Happy Halloween!! October 31, 2008

Although I'm a tiny bit embarrassed to share this with you, I said I would so...here you go!

Halloween is an iconic American tradition, and I’m happy I decided to come home in time to participate. I have a Cat Woman costume that borders on obscene (and yes, those of you who appreciate me for more than my mind, I promise to post a picture) and a whole lot of enthusiasm to be back in a land where I can eavesdrop and actually understand what’s being said.

I also got home in time to vote. I won’t get into my politics – although it might make for a more popular blog in the short run – as I largely agree with anyone who suggests that it’s pretty much six of one, half-dozen of the other (meaning all candidates are largely interchangeable in the big picture). At the same time, I can’t say I’ll miss George W. If anything, my association with the man (association being that I happen to hail from the country he governs) has been the source of much antagonism and ill-will throughout Europe.

I believe in method acting.

In particular, I recall a Greek cabbie who – without any discussion of my views whatsoever – launched into a fairly intense diatribe upon learning that I was American. The point repeated over and over was that, “After the towers fell, everyone was for America. Everyone. We were all for America. But then George Bush ruined that. He ruined America.”

I’m not suggesting that’s a coherent or well-phrased argument, but I will say that it summarizes the feelings of EVERYONE who dared to share an opinion the last three months. It’s sad to me that we have lost the respect of the greater world, and it seems a crying shame.

But enough about that. It’s Halloween, and I’m home. And tomorrow is a brand new day. And come Tuesday it’s a brand new presidency. And in the middle of all this opportunity is my brand new life. And anything is possible.

I’m off to squeeze into a poorly made shiny plastic outfit and find some good old fashioned fun. Whether or not you celebrate Halloween, I wish you a wonderful Saturday night! Take stock of what’s going RIGHT in your life, and make a toast to happiness: “May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, the foresight to know where you are going, and the insight to know when you have gone too far.”

Goodbye with a smile

Right after I cleared customs at JFK. Looking surprisingly lively for having been up 26 consecutive hours (with more to go!) As an aside, the customs process we've set up for visitors (with the fingerprint and the photo and all that) is the living, breathing definition of clusterf-ck.

It’s nice to be back among people who flush their toilet paper. In Turkey – if there is any – they want you to throw it into a community trash bin or just on the floor in the general vicinity. Either way. this practice ensures a perpetual state of horror for the Western user. It’s also a fairly solid guarantee that the entire room always smells like a construction site Port-a-potty that’s been baking in the sun for a month.

Having lived with this TP scenario for the last three weeks, I thought I’d seen it all. That was until the water stopped running at the hostel last night, and things turned a little bit “Midnight Express.” After defiling the three bathrooms (which wasn’t much of a stretch), the natives grew restless. My friend and I were up late into the night, and at one point I heard water running. “It’s back on!” I told her happily, and she listened for a moment and informed me that what we were actually listening to was the sound of men urinating in the shower next to our room. ***cringe***

But, as you know, that is behind us now. I’m on an Air France flight from Paris to New York, and she is on a train to Macedonia. Although I’m in economy class, the trip seems positively luxurious. There’s a little TV in the back of the seat in front of me with dozens of movies (I just watched “Baby Mama” and “Sex and the City” and have moved on to “Hancock”), they served me a decent hot dinner that wasn’t a greasy schwarma sandwich, and no one has gratuitously hit on me in thirteen hours. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Turkey, but the men really need to get a grip.

We never actually got into the Blue Mosque the first time around, so we went back yesterday. Our timing was once again off, as prayer was in full swing, so my friend went to the bathroom, and I waited outside by the entrance while some guy shot a video of me. That ought to be some fascinating footage – me minding my own business, then realizing what was happening and transitioning from self-conscious to annoyed. It occurred to me that this must be a small taste of what it’s like to be a celebrity – you can’t get five feet down the street without people hassling you. Admittedly, in that case there are a few more perks (millions of dollars, mansions, fancy dinners, creative work, etc.), but it would still be a drag to put up with that day after day after day.

Anyway, imagine my surprise when I saw my friend approaching and chatting with a man in a suit. They shook hands, and as they drew closer I recognized him: The Blue Mosque Man from two days before!!! The jerk that treated her like crap! Could it be?? Was he apologizing for his behavior?

They came up, and I looked at her wide-eyed. He turned, put out a hand, and introduced himself as if we had never met.. Wha….???? I said to her, “Isn’t that the….???” and she said, “Yes.”

“What did you just say to her?” he snapped.

In hindsight, what I SHOULD have said is “That I recognize you. You met us two days ago, and you’re a total dick. Go away,” but instead I felt intimidated by the way he was looking at me, and went into an inadvertent Helen Keller impersonation – deaf, dumb, and blind. I completely ignored him and grabbed her. He followed us for a little while, and – true to form – took his leave with a rude comment. And he wasn’t the only guy to turn hostile when rebuffed yesterday. Un-freaking-believable. They should make these guys wear a sign.

But don’t get me wrong. I’m a fan of Turkey, and I would recommend visiting EVEN IF you have blue eyes and blond hair. Honestly. I would like to go back and see the areas I didn’t get to visit and spend some more time on the coast.

