TravelStream™ news feed for member jaredwall on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/jaredwall en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Tue, 05 Aug 2008 07:52:18 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1217935380/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1217935380/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1217935380/tpod.html Tue, 05 Aug 2008 07:52:18 -0400 Istanbul: Memories in the City

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Bursa, Turkey

I've been in Istanbul for a combined total of about fifteen months now, and the last two weeks have been my first weekends off. I mentioned to one of my friends, whose name is Selhattin (I call him "Sal" for short), that I wanted to go to Bursa, a city opposite Istanbul across the Marmara Sea.

Sal was instantly down to go. There is a ferry that goes across the Marmara and lands near Bursa, but Sal dismissed that idea. He suggested we take his car instead of the bus or ferry. "It's a beautiful drive," he said. "I'll make some call. I have a friend who has a pension near Bursa, and maybe I can get one of my friends to be our guide."

I wanted to go to Bursa for several reasons. The first is because it was the first capital of the Ottoman Empire before the Ottoman army captured Constantinople, and before the Ottomans swept east to become the bane of Christian Europe. It is the burial place of the first Ottoman sultans and their royal families.

The second reason is because of the food. There is a very famous kebap called the Iskender Kebap that was originated in Bursa. Since it was invented, it has become an ever-present staple of Turkish cuisine, spawning a slew of Iskender Kebap restaurants and eateries. Regardless of the fact that I knew there would be no appreciable difference in the taste of a good Iskender Kebap in Istanbul and a good one in Bursa, I wanted to partake in the original. Sel, being somewhat of a food connoisseur and cook, was also excited about the prospect.

The third reason was because of Jem Sultan, the famous, romantic, mystical son of Mehmet the Conqueror, whose story I will relate shortly.

The fourth reason I wanted to see Bursa was simple. I had two and a half days free and I needed to get out of Istanbul for a weekend.

Sal picked me up at the park near my house in Tophane at 6 am Saturday morning. He had invited his friend Mehmet, who Sal had met while doing his military duty on the border of Turkish-Iranian border. "Mehmet is the money," said Sal, nudging his friend. "That's why I keep him around. But if he runs out of money, we'll drop him off somewhere."

Mehmet had just bought a brand new cd of popular Turkish Black Sea music, which we blared over the speakers of Sal's Honda as we tore out of Istanbul. The streets were completely empty at six in the morning, and we flew down the Interstate at over 140 km per hour, which makes you feel like you're on the Autobon in Istanbul's skinny, uneven roads.

Having only slept two hours the night before, I passed in and out of consciousness as we wound our way from Istanbul to Izmit, where Mehmet was living and working as an electrical engineer. Sal and Mehmet switched spots driving since Mehmet knew this stretch of road better. Due to our early start and subsequent lack of traffic, we made what is generally a three and a half hour trip to Bursa in about two and a half hours.

When we arrived, Sal thought we should first see the Yildirim Beyazid Camii, which is the mosque of Beyazit II, the brother of Jem Sultan, who was a rather prolific builder in Bursa. As we drove around trying to find the road leading up to the mosque, Sal missed a turn, backed up, and crashed the rear end of his car right into a light post. We heard a plastic shattering crunch, but Sal was nonplussed. "No problem," he said. "I'm used to this. It's not a big deal. Let's go see the mosque, then we can take a look at the damage."

We went up and looked around the mosque and the hospital erected next to it. Then we looked at Sal's tail light, which was broken, the paint around it dented and scraped. "Sorry Jared," said Sal. "We have to stay here until the police can come and write a report. Then my insurance will pay for this. If not, I have to. Sorry about this."
"No problem," I said. "I'm just worried about your car."

The police showed up about a half hour later, and they were none too happy. "You reported a crash!" cried the policeman. "A crash is between two cars. You just hit a pole. We were looking for an accident, maybe even people hurt. What is this? You can't even get insured for this. You can't leave the scene of a single car accident and still get me to write a report for you. I'll tell you what you should do. Take these pieces," he signaled to the broken pieces of the tail light, "back to Istanbul, place them around a pole there, call the police, and tell them you hit it." Such was the advice of the police.

After that we headed to the Emir Sultan Mosque and the Yesil (Green) Mosque, which were old mosques in old parts of Bursa. There were a lot of old wooden Ottoman era houses dotting the area, houses which have mostly burnt down in Istanbul. Then we went to the burial site of the Ottoman royal family. Most of the royal family before Mehmet the Conqueror is buried here, and this is also the site where Jem Sultan is buried.

