Pardon me in advance. I must begin with a flowery extended metaphor.
If you have ever dared to move beyond the black and white squares of the circumstances of your birth on the grand chessboard that is life, you have experienced the joy of anticipating an idealized otherworld and the letdown when the fantasy becomes reality. What looked like the pinnacle is merely a plateau, and climbing higher, further, faster becomes a strange intoxicating addiction. You become dependent on constant injections of freedom and really living, knowing that the next summit or curve in the road is it. But once again turns out it isn’t. You will have finally arrived. But you won’t. Not now, not ever.
Last night, as I sat at an outdoor café, I was flanked by the many faces of Istanbul: Behind me: two contentious looking middle-aged men up in each other's grills arguing about something I couldn't understand. In front of me: my rum and coke, which came as a can of diet coke and, fifteen minutes later, an icy glass of rum. To the right: a butcher shop with a window display of hearts (I'm guessing of the bovine variety) the color of vamp nail polish hanging on a string, one above the other, like those cheesy chili pepper decorative lights gracing shop windows in lands far away. To the left (to the left - gotta love Beyonce): A mass of fascinating humanity I must view as a large group for fear of accidentally giving a man the eye. Below: foul smelling water coursing its way over my left heel through a shallow indentation between the street and the sidewalk (I think one of the fish sellers had poured a bucket of pescified water down the street). Above: the naked sky and those scintillating stars, as far away as ever. Oh, Istanbul.
So here I am. This is it. This is what the scattered seeds of an idea look like when they have come to fruition. They are planted firmly in space and time. I can put a date on it. I have a memory. I can point to the concrete, the physical. Then you say to yourself and your friend, do you ever think, gosh, we're in Istanbul? It never feels the same as when you imagined because between the dream and the reality you've had the pain of applications and visas, you're trying to avoid getting fish water on your shoe, you are asking yourself why you wore such uncomfortable shoes in the first place, thinking about which bar to go to next, if you really have to get up the next morning, and wondering when the rum half of your rum and coke will arrive. When you break it down into its components, its just another day. But I bet the stars look down and think, how wonderful.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Currency
Why must I continue to wax on about my cultural experience? Seven months in and that new car smell is gone. The thrill of novelty is waning. I have more “normal” days and fewer substantially different or what I’d consider quintessentially Turkish days. Besides, what makes an average day of living – riding the bus, going to work, eating breakfast at the organic market, nearly getting run over by a motorcycle – less authentic than a day spent experiencing Istanbul in one of two extremes - some touristy version of the city that everyone recognizes, or the hard to find nooks and crannies nestled in back alleys and sides streets that only locals know about? Will the real Istanbul please stand up?
Here’s the truth: I still have diet coke and chocolate for lunch sometimes instead of the hot Turkish cuisine served at my school. I still hate smelly buses, being fawned over at restaurants, and I’d rather do my squats at the gym than over an Asian style oriental toilet. Most nights I’d rather pop something in the microwave and turn on CNN than experience the city. Or maybe go to McDonalds for one of those sundaes in a cup. I’d rather go to the supermarket and pick things out from the shelf myself than go to the fruit stands and have to interact with another human being.
At this point, I am in a strange adolescent phase of being abroad somewhere between tourist and feeling at home. Yet you cannot inoculate yourself against cultural adaptation. Nor can you go through some genetic mutation to become something other than what you are. You can develop an adaptation, like a cactus in the desert that needs little water to survive, but never, ever will you change your stripes. (I’m not trying to be profound here – just setting you up). I’ve often thought there was a window of opportunity during which a person becomes who they are. You grow and evolve, but become a stubborn curmudgeon about your views and beliefs by the time you hit 30. The same can be said for tastes. You can acquire a taste for sushi, or learn to love putting yogurt on everything, but nothing will ever be as satisfying as what you have grown up learning to love.
But I digress. Carpets are to Istanbul what the Eiffel tower is to Paris. Actually, that’s not true. They are simply in every glossy tourism ad picture you see of Istanbul, along with minarets and the Bosporus. Usually they’re flying with little tassels on the end, and maybe there’s even some distant cousin of Aladdin smiling in the foreground. Oops, now I’m infringing on Middle Eastern stereotypes. I guess it doesn’t really matter. If you’re coming for culture, does it matter which one it is?