Güle güle (pronounced goolay goolay and probably not too bad sung to the tune of “Wooly Bully”) is one of the key phrases of my (pitifully limited) Turkish vocabulary. It means ‘goodbye with a smile’, and despite the annoyances and troubles and the concern that I might be forced to open a can of American whoop @ss on some unsuspecting guy, I am leaving there with a smile.

Otherwise, I’m kind of a weird mix of emotions right now. I’m ready to take a break from the traveling for a while, but I don’t know what happens next. I don’t have my career or even a job to return to, and I know deep inside I don’t want to go back down that road if I can possibly help it. I feel a little scared, but the plan is to channel that fear into writing and see what the universe offers up in the upcoming weeks and months. Put into perspective, my level of fear pales in comparison to how i felt when I left just three months ago for Iceland.

Traveling is all-encompassing. It takes you out of your head and away from your day to day concerns. It gives you a chance to just ‘be’, and reconnect with yourself, and spend your time as you wish, and see what that feels like. So now that I have this knowledge and this knowing, it’s time to apply it. One of my friends told me today, “You will be refreshed once you get back. Take some time to reflect on your trip and decompress. Then everything will begin to become clear for you.”

Amen to that.

Time to Move On October 29, 2008

Waiting outside the Blue Mosque for the hour they let us infidels in.

In preparation for one of the longer travel days of my life, I have some serious packing to do. I have a ton of things to tell you about, but I hope you forgive me as I think I’ll pend them until tomorrow (when I have extensive sitting on my butt plane time and a five-hour layover at Charles de Gaulle to find an internet hot spot.)

The Blue Mosque with perfect lighting (just after sunset)

In exchange for your indulgence, I’ll post some pictures from the last couple days, and hopefully the captions will satisfy any Turkey cravings. Be careful the triptophan chaser. It’s a doozy.

As for me, the hostel no longer offers running water, and a strange man walked into the room T and I share while I was changing (she was downstairs at the time). It’s time to go.

I thought this shot was National Geographic-worthy. YET ANOTHER possible career opportunity!?

It’s been a long, short, strange, complicated, exhilarating, exhausting, frustrating, and wonderful three months. In a way, I’m sorry to see it end. On the other hand, if there is one thing you know about me by now, it’s that I like to move on. And I’m ready. Admittedly, the locale isn’t quite so exotic, but I’m certain the story will continue to be compelling. And if it isn’t, I’ll just start making sh*t up.

Inside a mosque, flashing the blue eyes that get us into so much trouble...

So I leave you tonight with the (immortal?) words of Mr. Tom Petty,

Time to move on. Time to get going,

What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing

Under my feet, babe, the grass is growing

Time to move on. Time to get going.

When bon appetit goes bad October 28, 2008

Years ago I went on two-week trip to Thailand. Overall, it was a great experience except for one little tiny glitch – I loathed Thai food. Just the smell of it on the streets would make my stomach turn. I got by on a mishmash of Power Bars, McDonalds, and poorly executed versions of Western classics. You never know what will get lost in translation: breakfast sausage and canned cocktail wieners were considered interchangeable.

Nonetheless, all was well until the day we found ourselves in a small village near the Burmese (Myanmar) border, and there was nothing but Thai food. Absolutely nothing. For three days. Never much of one for food strikes, I put on a brave face and ate most of the rice and as much as I could tolerate otherwise. They say no good deed goes unpunished, and within twelve hours, I was brought to my knees by a ferocious bout of food poisoning. I honestly thought I might die. Somewhere out there are pictures of me lying on a hammock, looking up to the heavens, and praying for a swift death.

This little tale is made extra ironic by the fact that for somehow I was convinced to try Thai food again…and now I really like it.

Anyway, and in contrast, this trip has been a breeze. Minus the very occasional and comparatively mild digestive disturbance, I’ve eaten the local, the freaky, and even the scary (from a hygiene perspective, anyway) without trouble. In fact, street food has been a good friend along the way. I’ve found I like being able to pick up a corn on the cob for my walk across the Bosphorous, and I rarely say no to a roasted chestnut.

However, I must confess that I have hit a food wall. By and large, I can’t do it any more. I’m done. The mere sight of the giant meat log from which the schwarma/kepab/kebab/gyro is cut now turns my stomach like the Thai food of yore. The thought of drinking any more salty yogurt, eating another piece of goat-derived cheese, or laying down good money for some cold eggplant makes me ill. The food isn’t making me sick – I’m just sick of it.

Now I imagine this next suggestion may hurt some feelings. I mean no harm, but I really do think that the Greeks and the Turks must have sat down and drawn up their national cuisines together. You could blindfold me and present me with a ‘best of’ plate from each country, and I swear it’s pretty much the same exact thing. The only clear differences are the names:

• pastry with either spinach, cheese or ham inside

• yogurt in varied and sundry forms

• olives, olives, olives

• salty crumbly cheese made from goat milk

• a clear alcohol that tastes like licorice and turns cloudy if you add water

• meat on a stick

• fourteen different oily salads made of cold eggplant

And I’m not saying any of this is BAD, I’m just saying I’ve been eating it for almost a month. And I’m starting to hate it. And I think I’m ready to go home. To a large degree, I look forward to the cornucopia that is our lack of food identity. Sure, we have too many choices. Sure, overall we’re way too fat and dying faster than anyone else. But I swear, if there’s anything better than being able to eat from the menu of any country, nationality, or creed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner…I don’t know what it is.