Jem Sultan, who was only really a sultan for twenty days, was the second son of Mehmet the Conqueror. Fatih Sultan Mehmet, who Europeans called the Grand Turk, the Ottoman sultan who conquered Istanbul and ruled over the Ottoman Empire for thirty years. Cem and his brother Beyazit contended for the throne after Mehmet's death, with Beyazit seizing power first. Cem fled to Syria and then to Egypt, where he was taken under the wing of the Egyptian Mamulk sultan Kaitbey. Shortly thereafter Cem convinced Kaitbey and some powerful Turkish pashas who disliked Beyazit to lend men and money to a campaign to unseat Beyazit. The campaign failed and Cem fled to Rhodes, where he was taken captive by the Knights of Rhodes. Cem spent the rest of his life in exile in Christian Europe, where he spawned all sorts of romantic tales and helped to spawn the orientalist fad that swept Europe.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1216363920/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1216363920/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1216363920/tpod.html Fri, 18 Jul 2008 02:54:54 -0400 Istanbul: Memories in the City

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Istanbul, Turkey

This section is dedicated to photos, and descriptions within the photos, of my time spent gez-ing (gez is the root of the turkish verb "to wander" or "travel") Istanbul. I've been doing a lot of gezing lately, and I hope the photo ops keep coming.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1162822980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1162822980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1162822980/tpod.html Thu, 12 Jun 2008 03:48:13 -0400 Istanbul: Memories in the City

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Istanbul, Turkey

The Turkish P.O.V.: Insults and Compliments to Turkishness
The last thing you want to do in Turkey is to insult Turkishness. When the Republic was founded by Ataturk and he worked to develop Turkish nationalism, Article 301 was enacted.

Article 301 reads:
1. Public denigration of Turkishness, the Republic or the Grand National Assembly of Turkey shall be punishable by imprisonment of between six months and three years.

2. Public denigration of the Government of the Republic of Turkey, the judicial institutions of the State, the military or security structures shall be punishable by imprisonment of between six months and two years.

3. In cases where denigration of Turkishness is committed by a Turkish citizen in another country the punishment shall be increased by one third.

4. Expressions of thought intended to criticize shall not constitute a crime.

These are the no-no's and yes's that I have observed thus far:

Gloves: Nobody wears them. Turks don't get cold hands. If you get cold hands, you are not a true Turk. Gloves are an insult to Turkishness.

Hats: Hats are an insult to Turkishness. Only women wear them. If you're a man and you have a hat on, you may as well just emasculate yourself because you're halfway to womanhood.

Mayonnaise: In America, you order a sandwich and they slip the mayo on unbeknownst to you, a fact that becomes readily apparent when you take a bite and your mouth is filled with the sickly white sensation of raw egg yolk. In Turkey you can order a Mayonnaise Sandwich anywhere, but be careful or they might slip something else in, like lettuce and tomato, or even a piece of meat. Mayonnaise is a compliment to Turkishness.

Headscarves: Headscarves are an insult to Turkishness. The place where I used to live, called Uskudar, is widely considered one of the most insulting places in town.

Fixed Prices: Outside of department stores and large corporate enterprises, prices are not listed. Anywhere you go to buy something you can get "Turked" (ripped off), so you just have to learn to intrinsically know the price of anything you want to purchase. ESP is very useful in Turkey for bargain shopping. Fixed prices are an insult to Turkishness.

Atatürk: The founder of the Turkish republic, he invented the word Turkishness. I predict that sometime in the near future his name will become a synonym for "cool", and people will saying things like "Hey man, that's an Ataturkin' jacket." and "That's was a pretty Ataturkular movie", and maybe even just "If you want to leave now, that's totally Ataturk with me." Ataturk is a compliment to Turkishness.

Orhan Pamuk: Orhan Pamuk has been saying things about history that some people don't want him to say. If Orhan Pamuk was the name you had to say in a game of Taboo, the card might look something like this:
Orhan Pamuk:
Armenian Genocide
Snow
My Name is Red
Book
Insult to Turkishness
Nobel Prize
Even though he was the first Turk to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, Orhan Pamuk is an insult to Turkishness.

Insults to Turkishness: Insults to Turkishness are insults to Turkishness. Watch yourself. Article 301 for life, baby.

News: News is a compliment to Turkishness. Most news sources are owned by the state, and the sole aim of these sources is to promote Turkishness. At times, they may even tell you that the weather is five or six degrees warmer than it really is so that the masses don't "panic". Really, it's very comforting that they're watching out for me so closely. I hear that the newspaper Hurriyet is good, but it's all in Turkish and I can't read it...

Filtered Coffee: Filtered coffee is an insult to Turkishness, but it shouldn't be. The problem is that its glories have simply not yet become known. Perhaps it is because Turkish history is still somewhat angry for the Ottoman armies being halted in their Westward advance at the seige of Vienna in 1529, one of the results of which was the introduction of coffee into the Western diet. (Or maybe its just the American monopoly on most of the world's coffee). But the bittersweet chocolate-colored ambrosia is becoming popular in chains like Starbucks and McDonalds, both of which you can find almost anywhere at any time. Coffee is still viciously overpriced, but no other commodity is more worth it, either.

