; the hard to catch a cab, swaddled under layers of clothing, can-see-my -breath–so-cold-side. It is a sort of cold that is usually thawed out by Salvation Army bells and decorations in the Marshall Fields windows (before it became Macys) and shopping for presents that will likey be returned before New Years. In recent years the cold only means its getting dark earlier, there is slush on your good boots, and your bus is delayed, you’re eating more and worrying about getting fat, or feeling motivated to go to Bikram yoga to work it off and feel warm for awhile. I do not much like this cold side of Istanbul that lacks the perks of winters I know, but then again I’ve been chasing warmth for many years.

I am headed South tomorrow, but I don’t know if Cyprus will be to Istanbul what Miami is to Chicago. The holiday coincides with Kurban Bayram, which traditionally is a day for the sacrific of cattle. My students gave me chocolate and told me eating sweets is what the holiday is all about. I’m sure it is both, or neither.

At a British hosted holiday party, some Turks asked my American colleages what their Christmas traditions were. Going shopping? Gorging ourselves at the dinner table? The beach, someone offered. We go to the beach and toss the frisbee around. That’s a nice tradition. Anyone can participate. You probably don’t have to be of a particular sex or age. It does not involve the ritual slaughter of animals. It does not involve a particular set of beliefs, like reverence to the frisbee god or frisbee commandments. The closest thing to a tradition I can think of is celebrating my mother’s Christmas birthday. Traditions seem passe, don’t they? I could give you a litany of what Jews do on Hanukkah, or Christains do on Christmas, but as for myself, well, I am not sure if there are many things I did then, plan to do here in Istanbul, or will do in the future.

The value of a thing comes in its repetition. There is nothing intrinsically special about the act of hanging ornaments or lighting the menorah. It is sacred or special precisely because it has been done before; specifically with the people you care about.

I am working on Christmas day, but there are plenty of holiday parties and events to keep me busy. I went over to Joanna’s to put up her fake Christmas tree. We listened to carols and ate hummus and beyaz penir (a cheese similar to feta) sandwiches on olive cibatta. I drank tea instead of diet coke, and eventually got a cab home in the freezing rain.

For the record: I am not a fan of airing ones dirty launry in public. Nor do I find value in blogs that document every hangnail and heartache as though worthy of front page news. I know, I know, its the facebook phenonmena, but there is something to be said for keeping some things to yourself. See what I mean? Now you're wondering what they are....

So lets just not call this dirty laundry....I mean, its not really laundry if you fold it neatly and put in back in the drawer even if it has stains, right? So please, be my guest: examine my blouse with the coffee stains, my dirty gym socks, my skirt with the red permanent marker on the behind. I haven't sorted it into light and dark.

Why does a woman spends her Saturday ripping apart a chicken to make stock? Carrots, celery, onion, salt, bay leaf, and the bones of a dead bird. Headline: Former vegetarian retches as she listenes to sockets pop and wishbone snap.

I am running – to North Beach, from Santa Monica to Venice and back, down McCormick Ave past sculpture park, around and around the Claremont colleges, through the Cook County forest preserve where sparrow wings are smelts shimmering along the Bosphorus from Yenikoy to Tarabiya. I am moving on fast forward, or they are going in slow motion, the fisherman who raise up hooks of rows of floundering fish, their tackle boxes cluttering the walkway. They have the right of way, not power walkers, not families strolling, not the runner, me. Quick: a simit stand with fresh sesame rings to the left, a tea table to the right, a bucket with half-alive bait straight ahead, get out of my fucking way.

There are so many places I want to go: The teahouse up and around the bend, the place called Passion with cheesecakes.I stare at the plates but people think I am looking at their faces....but I won't go alone. Or I will, and then I will want to leave.

Now I am walking, in my baggy pants and bulky sweatshirt, as unattractive as possible. I plug in my ipod but I can't find a soundtrack. I can’t listen to Dixie Chicks...I can’t listen to Shakira...I can’t listen to anything I listened to in California...I start, I stop. I break into run, and there are cars parked on the sidewalk. I step off the curb, and a motorcycle comes zipping around the bend. I start running, and a family is coming. I run in front of cars because I will be waiting until next December if I expect the world to stop for me here. I run across streets, accross cobblestones, accross my students. A boy and a girl. They are sitting, sweetly, on a bench. They smile, I wave. They seem startled to see me as a person instead of a teacher. They are having a talk, but I can tell by their postures they are new at these kind of talks, the boy and girl on a bench by the water on a Sunday morning kind of talks. I want to sit behind them and tell them what to say. Will they break up when they leave for college? Are they even together? Will they think of each other fondly or grow bitter?

Now I am running again. Fast. Sweating, wearing an unsupportive sports bra, I take up as much space as I please as my arms pump back and forth an my legs keep time with the bicycle way down the road in front of me. Rollerbladers in oakley sunglasses are the only insects on the trail, and moms who just had babies inside now push them in strollers. I know every curve and when I get to the tree with the tangled roots I'm almost there. I'm almost there. Thousands of miles and amost there. There is no fear that I will get lost, or find myself in a neighborhood of headscarved women who watch. It would be presumptuous to say judge.

I know: I’ll see if they sell soy sauce and ginger at the Macro center. I know: I’ll buy a cake and invite people over to eat it. I’ll get coffee and read the paper. But not alone. I know: I will make something. Yes, that sounds like a brilliant idea.

I am tired. I may or may not do crunches. I will probably rush to water in the form of a drink or a shower. I will catch up on foreign affairs in this order: CNN, Time, Tabloid. I will admit to myself I perfer novels to news and I think fiction is more honest than the truth. I will get my book and read until I will scold myself for being unproductive.

I will eat simply because its time. I will not talk to anyone. I will grade papers. I will have an inspiration for a lesson, decide it won't work, and do it anyway. I will sit on an overcrowded bus. I will do yoga and remove all stress form my life. I will wait for a call from anyone that says they love me and miss me. I will wonder what I am doing.