I’m sure the day will come that I crave a Greek salad rather than shudder at the thought one, or find myself trying to make a chicken gyro and tzatziki in my own kitchen. It could happen. It probably will. But for now, having discovered an actual jar of peanut butter in the local grocery store, it’s PB&J and Pilav (rice pilaf) until I am back on my own turf. And I couldn’t be happier. Bon Appetit!

It’s always good to have a backup plan October 27, 2008

In case you were starting to worry about my job prospects based on my faith based plan to transition to a writing career, you may be relieved to hear I’ve gotten some alternative offers. Saturday I received my first marriage proposal of the trip. Should things not work out for me back at home, I have been invited to live out my days running a cheap hotel in Bodrum, Turkey. This arrangement was suggested during the ride to the airport, along with pleas not to leave or to return immediately after the marathon. At first I was offered the role of business partner, and then my impending departure encouraged him to put all the cards on the table. When my young suitor sensed I wasn’t going to go for it, the ante was upped with promises of regular picnics, fishing trips, and all-night clubbing with the hotel guests in the summers. I’ve hit an age where all-night sleeping is WAY more appealing than all-night clubbing, but I guess this is one of those differences that keeps things spicy?

If you think it sounds aggressive – if not preposterous – to propose to a hotel guest you’ve known for less than 24 hours, then you clearly haven’t spent much time in Turkey.

I had heard the men were pushy in their zeal to sell carpets, trinkets, and fish dinners – and they are – but I seem to be attracting an additional level of attention. For those of you that aren’t naturally aggressive and would like to try these moves on the next interesting female you see, I offer this step-by-step outline:

1. Make eye contact and stare into her eyes as if you are trying to bore into her very soul. Think about pictures you’ve seen of Charlie Manson or Saddam Hussein and try to emulate that semi-insane and super intense ferocity

2. Continue stare for as long as humanly possible while simultaneously mustering courage for step three

3. Break the ice with a cheap and easy pick up line. “Where are you from?” is exceedingly popular, but innocuous. You won’t be original, but you probably won’t send her into a high speed run in the other direction. This is also best-directed at someone you’re pretty sure doesn’t live next door. If you want to mix it up, some other options include:

• • • Are you from Heaven?

    • I would like to make your holiday better.

    • Do you know this word, “Gorgeous?”

    • My friend and I have a bet. Are you from <<<insert country here>>> (helps if you have a friend)

    • Buy her a mussel from a street vendor (I fell for this one, and that is how I met Octopus Man)

Octopus Man was no doubt the worst of them, although Carpet Man and Blue Mosque Man were contenders. And, in the hopes you will find it entertaining and perhaps educational, I will share the moves and highlight the fumbles.

Carpet Man: 21 or 22 years old – Stopped my friend and I on the street outside a carpet shop in Sultanahmet. We cannot remember if the pickup line had to do with where we were from (my recollection) or “Can you tell me the most famous thing about Turkey?” The latter line was used at some point, and I guessed carpets and then kebap, but the correct answer was “hospitality!” We were then invited in for apple tea (they all try to get you with the apple tea). However on this occasion, my friend seemed open to it (probably the cold and rain as much as anything) so I went along with her.

I sat on the far end of the couch, and left her with the middle, next to him. Other young men emerged from elsewhere in the store or on the street, and wanted to discuss American politics, the U.S. banking system, and how long Slovenia has been on the euro. Carpet Man seemed disgruntled and moved to the other end of the store to look at a newspaper. At some point, the discussion turned to hammams (the Turkish baths), and where we should go.

A voice that sounded like a robot announced, “I give good massage. I give good massage.” Carpet Man was back in the action. “You do not waste your money on hammam. I massage you best.” We declined, and he waved me over, “Come here. I give you massage. You no like, you leave.” Then he tried to get me to go upstairs because “he had something to show me.” Yikes. What am I? 15 years old?

At this point, I was glad I hadn’t drank the tea (which tasted like hot apple cider). I’m such a paranoiac that after one sip I realized that if he’d slipped something in it, I wouldn’t be able to taste it. Then I noticed that my friend had drained hers dry – one of us needed to be sober enough to get us out of there!

The massage offers were endless, and he eventually placed himself on the arm of the couch just inches away from me. “I’ll massage your legs!” he cried out. Now, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m really horribly sore in my thighs…but there’s no amount of sore that would cause me to go for that. We got up, and as we were walking out, he commented that I had very nice legs, grabbed both my calves, and pleaded for us to come back tomorrow.

Critical blunder: Excessive aggressiveness

Blue Mosque Man: early to mid-30s – Approached us as my friend was taking a picture of me in front of the Aya Sofia. “I will make picture for you!” was the ice breaker. He worked through the usual rigmarole (where from, how long here, what have you seen), to which I kept replying that we were in a hurry and thank you very much, but no thank you. Then I went back to trying to pose for the photo.

At this point, Blue Mosque Man (still standing next to my friend) starts saying, “She is very pretty. Don’t you think she is very beautiful?” Uncomfortable photo completed, I tried to get us out of there by mentioning that we were rushing off to the Blue Mosque. He said that we needed to hurry, because it was closing soon.