Lanes: Cars drive on streets in Turkey, but the word "lane" has apparently not yet established itself in the Turkish lexicon. Cars drive on whatever part of the road they can occupy, even if it happens to be towards oncoming traffic or on pedestrian walkways. I was in Niþantaþý today, the most modern, Westernized, commercial part of the city, and I saw cars driving in a semblance of order. I was blown away. Other than that, lanes are in insult to Turkishness.

Alcohol: Alcohol is both an insult and a compliment to Turkishness. Few other items can claim this uniqueness. Efes Pilsen is the most famous beer in Turkey, probably the only beer worth mentioning, and in most instances it is the only beer you can obtain so you better learn to like it. Yeni Raki (like ouzo) is another popular alcohol, a clear, black licorice tasting drink, but spirits are so horrendously expensive here that only the rich and the stupid drink liquor.

White Bread: White bread is a compliment to Turkishness for the simple fact that it is everpresent. I have never been privvy to a culture that enjoys the fresh taste of refined carbohydrates more than the Turks, and the special affinity for white bread evinsced by the local population truely astounds me, who would not touch a piece of white bread before coming to Turkey. Now I fill up on a nice white bread roll at least a few times a week for breakfast. Thanks, Istanbul!

Saw 1, 2, and 3: Saw 3, or Tesere Üç, is a complimentary insult to Turkishness. The people here love it. It has been out in theaters for months now, but every day the cinema is still packed with people looking to get another gritty glimpse of the gorefest. I was drinking a Pepsi that I purchased during the intermission (yes, every movie in Turkey has an intermission), but once the movie started I was unable to finish it. My stomach just didn`t love me anymore.

Smoking: Nargile and cigarettes. Smoke smoke galore. Turkish people who smoke... smoke. Like a house afire. After a particularly intense political discussion today in class, one of my students stood up, pulled out a cigarette, and excused himself for a moment. It makes me glad that I`m only addicted to coffee.

Getting Sick: Turks don't get sick. They get ill. In Turkey, the word "sick" means "fuck"-sometimes "penis"- but most the time some variation of "fuck". So. I am sick? No. You are sick? No. You are feeling sick? Never. Tom and Jane are sick? Maybe, who knows. But just say ill. You get fewer smiles that way.

European Drink Sizes: The Turks have mastered the European art of small portions. Despite American intervention in the form of fast food, most drinks come in a glass about the size of a shot. Sometimes I would give anything for a big, harty American mug full of tea or coffee. Usually I just end up ordering two or three of whatever I'm having. I can't adapt. I'm an American at heart. Bigger is better. My stomach is bigger than my eyes. I'm a glutton at heart.

Allergies: Allergies are insult to Turkishness when they come in the less-than-pleasing form of mucus. Blowing your nose in public is socially prohibited, and spitting is a definite no-no. Those of you who know me know what a problem this particular situation is, has been, and will probably continue to be. Much like my father, I'm given to carrying around tissues with me wherever I go. The state of Istanbul pollution alone is enough to drive my hyper-allergic immune system into spasmodic conniptions. Every now and again, when the urge (or pressure) becomes too great, I sound the ol' foghorn as forewarning and maybe let a mongo loogie fly. Never let go, Jack. Never let go.

Global Warming: Global Warming is an insult to Turkishness. As an ESL teacher, I am often given to asking general questions to stimulate conversation. For my Level 4 Exit Test, one of my questions was: "What is the world's biggest problem, and why?" Since that time I have tried out this question in other classes, as well. The two most common answers? The USA (with a particular focus on the war in Iraq) and Global Warming, for which the US takes the lion's share of the responsibility. In all fairness, we did not sign the Kyoto Protocol, we use well over a quarter of the whole world's natural resources while making up only about 4% of the population, we are the largest single emitter of carbon dioxide and greenhouse gases (accounting for more than 25% of the total produced by humans worldwide). Now, on the other hand, we did not sign the Kyoto Protocol, but we also did not reject it. Emissions are, in fact, decreasing in the United States. There is a strong movement toward renewable energy. And besides, Turkey didn't sign the Kyoto Protocol, either. Snap.