The difference is what you’re after, right?
Carpet shopping is an art, not an errand you run between groceries and the hardware store. You have to put aside at least two hours if you want to do it right and get what you came for: That personalized touch. That authentic taste of Turkish culture. That brush with past. That genuine I am so satisfied with my product feeling. You won’t find that at Ikea or Cost Plus. So when you buy a carpet from a bazaar, you are not just buying a rectangle of woven wool. You are buying cultural connotations, iconography, symbolism. (What does the carpet represent?) It is about paying a price for what can’t be bought. But then again, it wouldn’t have value if it didn’t have a price. As disciples of modernity, at a couple hundred dollars a pop for a rug we need to work hard to show how much we value the quaint, the old world and the kitsch. The commodification of the intangible is what you get, even if you don’t really want a rug.
This is how it’s done: First, you can’t rush into anything. You have to go through the process and engage in warm up conversation before you even being talking carpets. Shopping for carpets begins with brief chit chat and a request for coffee or tea. Then the Carpet Guy’s right hand man (in this case, a striking male Turkish version of Vanna White) begins to unfurl the carpets like the majestic banners of history that they are. You inhale the dust. You stare at the intricate geometric patterns until you go cross-eyed. The rugs accumulate in piles on the floor. You listen to Carpet Guy’s brief description: This is a cotton on wool rug that comes from the town of Kasyeri. You have no idea what that really means. You state the obvious: The borders on that one are so unusual. How ever did they weave antelopes into this one? You sneeze from all the dust. You order another round of tea. The “maybe” pile is growing at a rate twice that of the “no” pile. You can’t really afford a carpet, but you’re in Istanbul. The carpet guy steps out for a cigarette. Your friends tell you what they really think. You want everything and nothing at all.
If you go to the right carpet guy, every carpet will be beautiful. Therefore, you need some kind of criteria for narrowing it down besides your good judgment: Sorry, I’m out on the floral pattern. Nope, not interested in rugs with antelopes, or any other horned creature. Only rugs with wool died by hand, please. And so it goes.
Maybe when people buy a carpet, they feel they are purchasing a piece of the Spice route or gaining access to an ancient Harem. But that Istanbul has become but a subtle layer of the city, one that is dwarfed by traffic, Turkish flags and multi-national fast-food chains.
If ever I earn enough disposable income to buy an item off my unnecessary and materialistic list, a Turkish carpet will not be first. A really comfy mattress with a remote control to alter my sleep levels, a fine piece of art, one of those George Clooney endorsed espresso machines – all things on my needless materialist list before a rug. But you can’t leave Istanbul without one!
There once was a time, long before the internet and transatlantic flights, when you couldn’t get certain things even in certain developed corners of the Earth. A thing is precious because it is rare. It is rarity, not preciousness, that is becoming obsolete. So the whole “this is special because you can’t get it anywhere else argument doesn’t hold water anymore.” Nor is it hard to access – someone reappropriated flying across the Atlantic to skipping over the pond long ago. You can do a search Ebay. You can find a million knockoffs. The desire to make ones home into a global smörgåsbord comes in tandem with a particular social status. Instead of conquering new worlds, you can have domestic imperialism right in your own home. So instead of buying rarity, what do we do? We create it – in the form of genetically engineered glow in the dark bunnies and fusion cuisine. A different sort of uniqueness has evolved – that of the hybrid. But that is another blog for another day.
I still don’t think I’ll leave Istanbul without a carpet.
Here’s the truth: I still have diet coke and chocolate for lunch sometimes instead of the hot Turkish cuisine served at my school. I still hate smelly buses, being fawned over at restaurants, and I’d rather do my squats at the gym than over an Asian style oriental toilet. Most nights I’d rather pop something in the microwave and turn on CNN than experience the city. Or maybe go to McDonalds for one of those sundaes in a cup. I’d rather go to the supermarket and pick things out from the shelf myself than go to the fruit stands and have to interact with another human being.