My friend had been in Istanbul a couple weeks ago and went into the mosque at 7pm, so she vaguely implied that she thought he might be mistaken. From there, he demanded to know why she thought he was lying. As we approached the mosque, I stopped to take a photo. At this point, I was pretty sure I heard him ask, “Where are you from? Are you from Mars?” I took a couple pictures as they walked away together. As I just about caught up to her, he turned around and walked toward me. “Oh great,” I thought…and then he walked right past me without a word. When I caught up to her, he had apparently been incredibly obnoxious and even mean to her! This, I think, only works with women who are into being abused.

Critical blunder: Unfounded rudeness

Octopus Man: 25 (he showed us his ID, born in 1983) – You can buy a wide variety of foods from the Istanbul street vendors – corn on the cob, cashews, rice and garbanzo beans, sesame bagels, and mussels. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t feel compelled to try them all. I stopped to ask if the mussels were raw, and the vendor cut one open and presented it to me. “Is it raw? Is it raw!?” I kept asking, but he didn’t speak enough English to answer. He’d already cut it open, so I felt compelled to take it. It was, by the way, totally disgusting. It had all this bumpy stuff – like eggs or something. I like mussels, but this was sick. Are they all that way raw!?!?

Anyway, a guy in a suit showed up and ate a few mussels. When I tried to figure out if I needed to pay the vendor, it was clear that the suit guy (later to be re-dubbed Octopus Man) had taken care of it. I thanked him, and we walked away.

Seconds later, he came up alongside us with the typical questions. His English was abysmal, so we slipped into silence and continued walking. He trailed along all the way. Then he started reaching out via pantomime. “Do you dance?” he asked me. (and if I’d had the words, “Not well” would be the accurate answer. I try to avoid dancing because I have no natural sense of rhythm and am quite a pitiful sight.) We tried to explain about the marathon the next morning and were not partying and needed our sleep, but it wasn’t getting through.

He spent a lot of time on his phone, and eventually communicated that he had friends that spoke good English. He wanted me to come with him to meet them. Obviously this was not going to happen.

I had a list of Turkish words translated into English given to me by Orhan, and I pulled it out to see if it would help. In response to my sorry attempts to communicate, he put his arm around me and squeezed in a “You’re so cute” kind of way. But then the arm didn’t leave. And then he kept trying to kiss my cheek. I kept looking at my friend – now laughing uncontrollably – and mouthing the words HELP ME. I would slip out of his grip, and he would come back twice as strong. I remember reading that if you SCUBA with giant squid they will wrap themselves all around you. The same can be said for young Turkish men who buy you a disgusting raw street mussel.

Anyway, as we walked down the street, my friend got stuck in the role of translator, even though she doesn’t speak Turkish. At one point, he pulled out his wallet, which she understood to mean he wanted to know how old I was. “I’m old,” I told him, “OLD. Too old or you,” but he didn’t understand, and kept looking at me deliriously.

Having been through this the night before with Orhan who had seen my passport and still didn’t believe me, I really didn’t want to go through this again. Octopus Man was telling us that he was 25, and started guessing my age. “21?” he guessed. No. “22?” On it went. When we got to 27, he pulled out his wallet again, apparently thinking we didn’t understand what he was asking.

“Just agree,” I told her. “Tell him anything. I do NOT want to get into this with this guy.”

The numbers started over. Eventually, she nodded to him, “Yes. 26. She’s 26.” He hugged me again in sheer bliss. By now we were to the hostel, and said goodbye. After thwarting yet another attempted kiss, he touched me on the cheek, “Baby face,” he said, smiling down at me, “Baby face…”

No kidding, baby face. You have no idea, my friend. NO IDEA.

Forget running. I think we should consider building an Ark. October 26, 2008

Before the race with my running partner. We hadn't even started, and you can see that I am already DRENCHED.

I didn’t sleep very well last night. It sounded like someone had turned a hose – a fire hose – on the hostel room window. I kept having, “Look! It’s the sun!” dreams to counteract it, but every time I woke up, the torrential rains seemed worse. It was practically Biblical in proportion. If it starts raining locusts or blood tomorrow, I won’t be terribly surprised.

Thus, sleep deprived and somewhat dreading what was no doubt going to be an outrageously wet morning, I got up at 6:30 a.m. and suited up – as best I could – for the run. It is safe to say that I was tragically unprepared. In order to face a long run in 12C/58F degree weather, I had:

• Running Shorts

• Short-sleeve t-shirt

• Jog bra

• Baseball cap

• Socks

• Running shoes

That’s it. That was the complete and total assembled wardrobe and I was drenched to the BONE within minutes. I think we can all consider ourselves lucky that this post isn’t coming to you from a Turkish hospital where I am being treated for hypothermia.

God bless ’em, but Turkey is wildly disorganized. At least they seem to know it. We were required to board the buses by 7:30 a.m, and they arrived at starting point of the race within ten minutes. Thus, we pulled onto the side of the road and sat there for over an hour – nothing like giving yourself a nice wide berth for unplanned mistakes and unintended consequences. As someone who attracts chaos and confusion wherever I go, I can appreciate this.

Faux race simulation for your benefit. I didn't want to risk ruining the camera by bringing it with me in the torrential rains.

As we sat on the bus, I surveyed the Noah-esque scene outside. For a brief period, there was a glimmer of sun in the distance, and I felt a rising confidence that my dream had been a premonition. Sadly, my hopes were dashed when the clouds closed and the rains beat down even more furiously than before. For a while, there was even lightening.