Garbage in the Home: Garbage in the home is an insult to Turkishness. The other day, I asked my students to make a list of garbage in the home as part of a writing activity designed to use vocabulary, and particularly new adjectives to describe the nouns that are everyday household items. The response was uncanny. They refused to do the assignment. "We don't have garbage in the home. We are very clean people [Turks]." I said, "Really? I have a lot of garbage in my home." They said, "But you look so tidy." I said, "Well, thank you." I told them to get over it, that everyone has something they can throw away. Old clothes, new ugly clothes, old make-up kits, food that has gone bad, pieces of paper or crumpled receipts, McDonalds cups or plastic grocery bags. They looked at me, considering for a moment, and nodded. Everyone agreed except one woman. "I have nothing. My secretary keeps everything very clean." She meant cleaning woman. "Must be nice," I said. "Jon is my secretary, and he keeps things... well, there really is no word for it... dirty is no good... messy just doesn't fit.... Whatever is the exact, polar opposite of clean."

Saddam Hussein's Death: Saddam Hussein's death is an insult to Turkishness. The prevailing conspiracy theory here is that the whole hanging ordeal was a ploy by the United States government to make us THINK that Saddam is dead, when he is, in reality, alive and well. Why would the US government do this, you ask? Well, for power, of course. What power, exactly? No one is quite sure, but I'll be sure to post the answer when I hear it. And where is Saddam now? Where else... in Kuwait! This is a very popular and widely-believed theory that was all over the news. There is, of course, the counter-argument even if the US government didn't want Saddam dead, the Iraqi government certainly did. With the US holding a tenous grip on Iraq, and with a constant threat of military withdrawal looming, the last thing an Iraqi government led by a majority Shia block with a Kurdish Prime Minister at the helm wants is for the old, ruthless, angry Sunni dictator to return to power in a post-withdrawal coup. A dead Saddam stands much less chance of returning to power than a living one. My arguments, thus far, have only been met by skepticism. Oh, and Neil Armstrong didn't actually walk on the moon. That was fake. We just wanted to one-up the Russians (interesting to think about, no?).

Mugs: Mugs-and I mean big frigging cups, the kind of cup you want to put your coffee in after a long night of drinking, the kind of cup that will hold enough coffee that you won't have to get up from your chair for fifteen minutes, the kind of cup that can hold enough caffeinated beverage to pummel your sleep-deprived mind into consciousness-are an insult to Turkishness. Everyone has heard of Turkish coffee. Turkish coffee means twice or thrice boiled coffee grounds, usually with sugar. But more importantly, ordering Turkish coffee is an implicit request for coffee in a thimble. Traditional Turkish tea is also served in a thimble. In some restaurants and cafes you can forgo the thimble and order a cup of tea, for which there is a separate word in Turkish (fincan-basically means give me the smallest cup you have; and bardak-give me the second-smallest). Then they bring you a shot glass worth of tea or coffee. One of the biggest disappointments of my life was when I was in a city in southeast Turkey called Mardin. I hadn't slept much the night before due to the dirtiness and hotness of my room, so I got up early to try and find a proper coffee to bring me out of my stupor. In my sleepy state I walked into a café and ordered a cup of coffee. I was fully prepared for bitter Nescafe, which is crystallized coffee that you can often times almost chew, and which requires a lot of sugar and milk before drinking. Instead, the waiter brought me a Turkish coffee. I looked down despairingly at the thimble before me, and I think the waiter new something was wrong, as a single tear crept from my eye. I took a sip, which is really all you get from a thimble, chewed the coffee grounds, and left. As an added bonus I got to pick the coffee grounds out of my teeth with my tongue for the next hour.

Lines: Organized lines are an insult to Turkishness. Conversely, disorganized lines are a compliment. That may sound a wee bit paradoxical, and although I can't really explain it, I can at least try and put it in context for you. On more than one occasion I have had a person point out to me that Turkish people don't stand in lines. Right after that they mentioned, quite proudly I might add, that Italians don't stand in lines, either. Case in point: I went to a government office to renew my residency permit the other day. Everyone took a ticket with a number on it, but no one followed the number. Rather, everyone stood in a group and it was basically a free-for-all who got to the window first. I think it's a bad system, but Turks seem to enjoy it. I'll be honest, though, while standing in a line is always boring and flavorless, constantly jostling for position makes the time pass quicker. Sometimes standing in a line in Turkey is more like establishing position in the paint for a rebound than anything else.

Full-priced DVDs: The pirated DVD market in Turkey is burgeoning. No one pays full price for movies. Full-priced DVDs are an insult to Turkishness.

