Wien

Vienna was bulging at its refined and delicately sewn seams with the stuff quintessential European cities are made of. So much so that down many a winding arcade, I felt like I’d walked onto the set of a period piece for a remake of one of Jane Austin’s novels (yes, I know they did not take place in Vienna). Compared to my narrow and cramped Istanbul (which, on rainy days, feels like all 17 million inhabitants are huddling under the same umbrella) Vienna felt towering and expansive. Even the sky looked more majestic. There was space. There were horse-drawn carriages with men in top-hats at the wheel. There was schnitzel and free coupons to wienerwurld restaurant, real coffee and not just Nescafe, and the best sushi I’ve had in months served by a cute old Japanese man whose hearty danke sheins were incongruous with his miniature body.

In many ways, Vienna is like any other city touched by the magic wand of globalization. Small designer shops are permanently transformed into Gucci and Fendi outlets with clothes out of my price range gracing the front window mannequins, and Starbucks will not turn back into a quaint Viennese café at midnight. I wondered what dressmakers or cobblers filled the storefronts before Dolce & Gabbana and Zara and Lacoste came in. These are the signposts that read Here and Now in any language; the irony is you know you’ve entered tourist territory when you see the ubiquitous designer brand name stores that line poshshoppingstreet, everycity, the world. How comforting that one can experience a completely different country without leaving the consumer familiarity of home.

The metro was full of half-baked weirdos, leathery old women prayed at church doors, vultures pawning pseudo-authentic opera tickets who tried to attack the tourists while their bodies were still warm from travel right off the metro.

It always amazes me when I make it back in one piece. There are countless things could go wrong over the course of any trip. The missed metro stops and mediocre half priced opera are merely incidental. This is what travel is made of I suppose.

The Hamam

Everyone seems to have a Turkish bath story. I have been to the hamam twice thus far; the first time in a hotel and the second as part of the Temal hot springs experience. The hamam makes me feel like I should be reverent, as if I am to experience a baptism of sorts. Yet while thinking about getting my entirely exposed body scrubbed to a pulp, I am anything but. This time, my friends and I have gone to a proper bath (hamam) and by proper I mean there is a pile of chopped wood to the left of the doorway, and we have to climb a precarious latter to reach the second tier changing room. The place is humble and low key, traits which the guidebooks often equate with authentic. Translation: it is not overly sanitized, no one who works there speaks English and the procedure for what the hamam experience entails is not made completely clear. There is absolutely nothing I see so far that reminds me of the glossy ads in TimeOut Istanbul.

I strip down to my underwear and put on old lady slippers. We are ushered in to sit by one of the sinks with old-fashioned handles shaped like spades. There are colorful plastic bowls and we are instructed to douse ourselves with water. You must follow the order (although what that is remains unclear), or face the wrath of the old woman wearing nothing but saggy underpants and a kerchief who runs the joint, as my friend found out when she tried to wash before her scrub. She was immediately reprimanded with a firm slap on the back. We splashed water on ourselves and laughed while our skin absorbed the moisture. I felt like some mystery meat that had been set out to defrost. Ah, the anticipation before the scrub...not exactly sitting in the waiting room reading People before your green tea facial, but this wasn’t Burke Williams.

I waited for what felt like forever. My pores looked open, my skin supple. I went from defrosting to a chicken basting in my own juices. I sat in my underwear waiting until it was my turn to lay face down on the marble.Finally, the lady screeched in my direction, which I guess meant I was up to the plate.

Her prune face placed her in grandmother territory, but her strong legs and vivaciousness put her in the middle-aged category. She was probably timeless, perhaps having spent most of her life in the steamy tranquility of the hamam.

She grabbed a bowl to rinse the dead skin flakes from the floor, and the motioned for me to lay on the heated marble. She then proceeded to scrub with the same mitt she had used on the previous moistened body. I knew I should’ve brought my own mitt.

She signaled it was time to turn with a slab of the thigh or back. I was on my back, stomach, and sides with an arm overhead in some version of a sexy cheesecake pose. She seemed pleased at all the grime that was falling off me like grey snowflakes. I had no idea I was so dirty. I tried not to think about bacteria or water bugs, or look at the old lady crouching in front of me. I found it oddly cathartic to watch my skin slough off.

I rinsed, I toweled off, and put on fresh clothes. When I went back to the changing area, I noticed a tiny window into the men’s side through which money was exchanged for water. This made me realize there could be many such holes coming from the men’s side or even the roof of the hamam. A not so comforting thought.

Despite the unconventional circumstances, I felt clean and refreshed in body and mind. Its amazing what shedding your old skin can do.

Promises, Promises (a belated New Year's story)

New Years does’t phase me. You can keep your champagne flutes and sparkily silver hats. I feel no need to engage in debauchery as one last hurrah before I go cold turkey on whatever vices delude myself into thinking I will give up on New Year’s Day. I am perpetually crossing lines I have made for myself, constantly repenting, and then drawing the lines closer, tighter, firmer.


Do: read more, eat less, be more assertive, be less neurotic.

I am always making resolutions, not out of choice, but out of obligation.

Be: organized, unassuming, cool as a cucumber.

Mine are not instantaneous transformations. There’s the one minute you’re a smoker the next your not resolutions – but the brand of resolutions I a m speaking of requires slightly more moral certitude and time. A history of actions , evidence that one can point to as proof of your new and improved self.

Learn: to cook, belly dance, speak more Turkish.


New Years gives us infinite second chances without having to repent , confess, or apologize. Even you atheist secular humanists need forgiveness. The slate is wiped clean and get a brand new box of crayolas to desecrate it with.

But what would starting fresh really entail? Can you esponge the memories? Reputations? Past lives?

Brush your hair, don’t let the dishes pile up, eat three meals a day, post your blog,
stay in touch, don’t take it personally, investing not spending, news not tabloids.

No matter how much you improve, you are still fallible.

Loose that last five pounds, renovate that old room, don’t loose your temper, say thank you and I’m sorry.

What exactly are you striving for?


(perfection)

You’ll never be perfect.