Despite it all, the race began at 9:00 a.m. with zero fan fare. I heard a car backfire a few miles away (or perhaps that was the sound of a water-soaked starter pistol?) and the traditional ‘slow trot’ that marks every race on earth began. Istanbul is on both Asia and Europe, and the marathon’s ‘claim to fame’ (which is a bit of a stretch) is that you can run from one continent to the other. Specifically, that entails starting on Asia side, crossing three bridges, and ending by the Blue Mosque on the European side of the city.

Meanwhile, I’m not a super-seasoned competitive runner, but I have done a half-dozen or so in the States. There, crowds show, bands play, people cheer, and there’s an energy and a vibe that gets you fired up and keeps you moving. In comparison, the Istanbul Marathon was like a trip to the morgue. At one point, I ran in total silence for half an hour. I got so lost in thought that I almost crashed into some pedestrians who were wandering across the barricaded street in no particular hurry to get out of my or my fellow runners’ ways. The Turkish are like the wild turkeys we have at home – in the street and not really interested in your opinion of that.

As for the marathon itself, it could be the rain, but I doubt it. To be frank, there is no vibe, no energy, and no scene. No one showed up. No bands. No music. No giving a sh*t. At the most, people looked on confused or even annoyed at these two thousand or so individuals running in the pouring, driving, freezing rain. I thought we deserved a “Boorah” or maybe an appreciative whistle or something just for being insane enough to persist in this weather…but nothing. Even the WINNERS got nothing. As the triumphant Kenyan crossed the finish line in what was probably Arctic weather to his African sensibilities, a couple people yelled “Bravo!” From that point on, I screamed like mad for all the people in the final chute of the complete marathon.

With respect to the ridiculously relentless rain, I can count on one hand the times in my life I have been so cold. It was unreal. Just when you thought the wind and the water had to back off, it would get even worse. At one point a rain drop went directly into my ear canal and hurt for like an hour. The hair on my arms stood on end the entire time. Sometimes, the only sound I could hear was the “squish” of people’s shoes as we worked our way through the ankle-deep water backed up in the streets. Happily, my friend and I were wonderfully matched runners, and comfortably stayed together the entire time, occasionally moaning about how this had to be the single wettest run of our entire lives.

Otherwise, and to my own complete and total shock, I ran really well. I kept a good pace and was never tired. Only in the last couple kilometers did the cold get to my muscles, and I honestly felt like I could’ve gone at least 5KM further, maybe more. It kind of has me fired up to train for and do a full marathon. As for how I managed to muster this athletic prowess with virtually no preparation and my sporadic running schedule, it has to be carrying that damn backpack for three months. I can think of no other reason I was so strong.

And oddly enough, in many ways, the race was a fitting metaphor for this trip. As I was running up a hill near the end, I started giving myself the pep talk I’ve given so many times before, “You can do this. Just hang in there. You’re doing great. You’re tough. You’re all over this. You rock.” I realized I was pulling on many of the same physical and mental reserves I’ve used the whole time: Pushing yourself when you’re miserable, enjoying the moment and the wonderment of finding yourself in such a foreign and magical place even if it’s not quite going according to plan, stretching your physical and mental limits, and all the while discovering strength you never knew you had. Boorah!

The weirdest bath you’ll ever take October 25, 2008

Fresh pomagranate juice is sold on all the streets of Istanbul

I’m uncomfortable with people handling my dirty laundry. This is a new neurosis, but as of this trip, I feel awkward about sticking someone with my stinky clothes and making it their problem to clean them. But in that case, at least the ‘dirty work’ occurs when I’m not there. In light of this strange hangup, you can only imagine how I feel about someone vigorously cleaning the resource that makes that laundry dirty – my body.

That’s what made my first true Turkish Turkish bath a bit off-putting. In Budapest, I went to the Rudas Baths in Pest. Once inside, an overly flirty Hungarian man pointed me toward a cubicle and explained I was to change into my bathing suit and take the key to the door with me (so that my belongings were secured while I was soaking). Then he offered to come in and help me change. He also set me up with a cubicle where the door wouldn’t stay closed, AND carried on in a manner overly reminiscent of ‘Wayne’s World’ about, “You are too good for me!” when I came out in my suit. Nothing like keeping it subtle.

After effectively evading the cubicle assistant, it’s off to the showers, and then the baths. At Rudas, there are five pools of varying temperatures – 23, 27, 32, 37, and 42, as well as a small cold dunk, a dry sauna, and a steam room.. At first I did the ‘gradually increase the temperature’ soaking series, but I eventually got hooked on going from the 42 degree tub and the cold dunk, or for even more of a thrill, between the 55 degree steam room and the cold dunk. The steam room was so hot that I couldn’t see, and it burned my eyes. I was glad I hadn’t worn my contacts (until I tripped and almost fell in the dry sauna) because I started to think they might have melted onto my eyeballs. Anyway, it was quite enjoyable, and I stayed there for several hours.

The Istanbul street dogs are very handsome, but their predicament makes me sad.