Sonic the Hedgehog Hair: This is definitely a Turkish compliment. Some directions on how to arrange your hair alaTurka. Picture a man with a flattop hair cut and the vestiges of a mullet. Now throw about two pounds of gel into that dew, the kind of gel that is very gooey and shiny. Spike that flattop hair up into something resembling a baby Mohawk. Spread the gel around thoroughly so that it also gives the mullet a greasy sheen. Next, comb that mullet straight back with your fingers. Be careful that you don't comb the sides of your hair back. That would look silly. You want the sides to be going straight down. Look, you want your hair to be doing three completely different things. On the apex of your cranium you will sculpt a summit, a veritable Mount Everest of hair. The sides will be gelled completely down. They must not move. To test the strength of your gel-job, turn a blow dryer on high and hold it an inch away from your head. If the hair doesn't budge then it's ready to go. The back of your noggin, which is where the true artistry takes place, must look like Wolverine had a bad hair day. Just ruffle it around a bit, gather it as if it were long enough for a pony-tail, and make sure it points straight back. If you think it looks silly at first, well, you just don't know anything about style.
Your hair should now be a solid mass. This mass is multifunctional.
1) The first and foremost function is, of course, coolness. Just having this hair automatically increases your net coolness percentile by 32S%.
2) The second function is utility. Your hair in its current state is a durable, inert helmet that will yield to neither hat hair nor bed head. You are going to be stylish at any time, day or night, whether you like it or not.
3) The third function is protection. With this hairdo you are effectively wearing a safety device and are prepared to do any number of things ranging from heavy construction to extreme motorcycling. Go to www.hedgehodhead.com to see a complete maganda (Turkish for greasy douchebag) go toe-to-toe (or head-to-head, rather) with a wild buffalo. This hairdo is, after all, about alpha-male status.
Note: If it doesn't look like you've been running headlong into a gale force wind then you're not doing it right.

Ruining Perfectly Good Polo Shirts and T-shirts, as Well as Button Up Shirts: Infantilizing adult outerwear is, unfortunately, a compliment to Turkishness. There are three cases in point.

a) Dragons. Imagine a perfectly good polo or button up shirt. It looks normal-the kind of thing you might have various versions of in your own closet-a hip little number that is so widely accepted that you may even be able to tuck it into a pair of nice pants and wear it to work. Now throw a screen printed dragon on the shoulder. Why, Turkey? Why???

b) Pockets. Pockets, pockets everywhere. Two pockets on your right breast, one on your left. Two others around your waist. One on the back of your shirt just for kicks. And you know those pants you thought looked cool at first? Well, they have ten pockets running up and down each leg, four dotting your toosh, and three normal sized pockets ringing your waist, enough pockets to put a heavy pair of cargo pants to shame. Half of the pockets are sewn shut and can't even be used, but hey, nobody ever said 'style' was a synonym for 'useful'.

c) Phosphorescent Glows. Many a shirt that you can buy in Turkey exudes a luminous glow, as if one were wearing the Northern Lights themselves. I can see why this trend might be popular. Crossing streets at night can be dangerous and with these shirts you are a walking, talking reflector.

Dieting: Dieting is a compliment to Turkishness. The word diet is the same in Turkish as it is in English. However, Turkish also has an additional word that they use just as frequently: 'rejim', which is similar to the English word regime, or regiment. A girl told me that she was gaining weight and that she was going to start a rejim.
"Really?" I said. "So what are you going to do? Walk, run, maybe join a gym?"
She looked at me quizzically, clearly surprised by my questions. "Of course not. I'm going to stop eating."
"But that's not a rejim," I insisted (oh, the ignorance of a foreigner). "If anyone over the age of 21 wants to lose weight, the quickest and most efficacious way to do it is to combine healthy eating and exercise."
"That would be so boring!" she replied. "It's much easier just not to eat anything."
Much to my chagrin I have discovered that this is, in fact, the most common way to undertake a rejim in Turkey.

(*note: I didn't say efficacious in the actual conversation, but it sounds damn good, doesn't it?*)
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1209714240/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1209714240/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1209714240/tpod.html Fri, 02 May 2008 05:06:55 -0400 Istanbul: Memories in the City

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Istanbul, Turkey

This section of the blog will be dedicated to beautiful and/or interesting pictures, or at least to pictures that I think are beautiful, interesting, or went out of my way to make artsy and therefore feel obliged to share. Please note that I am not a gifted photographer and that any discrepencies you have with my usage of the word "art" in reference to my own photos should be kept, cordially, to thyself (unless of course those sentiments take the form of praise [*but if not, you know I still love and respect your opinions*]).

Please click on the photo to access my textual witticisms and insights.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1208870640/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1208870640/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1208870640/tpod.html Thu, 01 May 2008 05:34:16 -0400 Istanbul: Memories in the City

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Istanbul, Turkey

I recently realized that, while I always come across great stories told to me by other foreigners living in Istanbul, I often come up with some interesting or funny ones myself. I'm dedicating this section of the blog, lovingly titled "Stories from the Bull", more or less to humor.

Earthquakes, Nuclear Payloads, and the Jews

Please note: While this story may be unbelievable to some and the conspiracy theory I will relate may even be offensive to others, this particular conspiracy theory is not common or widely believed. I am simply relating this story to underscore the widespread severity of cultural and ethnic prejudice, in this case anti-Semitism, that is rife throughout the world as a whole. After all, we cannot expose prejudice in our cultures, our societies, or even in ourselves unless we talk about such things openly and honestly.