At this point, I am in a strange adolescent phase of being abroad somewhere between tourist and feeling at home. Yet you cannot inoculate yourself against cultural adaptation. Nor can you go through some genetic mutation to become something other than what you are. You can develop an adaptation, like a cactus in the desert that needs little water to survive, but never, ever will you change your stripes. (I’m not trying to be profound here – just setting you up). I’ve often thought there was a window of opportunity during which a person becomes who they are. You grow and evolve, but become a stubborn curmudgeon about your views and beliefs by the time you hit 30. The same can be said for tastes. You can acquire a taste for sushi, or learn to love putting yogurt on everything, but nothing will ever be as satisfying as what you have grown up learning to love.
But I digress. Carpets are to Istanbul what the Eiffel tower is to Paris. Actually, that’s not true. They are simply in every glossy tourism ad picture you see of Istanbul, along with minarets and the Bosporus. Usually they’re flying with little tassels on the end, and maybe there’s even some distant cousin of Aladdin smiling in the foreground. Oops, now I’m infringing on Middle Eastern stereotypes. I guess it doesn’t really matter. If you’re coming for culture, does it matter which one it is?
The difference is what you’re after, right?
Carpet shopping is an art, not an errand you run between groceries and the hardware store. You have to put aside at least two hours if you want to do it right and get what you came for: That personalized touch. That authentic taste of Turkish culture. That brush with past. That genuine I am so satisfied with my product feeling. You won’t find that at Ikea or Cost Plus. So when you buy a carpet from a bazaar, you are not just buying a rectangle of woven wool. You are buying cultural connotations, iconography, symbolism. (What does the carpet represent?) It is about paying a price for what can’t be bought. But then again, it wouldn’t have value if it didn’t have a price. As disciples of modernity, at a couple hundred dollars a pop for a rug we need to work hard to show how much we value the quaint, the old world and the kitsch. The commodification of the intangible is what you get, even if you don’t really want a rug.
This is how it’s done: First, you can’t rush into anything. You have to go through the process and engage in warm up conversation before you even being talking carpets. Shopping for carpets begins with brief chit chat and a request for coffee or tea. Then the Carpet Guy’s right hand man (in this case, a striking male Turkish version of Vanna White) begins to unfurl the carpets like the majestic banners of history that they are. You inhale the dust. You stare at the intricate geometric patterns until you go cross-eyed. The rugs accumulate in piles on the floor. You listen to Carpet Guy’s brief description: This is a cotton on wool rug that comes from the town of Kasyeri. You have no idea what that really means. You state the obvious: The borders on that one are so unusual. How ever did they weave antelopes into this one? You sneeze from all the dust. You order another round of tea. The “maybe” pile is growing at a rate twice that of the “no” pile. You can’t really afford a carpet, but you’re in Istanbul. The carpet guy steps out for a cigarette. Your friends tell you what they really think. You want everything and nothing at all.
If you go to the right carpet guy, every carpet will be beautiful. Therefore, you need some kind of criteria for narrowing it down besides your good judgment: Sorry, I’m out on the floral pattern. Nope, not interested in rugs with antelopes, or any other horned creature. Only rugs with wool died by hand, please. And so it goes.
Maybe when people buy a carpet, they feel they are purchasing a piece of the Spice route or gaining access to an ancient Harem. But that Istanbul has become but a subtle layer of the city, one that is dwarfed by traffic, Turkish flags and multi-national fast-food chains.
If ever I earn enough disposable income to buy an item off my unnecessary and materialistic list, a Turkish carpet will not be first. A really comfy mattress with a remote control to alter my sleep levels, a fine piece of art, one of those George Clooney endorsed espresso machines – all things on my needless materialist list before a rug. But you can’t leave Istanbul without one!