Last night, I was taken to a bath in Bodrum…but there was no soaking to be had. Rather, I was given a menu of options (soap, scrub and soap, or scrub, soap, and massage – kind of like a human car wash) and I decided to go for the whole enchilada. At the baths in Turkey, the men and the women are completely separate, and you’re expected to strip down naked. Then they give you what can only be described as a table cloth, and send you to the showers. I wandered around and saw some large women lying on a huge marble slab. It was a little mortuary-esque. Otherwise, there wasn’t much to see. Where were the baths? Unsure what to do with myself, I went and sat in the stinky sauna for a while. It wasn’t very hot, and it smelled like mildew, but what are you gonna do?

After a while in there, I went back out to the main room and studied the small sinks lining the walls, and then tried a couple doors that turned out to be locked. FINALLY a woman came in and said, “Lay down, Lady.” She was a larger girl in a bikini, and she pointed to the giant marble slab. She rinsed it off with water several times, and I laid down. The wrong way. I guess it just didn’t occur to me to put myself face down on a totally unforgiving surface. I attempted to arrange myself comfortably, and she put some kind of mitt on and began vigorously scrubbing me all over. A RIDICULOUS amount of skin was scrubbed off of me. A couple minutes into this disgusting spectacle I realized there is not enough money in the world to entice me to work as a scrubber. I resolved to leave her a very large tip.

Then I turned over, and she repeated the process on my front, my arms, and even my face. Then I was instructed to, “Get up, Lady” and she threw several bowls of water on me and the slab to clean it. Then I laid back down again, and she poured bowl after bowl of soapy water all over me and lathered me up. Every time she’d touch me, I’d slide about two feet on the slick marbl, and the whole thing seemed kind of ridiculous. I tried to maintain what I hoped was a pleasant, yet friendly look on my face, in lieu of the combination of self-conscious and slightly hysterical that I was feeling on the inside.

All clean now, I was sent back to the showers to wash my hair. The girl who did my scrubbing got into the stall next to me and cleaned up too. This might have been a nice gesture BEFORE my scrub, and I considered gesturing toward my armpits as if to say, “You might want to apply some special attention there?” My tablecloth was getting pretty wet by now, and another woman came and led me into a small room where all the female employees were watching a Turkish crime drama. I watched along with them, and tried to follow along despite not understanding a single word.

Finally, the commercials came on, and one of the girls said, “Come, Lady.” She led me up to a room with a proper massage table and oiled me within an inch of my life. It was a short, but extremely vigorous rub down, which made me realize I have been living in denial about the toll that bag takes on my body. It occurs to me to add that if you are uncomfortable with full nudity or have a strong streak of modesty, the Turkish Baths are NOT for you. I grew up swimming and naked in front of strangers in the locker room on a daily basis, but even I felt a little self-conscious. Particularly during the part where she was massaging my stomach while standing above my head, and more or less smothered me with her bikini-clad boobs. Too bad I’m not a lesbian. As it stood, it was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

Meanwhile, I was awoken by the incredibly loud Adhan (Islamic call to prayers, which is broadcast everywhere over speakers five times a day) at 6:30 a.m. Dawn, my ass. The sun isn’t coming up around these parts until at least 7:30 a.m. After listening to a bunch of people rustling around for a while, I finally fell back asleep.

Later today I fly to Istanbul, and tomorrow morning is the race! My friend tells me she thinks I’m better prepared and in better shape for it than she is. If so, we’re in trouble. Maybe we can treat it like a relay race and take shifts? On the other hand, she did run a full marathon last year, so she at least has proof her body can survive it! As for me? Well, wish me luck! In light of the levels of attention I’ve been attracting here in Turkey, I half-expect to be fending off pick-up lines and invites to go for coffee the whole time!!! Maybe I could talk someone into carrying me for a portion? Does that count?

This is Your Home October 24, 2008

Bodrum harbor

Wow.

The Turks know how to treat a guest. I am sitting here with Orhan, his brother, and his mother. We are eating dried garbanzo beans (not much better than they sound and causing some FEROCIOUS heartburn) and pistachios and watching The Assassination of Jesse James because it’s the only English-speaking movie they own. The Southern accents are tough, even for my American ears, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who has a clue what’s going on. As I result, I keep sharing these elaborate explanations about the “wild west” (and just making the bulk of it up as I go along) in order to keep them involved. Did you know Jesse James invented moonshine? Yeah, well, as far as my new Turkish friends go, that’s a fact. Don’t go blowing my rep…

Meanwhile, Orhan himself has admitted to me he can’t understand what any American says, let alone the men in this film. His impersonation of an American talking is, ‘Dontcha think, Dontcha think, Dontcha think, ummmm, ummmm, ummmm, You know, you know, you know” (which ain’t half bad. You could take that act on the road.) He has commented that I don’t talk like an American (add that to “don’t look like an American” and I hope they let me back into the country next week!), but that is a deliberate act. When in the presence of someone whose English is intensely difficult for me to understand, I slow way down, simplify my vocabulary, and annunciate with a slight British accent. Basically I try to sound like the tapes they learned English from. I figure it’s the least I can do since my Turkish is so rusty.

Case in point, while being driven to the Turkish baths tonight, we stopped to pick up Orhan’s relatives. His aunt and uncle and their young children piled in, and after a moment of discussion, everyone was enthusiastically saying ‘VaNESSa.” I turned around to smile and wave, and the aunt told me, “My name is Sophia,” the same way I must sound when I say “Je m’appelle Vanessa” to the French. Then the kids were instructed to say, “How are you?” To which I responded, “Fine, thank you. How are you?” and we all happily took turns like this for five minutes.