It was the last week in September, 2004 when I heard my first Jewish conspiracy theory. Believe it or not, there really isn't much of an anti-Semitic conspiracy theory culture in Sioux City, nor in Iowa, nor really even in Midwestern America. Sure, this kind of prejudice certainly exists everywhere, but it's really something that a person keeps to himself because something deep down inside him recognizes that it's not acceptable to feel, and especially not to espouse, illogical and unfounded prejudice.

I was on the last leg of the Turkey stint in the St. Olaf College 'Term in the Middle East' program. It was my fourth week in Turkey, and the last week of the program was dedicated to travelling around the Anatolian Plateau. We had learned some modern Turkish history while studying at Roberts College in Istanbul. Our first day of travelling was dedicated to rounding out our knowledge of ancient Anatolian civilization.

We had just visited Ankara where we saw the Ankara Museum, which holds most of the greatest relics preserved from pre-historic Anatolia up until the Hittite civilization that piqued around 1200 B.C. and waned with the strengthening and subsequent invasion of proto-Greeks (the Doric invasion) in the northwest, proto-Phoenicians (the sea peoples) in the southwest, Assyrians and Babylonians in the east, and the New Kingdom Ramesside dynasty of Egypt in the far south.

We were on our way to Cappadocia, a place where tourists flock by the hundreds of thousands each year to gape at the lunar landscape, comparable only to the Badlands of South Dakota. Pre-historic people had carved homes out of the soft volcanic ash that spewed from the mountainous volcano dominating the horizon, rising above the surrounding hills much like Devil's Tower projects conspicuously above the rocky plains of Wyoming. Later, Christians fleeing the Roman persecution had settled in Cappadocia where they carved whole cities from the soft rock.

As the landscape changed from the relative lushness of northern Anatolia into the arid rockiness of Cappadocia, our tour guide, an older Turkish gentleman who was first and foremost a geologist, began to talk in minute detail about the geological makeup of the rock formations we were seeing.

Since we were teenagers, this obviously didn't hold our interest. One and all, students and professors alike passed out while listening to the repetitious, monotone geology lecture taking place over the tour bus's personal amplification system. I couldn't let myself fall asleep, however. I knew that I probably wouldn't get another chance to watch the scenery change while driving from Ankara to Cappadocia. After half an hour, the only people who were awake were myself and another student named Mark, who was listening to his Ipod.

"Turkey experiences a lot of earthquakes," went the monotone lecture. "It is feared that one day a giant earthquake will occur and this volcano, normally inactive but not dormant, will erupt." I pictured the volcano erupting and hot lava running down the hills, engulfing the Cappadocian landscape. "Turkey had a big earthquake in 1999. There was a lot of destruction all over Turkey. The earthquake was caused by the Jews, who detonate nuclear devices on the fault line that runs through Anatolia."

Wait a minute, I thought. Did I hear that correctly? I rubbed my tired eyes and stuck a finger in my ear to make sure I was hearing clearly.

"Turkey has a lot of minor earthquakes, which amount to one, two, or maybe three on the Rictor scale. These are also caused by smaller nuclear devices detonated by Jews on the fault line." I still couldn't believe my ears. Far from being angry at or distraught by what I was hearing, I was utterly fascinated. I had never heard anything like this before in my life!

"In ancient times, what is today southern Turkey was a part of the Jewish empire. During the Greek, Roman, and later the Ottoman times, this area became more and more Arab and Turkish. After World War I, many of the minorities in Anatolia migrated.

"Today, there is a Jewish re-colonization occurring in southwestern Turkey promoted by the state of Israel." I looked around and tried to catch someone's, anyone's, eyes. I didn't want to be the only person to hear this. No one would believe it. It was just too unbelievable.

(Sidenote: The year before, my sophomore year of college, I had been living in Rand Hall at St. Olaf College. Rand is nestled into the hillside on the outskirts of the campus proper, and you have to walk down stairs to get to it. I was walking home late one night after work, minding the stairs so that I didn't slip on any ice under the freshly fallen snow. It was a completely still, silent night and there were no other people around.

Suddenly right before me there appeared, as if by magic, a giant buck ["Did you see the turdy pointer?"]. My first reaction was shock. It just stood there in my path, not fifteen feet away from me. It looked at me, I looked at it. It wasn't skittish of me at all. It didn't move and it didn't flinch from my gaze.

We stared at each other for about fifteen seconds. I didn't move a muscle. I considered calling out to it as you might do to a dog, but I decided against it. My voice might spook it. I wondered if a deer was like a dog or a gorilla, and if staring into its eyes would be taken as a challenge. I thought about the movie Prancer, but then I looked at the giant horns on top of its head, a spiked tangle of bone that would be more than capable of goring me. I remembered hearing that deer, while usually docile and passive, charged a good number of people each year. A headline in the St. Olaf College campus newspaper flashed through my head: Student Gored by Deer at Rand Hall. How embarrassing! I didn't want to be that headline.