There once was a time, long before the internet and transatlantic flights, when you couldn’t get certain things even in certain developed corners of the Earth. A thing is precious because it is rare. It is rarity, not preciousness, that is becoming obsolete. So the whole “this is special because you can’t get it anywhere else argument doesn’t hold water anymore.” Nor is it hard to access – someone reappropriated flying across the Atlantic to skipping over the pond long ago. You can do a search Ebay. You can find a million knockoffs. The desire to make ones home into a global smörgåsbord comes in tandem with a particular social status. Instead of conquering new worlds, you can have domestic imperialism right in your own home. So instead of buying rarity, what do we do? We create it – in the form of genetically engineered glow in the dark bunnies and fusion cuisine. A different sort of uniqueness has evolved – that of the hybrid. But that is another blog for another day.
I still don’t think I’ll leave Istanbul without a carpet.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Snowjob
I've often sacrified warmth for the sake of fashion, but I found out the hard way that fingerless gloves are not worth the frostbite. My big booted snowprints were followed by a pack of pawprints belonging to naieve kanines who thought I looked kind enough to give shelter to stray dogs. They found out the hard way I am not as kind as I look. You'd think the iditarod stretched between the taxi and my front door.
Its hard to believe that just last week I was sifting sand out of my bikini and worrying that my peeling nose was a sign of skin cancer. But that was Thailand, and this is Istanbul. Just when I decided that sun worship was the closest I'd come to divine revelation, a huge snowstrom came into my forecast.
Around Valentine's Day snow is always in the air. Not for the lovers, but for the loveless. Maybe the broken hearted need something spontaneous and pure to restore their faith in love. Something like snow They can absorb the swirling white beauty and replace fragile hearts with unbreakable snowglobes, the fresh flakes beating new life into stale memories, making them crisp and beautiful again. It is still February and I am already in a Spring state of mind, what with my my newly renewed vow to get in shape and a brand new juicer - my new toy, my personal Jamba Juice, my symbol of endless summer - sparkling in my kitchen.
I was told that Istanbul has four seasons, just not to the extremes as, say, the ones in Chicago. Not as extreme in temperature perhaps, but more extreme in degree. It has more to do with circumstances than temperature. If its hot, its sweltering, if there's traffic, its at a standstill, if you're going out at night, you're coming in with the sunrise. If it snows, the pace is slower, the cold is more bitter, and the world is harder. On me, specifically. Hence, the day of a blizzard, I ran out of gas.
Its not that I haven't noticed the odd looking tank under my sink for the past six months. I just didn't realize how gas got from that tank into my stove. Perhaps I subconsciously thought the little gas faries kept refilling it. Or I simply haven't used an entire canister of gas yet, the times I turn on the stove being few and far between.
This being Istanbul, a city of extreme degree, I ran out of gas the day of a blizzard, the same day I had sudden, insatiable craving for Mexican food. No Mexican is not Tapas from the mall you people who have never been south of the boarder. It was the day I trudged to the store in the snow to purchase tobasco sauce (picante), cliantro(fresh) cajun seasonings,(ow ow!) lavaş wraps (as close to tortillas as I could get), all at imported international prices. The day I chopped and sauteed and soaked until the moment when the beans were nearly cooked, the rice was nearly soft, and my gas totally, absolutely, completely, fully empty. The phase now your cooking with gas came to mind, except I wasn't.
But back to my new love: the juicer. (My friend got engaged and I got a juicer - whose the lucky one?) After ten days of fresh tropical juice in Thailand, I decided I couldn't live without it. My juicer eats everything - even broccoli - and makes it palatable when mixed with oranges and carrots. Juicing and watching the snow makes me disproportionaltely happy, in the same way that eating alone makes me disproportionately sad. But I guess it has to with living in a city of extreme degrees. At least I can drink my meals from now on.
Its hard to believe that just last week I was sifting sand out of my bikini and worrying that my peeling nose was a sign of skin cancer. But that was Thailand, and this is Istanbul. Just when I decided that sun worship was the closest I'd come to divine revelation, a huge snowstrom came into my forecast.
Around Valentine's Day snow is always in the air. Not for the lovers, but for the loveless. Maybe the broken hearted need something spontaneous and pure to restore their faith in love. Something like snow They can absorb the swirling white beauty and replace fragile hearts with unbreakable snowglobes, the fresh flakes beating new life into stale memories, making them crisp and beautiful again. It is still February and I am already in a Spring state of mind, what with my my newly renewed vow to get in shape and a brand new juicer - my new toy, my personal Jamba Juice, my symbol of endless summer - sparkling in my kitchen.