In the same vein, my vulgar Turkish is rapidly improving. Orhan has printed out a list for me, and I can now hold my own in what could only be described as a very alarming conversation while in Istanbul. I can’t say ‘good morning’ or ‘how much does this cost?’, but I have learned that the number 81 is pronounced “sex and beer.” I have my fingers crossed that I’ll end up in room 81 in Istanbul. For tonight, I’m bunking in lucky #13, and that number didn’t make it onto my vocabulary sheet.

Bodrum in the distance as seen from the Kos-Bodrum ferry

Otherwise, in addition to being the lavished-upon American guest, I suspect that tonight I am the only guest. I arrived here around dinner time, and was asked if I was hungry. Unable to face the buffet this last day, I ate pretty sparingly and had to admit that I was. Before I knew it, I had a hot bowl of what I would describe as mint and garbanzo bean soup in front of me. Then my dinner of barbecued chicken wings, rice, and a heaping helping of yogurt arrived.

After two weeks with the Greeks, I thought I wouldn’t be able to look at yogurt again for months, but it was a surprisingly pleasant combination. The Turkish – people after my own heart – are big eaters. While snacking on a substantial amount of garbanzo beans and assorted nuts, we’re drinking tea that is being kept warm on an elaborate kettle set up. Although I don’t know this for certain, in most countries it’s quite rude to reject any hospitality, so I am – despite being very tired and not really hungry for a third tangerine – going with the flow.

For example, i was poured a couple glasses of raki (Turkish ouzo). I was also told that I had to toss it back. It was ‘the way.’ After chugging my second gasoline-strong glass, I was informed through peels of laughter that raki is drunk like ouzo – slowly and mixed with water. Great. Now that I’ll burst into flames if anyone lights a match within ten feet of my breath…

However, despite treating me a little bit like a trained chimp, I would still rate this family highly in terms of hospitality and warmth. It’s not every day I find people that are wiling to spend two hours of their life watching a movie they don’t understand, while continually urging me to eat and drink more because, ‘This is your home.”

Moto Mama October 23, 2008

Groan all you want…but then thank me for deciding not to go with “Zen and the Art of Moto Maintenance”.

So all the Greek islands are a lot larger than I somehow realized – like 40 and 50 miles across. And in the off-season, the public transportation doesn’t run efficiently, if it runs at all. As a result, if you want to see something beyond your hotel and its immediate surroundings, you need to rent a 4-wheeler, a car, or a scooter. After three days on a scooter (moto), I have learned a few things:

1. It gets cold on the Greek islands after the sun goes down. On a moto, it gets damn cold. Like, “Excuse me while I go into hypothermic shock” cold.

2. The gas mileage is amazing. If it didn’t get so cold in Washington, I would seriously consider getting a Vespa. And if they’d throw in a sidecar for Dozer, we’d be quite the sight. Maybe I should write Vespa and pitch this as an ad idea along with some crude crayon renderings? My modeling services in exchange for a powder blue Vespa with all the trimmings. I suggest they’d be getting the long end of the stick on that trade.

3. If you let your mouth relax in the wind, your lips flap all over the place and you look something like a large mouth bass.

1. I like being outside. I like smelling pine forests and cow stink and wood fires burning. I like the air in my face and even freezing my @ss off. I think I may have a place in the Hell’s Angels yet.

Otherwise, I did a little exploring the last few days. The island of Kos is the home of Hippocrates. There’s a willow tree that they claimed he ‘learned beneath’, but considering that the tree would have to be 2500 years old and it ain’t really that big, it’s probably more colorful legend than fact. However, it is widely accepted that Hippocrates was probably trained at the asklepioion here in Kos, the ruins of which you can still visit today. What’s weirdly amazing about these copious Kos ruins is how there are pieces of sculptures and carvings and things that probably belong in museums lying around everywhere. I picked up an intricate carving of a lion’s head and wondered, “Is this REAL!? Is this really 2500 years old, and lying around like a discarded Coke bottle!?”

My dad tells me that Carl Sagan postulated that if the Greek civilization had continued to flourish, technologically we’d be 3000 years ahead of where we are today. So basically we’d all live underground and our days would be occupied with fighting The Machines and Skynet would rule the world. Anyway, case in point, when I was at the archaeological museum in Athens, they had an exhibit of Greek medical devices from thousands of years ago, and I’ll be damned if the antique speculum didn’t look exactly the same as the one my gynecologist uses (sorry about that graphic, Dad). And they were cauterizing and doing internal medicine and the whole nine yards back then, too. It was both impressive and kind of freaky. Like what will look barbaric to the people of the future that we take for granted right now? Certainly all the C-sections and open heart surgery scars for starters. And how about boob jobs? “Wow. ANOTHER skeleton with two silicon sacks buried with it. It’s how the people of the past prepared for a heaven full of water balloon fights!”

At any rate, as a result of the museum, being here in the old stomping grounds of Hippocrates has that much more meaning. What granted him his place in history was that he was the first the first physician to reject superstitions and beliefs that credited supernatural or divine forces with causing illness. He founded a school of thought that disease was not a punishment inflicted by the gods, but rather the product of environmental factors, diet, and lifestyle.