Just then the deer, which I have since named Prancer, turned around and plodded slowly, silently back into the forest near Rand Hall. Usually smokers hang out in front of Rand at all hours of the evening. I looked to see if anyone was around, to see if anyone saw me have a staring contest with a deer with antlers almost as big as me. There was no one. No one else to help me corroborate the amazing experience I just had.

I didn't want my tour guide's conspiracy theory to be my second deer, so to speak.)

"Jews are buying up land in southwestern Turkey," he continued. "At the same time, the Israeli government continues their testing of nuclear weapons on the fault line running through Turkey. They often detonate small nukes to let the people of Turkey know that they are still there, and that they have the power. Those are the tremors."

"Andreas," I said to a friend of mine, who was sleeping heavily in the seat across from me. I knew Andreas would find this fascinating. "Wake up! You've got to hear this." But Andreas didn't even budge.

"Every now and again the Jews detonate a big explosion and cause earthquakes, like the one in 1999. This is to let us know that some day, when the time is right, Israel will invade Syria, Jordan, Egypt, and Lebanon like they did in 1967. They will then split Turkey, which is the most sizeable military power in the region, in two with a giant earthquake, thus debilitating the Turkish military and completing their colonization of southwestern Turkey, which will become a part of Israel."

I turned around and motioned to Mark, who took off his headphones to hear what I was getting all worked up about. "Mark, you've got to hear this," I said.

"Hear what?"

"Just listen. This guy's talking about a Jewish conspiracy to use nuclear weapons to cause earthquakes in Turkey."

After listening for a few moments, Mark, who is a very keen, rational, and intellectual person, laughed. But really, what else can you do when confronted with a Jewish plot to colonize the Middle East by igniting nuclear devices on tectonic fault lines?

The Turkish System

One thing that always has and always will annoy me is the phrase "Turkish System". The two words are basically the same in Turkish as in English, the Turkish phrase being "Turk Sistemi". It's a phrase that you hear on a fairly regular basis.

The phrase is usually delivered with a shrug, sigh, nudge, or wink, sometimes a mixture of the four although I've never seen all four happen at once. It is always delivered as the brush-off response to a question that inquires about the logic of something illogical in Turkish society.

I first encountered the Turkish system ideology during my first two weeks teaching in Istanbul. What's more, it was originally tossed my way by an American. She had been working inside the Turkish system of business long enough to develop a healthy dose of dislike for the oppressiveness of the long hours and inefficieny that comes with working seventy hours a week with one, maybe no, days off. But, like your average Turkish person, this American tempered her dislike with a heavy dose of utter acceptance.

During my first week working I was given one class so that I could have an easy transition into the work and culture. The second week I was given a couple more classes and had almost a full teaching schedule. The next week I was deemed adequately transitioned and ready for maximum overdrive. My manager informed me that I would be given a fourth class and that I would be working every day of the week until further notice.

"I don't know if I'm ready to teach that many classes yet," I told my manager. The first two weeks, while not horrible, hadn't gone smoothly, either. "Can't someone else take a class?"

She looked at me with steely sympathy in her eyes, the look of a woman who had been through the revolving door of teacher turnover multiple times throughout the years and had no real sympathy left to give. "We have four classes we need to open this week and all the other teachers have full schedules. You're up."

Since I didn't want to work every day, which would mean that I spend twelve hours a day at work but get paid for about six hours, I tried to form a compromise, or at least an understanding. "I understand that students are waiting and that classes need to be opened, but every other teacher has at least two days off. Doesn't it say in my contract that I have a mandatory two days off a week?"

"Yes, but it also says that we reserve the right to ask you to work without holiday for up to three months at at time."

"All right, well, I just started a level one and Jon needs some hours. Can he take that class?"

"We don't allow teachers to switch classes."

"Why not?"

"We just don't. It's against our policy."

"Well, how long do you figure I'll have to do this?"

"We don't really know." When she saw the obvious skepticism, annoyance, and confusion on my face she leaned over as if to impart to me a secret. "I can't do anything about this. I have a boss, too, and it's what my boss wants. This isn't like America. Turks work long hours, and they expect you to work as long as they do. It's a difficult working culture."

"Don't get me wrong, I don't mind working long hours," I explained. "But what I don't understand is that there's an easy, clear way to make it so that I can have a day off and not work every day. Are you telling me that I have to work seven days a week simply because of a cultural discrepency?"