I was told that Istanbul has four seasons, just not to the extremes as, say, the ones in Chicago. Not as extreme in temperature perhaps, but more extreme in degree. It has more to do with circumstances than temperature. If its hot, its sweltering, if there's traffic, its at a standstill, if you're going out at night, you're coming in with the sunrise. If it snows, the pace is slower, the cold is more bitter, and the world is harder. On me, specifically. Hence, the day of a blizzard, I ran out of gas.
Its not that I haven't noticed the odd looking tank under my sink for the past six months. I just didn't realize how gas got from that tank into my stove. Perhaps I subconsciously thought the little gas faries kept refilling it. Or I simply haven't used an entire canister of gas yet, the times I turn on the stove being few and far between.
This being Istanbul, a city of extreme degree, I ran out of gas the day of a blizzard, the same day I had sudden, insatiable craving for Mexican food. No Mexican is not Tapas from the mall you people who have never been south of the boarder. It was the day I trudged to the store in the snow to purchase tobasco sauce (picante), cliantro(fresh) cajun seasonings,(ow ow!) lavaş wraps (as close to tortillas as I could get), all at imported international prices. The day I chopped and sauteed and soaked until the moment when the beans were nearly cooked, the rice was nearly soft, and my gas totally, absolutely, completely, fully empty. The phase now your cooking with gas came to mind, except I wasn't.
But back to my new love: the juicer. (My friend got engaged and I got a juicer - whose the lucky one?) After ten days of fresh tropical juice in Thailand, I decided I couldn't live without it. My juicer eats everything - even broccoli - and makes it palatable when mixed with oranges and carrots. Juicing and watching the snow makes me disproportionaltely happy, in the same way that eating alone makes me disproportionately sad. But I guess it has to with living in a city of extreme degrees. At least I can drink my meals from now on.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
An Airport Triplet
Place: Doha, Qatar
Signage: Arabic and English
Purpose: Passing through
Birkenstocked hippies and Arabs in dishdashahs and shumaggs and British boys in board shorts and women adjusting their headscarves, saris, jeans, children’s diapers in the bathroom and a wife in a burka and does she wonder why her husband can wear jeans and a tee-shirt? East or West? White or brown? Bible or qur’an? Fate, free will, or manifest destiny? Coming or going? Busines or pleasure? Divisions that turn to schisms, oh count the ways. Indians and Arabs and Asians and Africans oh my! Perhaps they would rather I identify them as sunni or CEO or Bahrainian, but my eyes are not trained to to distinguish such subtlies of humanity they way I can spot an American on vacation (and likely guess their state) from a mile away.
So I couldn’t spot a Qatarian from a line-up.
Its clean! Its new! Its in the middle of the desert!
Doha Airport=Muslim country=no alcohol=disgruntled friends. There was, however, an A&W, and root beer had to suffice.
Place: Bangkok, Thailand
Signage: Thai and English
Purpose: Home base
Moving walkways, check, flat screen televisions, check, flight attendendants in modified traditional Asian dress for a pseudo-authentic image, check, entrance to VIP lounge with my Bangkok Air ticket stub (free popcorn!), check, “Long Live the King” posters commerating the bespecled Monarch, check, the international vibe in which everyone kinda fits in an no one really belongs, check, a Boots store, (the British equivalent of Walgreens) check, infinately long lines at passport control, check, suffocating smoking lounges, check, smooth check out of international and check into domestic for the last leg of my journey, check, check.
Then I see it. It hovers high above the check-counters like a mirage. After 11 hours, one stopover, and final 3 hr. layover to go, the frosted glass sliding doors could be the gates of heaven, the cashier could be St Pete. The Sky Lounge. It exudes exculsivity, but in reality it turns out to be an upscale cafeteria. Still, it is the closest thing to Whole Foods I have seen in months. There’s the bakery block, sushi section, traditional thai dishes and western cuisine. Anything your heart desires. I opt for a muffin and a tropical fruit plate. So clean, so efficient, so streamlined. So what?