Admittedly, it wasn’t all advanced thinking. He was a fan of the four humours theory – sarcasm, irony, slapstick, and dark. Hardy har har. Not really. I’m just applying a little of my own attempt at humor there. They were blood, yellow bile, black bile, and (who can forget?) phlegm, and a person was healthy if all four were all in balance. For those that were ill, Hippocratic therapy was directed towards restoring the balance, with a focus on natural remedies.

I have this vague memory that I once got the results of a personality test, and in with some other things I was classified as “Yellow Bile”. I am familiar with yellow bile both from learning about Hippocrates and the Four Humours a billion years ago, and from a couple outrageously terrible bouts with food poisoning. I think I felt kind of offended, although it’s still better than Black Bile. I say you see Black Bile, and it’s time to get yourself to the hospital (and preferably one with a guy like ‘House’ on staff) immediatemente.

Love – and a little well-timed hate – will keep us together October 22, 2008

This is one goat who knows how to mug for a camera

Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of money on dog school. A LOT of money. My German Shepherd went to every class offered through the local trainer: Puppy school, intermediate classes, advanced theory and logic, you name it. We spent Saturday mornings at ‘Agility’, Tuesday nights at ‘Paw and Order’, and who can forget “Choose to Heel”? This was a class in which my disobedient mutt was allegedly going to learn to CHOOSE to heel by my side – with or without a leash. This would be achieved partly through dog-training magic and largely because I lured her on with a fistful of roast beef.

Putting a closed fist of roast beef in front of a German Shepherd (mix breed or not) is like sticking your hand into a piranha tank: STUPID. I renamed that class “Choose to Eat,” and I would drive home each time bleeding all over the steering wheel. They no longer offered ‘Choose to Heel’ by the time Dozer came around, and Pixie, God bless her, never heeled a day in her life.

And Pix was my SMART dog. A veritable genius next to the Malamute, who for all his heart and beauty is several bones short of a skeleton (a la ‘several sandwiches short of a picnic’ but more dog-esque). So despite dozens of hours, hundreds of dollars, and vast amounts of energy contributed toward training their hairy behinds, I was a little bummed to discover that mine are not as remotely well-trained as the average European hound.

Case in point: While walking down a busy Vienna street, I passed a large supermarket. Outside sat several dogs – large dogs, like Labradors and Golden Retrievers, and not tied to anything or physically restrained in any way – urgently awaiting their owner’s return. They sat there anxiously peering in every time the sliding doors would open, hoping to catch just a glimpse of their beloved human. If MY dogs were left unleashed outside a large urban grocery store? They’d be hailing the first cab, trying to make it to the county line before I got out of the produce section. Their only passing thought would be, “Holy crap, we’re free to do as we please! Let’s GO!!!!!!”

This is probably why I find the unwavering obedience of the dogs of Europe so amazing. What kind of spells are these people putting on these dogs!? What kind of Cesar Milan dog whispering mojo does everyone possess!? And it’s not just the dogs. The goats of Greece seem uniquely self-possessed. They all stay within a few yards of their appointed yogurt and honey shack or gyro shed, sans collar or rope or fence. It’s positively spell-binding in its own simple way.

Maybe it has something to do with the baffling love/hate spectacle I witnessed today?

This afternoon, I ran across what may be the ugliest cat in the whole country. If you are familiar with cat breeds, I’d describe him as a “Scottish Fold gone wrong.” I was trying to get a few photos of the spectacle, when an older woman came out with a giant pile of cat food and meat – like enough meat to make a couple decent schwarmas. She placed the plate on the floor in front of the cat, and then proceeded to beat him with a newspaper while screaming at him.

A face only a mother could love...

I found this pretty damn confusing, personally. Anyway, she left, and the ugly cat went and took a few nibbles off the heaping mound of food. Then he went back to where I’d first spotted him, and resumed his sour expression.

Not two minutes later, the woman came back out, yelled what I can only presume are Greek expletives at him, and yet again swatted at him with a newspaper. She seemed to be swatting him toward the food, but who really knows what the hell was happening here??? She carried on like this for a minute, then started down the street, threw the newspaper in a trash bin, and turned a corner.

The cat turned and made eye contact with me, and I could almost swear he shrugged his shoulders. “She hates me,” his look seemed to say, ‘but I’m ugly as sin, and still I find myself the best-fed cat in Greece.” It is indeed a crazy world.

In other news, I can officially confirm that the mosquitos of Kos, Greece do NOT carry malaria. Because if they did, I’d be in the local hospital. I’ve been on Kos three nights, and it’s pretty much been a bloodletting around here. I’ve got no less than 20 bites per limb, a giant bite on my cheek, and a full-blown ‘mosquito sound’ neurosis well underway. Thank god I spent so much time in the Egyptian section of the Athenian archaeological museum. I applied several of the mummification techniques in order to wrap myself in my bed sheet last night in vain hope of keeping the whining mosquitoes at bay. I even wrapped my head, which is not a particularly comfortable way to sleep.

Communing with goats

But I think in the end it was worth it. I’m not sure how to prove it, but I’m fairly confident that I’m at least one quart of blood richer for my efforts, and that can only be a good thing as I draw ever closer to the big race on Sunday. More blood = less chance of dropping dead during a Turkish half-marathon. Right??????