Place: Ko Samui, Thailand
Signage: Thai and English
Purpose: R&R
The roofs are thatched, the walls are empty space, the luggage carousel is small and dainty. There are no fast food chains, no PA announcements, no endlessly long terminal, no confusion as to where the baggage claim is because there is only one. Skanky men pick up their hired girlfriends, who look classier than their pot-bellied purchasers.
The runways are sandwiched between endless palm trees, like a smooth tarmac band-aid squashing all the hairs beneath it. The tram ride from the runway to the main building is more of a senic drive than a mere transfer of people. It is tropical local first, airport second.
There is none of the how much, how to, what time business to worry about. There are shuttle busses to all of the various tourist destinations around the island for a few bucks. It is a big island, but a small place as far as place go.The hustle and buslte associated with airports is gone. I am struck by this fact: It is easy, laid back, and reminded of why people (i.e. myself) like to get away from it all.
Signage: Arabic and English
Purpose: Passing through
Birkenstocked hippies and Arabs in dishdashahs and shumaggs and British boys in board shorts and women adjusting their headscarves, saris, jeans, children’s diapers in the bathroom and a wife in a burka and does she wonder why her husband can wear jeans and a tee-shirt? East or West? White or brown? Bible or qur’an? Fate, free will, or manifest destiny? Coming or going? Busines or pleasure? Divisions that turn to schisms, oh count the ways. Indians and Arabs and Asians and Africans oh my! Perhaps they would rather I identify them as sunni or CEO or Bahrainian, but my eyes are not trained to to distinguish such subtlies of humanity they way I can spot an American on vacation (and likely guess their state) from a mile away.
So I couldn’t spot a Qatarian from a line-up.
Its clean! Its new! Its in the middle of the desert!
Doha Airport=Muslim country=no alcohol=disgruntled friends. There was, however, an A&W, and root beer had to suffice.
Place: Bangkok, Thailand
Signage: Thai and English
Purpose: Home base
Moving walkways, check, flat screen televisions, check, flight attendendants in modified traditional Asian dress for a pseudo-authentic image, check, entrance to VIP lounge with my Bangkok Air ticket stub (free popcorn!), check, “Long Live the King” posters commerating the bespecled Monarch, check, the international vibe in which everyone kinda fits in an no one really belongs, check, a Boots store, (the British equivalent of Walgreens) check, infinately long lines at passport control, check, suffocating smoking lounges, check, smooth check out of international and check into domestic for the last leg of my journey, check, check.
Then I see it. It hovers high above the check-counters like a mirage. After 11 hours, one stopover, and final 3 hr. layover to go, the frosted glass sliding doors could be the gates of heaven, the cashier could be St Pete. The Sky Lounge. It exudes exculsivity, but in reality it turns out to be an upscale cafeteria. Still, it is the closest thing to Whole Foods I have seen in months. There’s the bakery block, sushi section, traditional thai dishes and western cuisine. Anything your heart desires. I opt for a muffin and a tropical fruit plate. So clean, so efficient, so streamlined. So what?
Place: Ko Samui, Thailand
Signage: Thai and English
Purpose: R&R
The roofs are thatched, the walls are empty space, the luggage carousel is small and dainty. There are no fast food chains, no PA announcements, no endlessly long terminal, no confusion as to where the baggage claim is because there is only one. Skanky men pick up their hired girlfriends, who look classier than their pot-bellied purchasers.
The runways are sandwiched between endless palm trees, like a smooth tarmac band-aid squashing all the hairs beneath it. The tram ride from the runway to the main building is more of a senic drive than a mere transfer of people. It is tropical local first, airport second.
There is none of the how much, how to, what time business to worry about. There are shuttle busses to all of the various tourist destinations around the island for a few bucks. It is a big island, but a small place as far as place go.The hustle and buslte associated with airports is gone. I am struck by this fact: It is easy, laid back, and reminded of why people (i.e. myself) like to get away from it all.
Monday, January 21, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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Sisyphus
"The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a [wo]man's heart." (No, this is not my lover)
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