She grimaced, shrugged, patted me on the knee and picked up her cigarettes. This signaled that the conversation was at an end. She had taken me aside not to ask me if I would work with no days off, but rather to tell me. "That's the Turkish system," she said, words that were clearly comfortable on her lips.

I looked over at the Turkish teacher, a girl fresh out of college who taught preperatory English classes to students that didn't know any English, who was sitting opposite me. Her hair was disheveled, her peaked eyes had big black punching bags under them, and she looked like she hadn't had a wink of sleep in days. She worked six days a week and about twelve hours a day for roughly $600 a month. Compared to her I was on easy street.

"This is normal, isn't it?" I asked.

She curled her lips into the semblance of a smile and shrugged. "Turkish system," she told me, sighed, closed her eyes, and put her head down on the table.


The Rise of Brainchild

"All right class," I said to the group of intermediate students who were ringed around me, their attentive faces looking up at me from their desks. "Does anyone know the word 'eggplant'?"

One student, a young high schooler, raised his hand. "Aubergine," he said, using the British word for eggplant.

"That's right. What is it in Turkish?"

"Patlican," he replied, and everyone in the classroom pursed their lips in thought and nodded their understanding.

"Now, does anyone know the next word?" Everyone looked at the next word on the list and shook their heads. No one knew the word.

One student tried to sound it out. "Geeorge-ee-us?"

"No, it's pronounced gorgeous," I told them. They all frowned, clearly not pleased to encounter such a difficult word to say. The Turkish language does not use hard G's very often. "Gor-geous," I repeated slowly, letting them read the word on my lips. "Does anyone knows what gorgeous means?"

"No, we don't know," said another young high school boy in the back.

"It means very, very, very beautiful," I said, and everyone was suddenly happy to have understood the word so easily. Two of the most useful and ever-present words in the Turkish language are 'cok' (pronounced 'choke'), which means very, a lot, and much, and 'guzel' (pronounced goo-zel), which means beautiful, great, nice, awesome, cool, etc. These two words, in one way or another, can generally be applied in any given situation and used in almost any sentence you wish to say in Turkish. Using the two of them together to explain an English word was almost easier than explaining numbers by using your fingers. "Men, please remember this word," I said to them in mock seriousness. "If you ever get an English speaking girlfriend and she is dressed very well one night, you can say to her, 'Wow, you look gorgeous tonight!' She will be very impressed with that." The men chuckled, nodding thoughtfully at the prospect of English speaking girlfriends.

"All right, that's gorgeous. Does anyone know the next..."

Suddenly a student to my right raised his hand, leaned forward in his desk, raised his right hand with his index finger pointed upwards as if he had just had an epiphany, and said in a very pointed fashion, "Gorilla!" He said it with such gusto and enthusiasm that for a moment I thought it might be the Turkish for for 'eureka'.

"Gorilla?" I asked him perplexedly.

He nodded. "Gorilla." He was smilingly broadly and looked very proud of himself.

"Did you mean to say 'gorgeous?" I asked. His eyebrows drew down in confusion and he cocked his head as if he hadn't heard me correctly. "Gorgeous?" I repeated slower.

He cocked his head to the other side and squinted at me as if the lighting made it difficult for him to see. "Gorilla?" he asked again, phrasing it as a question.

"No," I said. "Gorgeous. Very beautiful. Cok cok cok guzel," I explained in Turkish. "Gorgeous."

"Gorilla," he repeated flatly. He now looked disconcerted at my inability to understand what he was trying to confer.

"No," I said. "Not gorilla. Gorgeous. Gorgeous is very different from gorilla." I looked at the other students for help, but they all looked back at me as if to say, 'What can you do? You can't help them all.'

Since that time, and after repeated misunderstandings over simple words and terminology, I have given this student the cognomen 'Brainchild'.

Health System Blues

I had been having a strange pain in my midsection for a few days. It started as a backache in America, progressed to a feeling of discomfort in my abdominal region in Turkey, and then became exacerbated after a game of soccer. Since I wasn't experiencing debilitating pain, I didn't see any reason to go to a hospital, where the doctor would undoubtedly speak Turkish. I couldn't be asked to try and fumble through an explanation of a vague pain. And anyway, if you've ever seen or heard about the inner workings of a Turkish national health clinic, you would probably steer clear of them, too.

One day I came home from work, having just finished an evening class. I hadn't eaten dinner so I stopped into a restaurant for a bowl of soup. On my way back to the English Time teacher dormitory I ran into one of the American teachers and an Iranian student, who were having dinner at a cafe in the area.

When I walked in, they asked me if I would like to sit down. "No, thanks," I said. "I'm kind of tired and I haven't been feeling very well lately. I think I'm just going to go back, read a book, and take it easy."

Suddenly the American teacher was alert and concerned. She told me that I looked pale, which was verified by the Iranian student. She felt my hand, which she said was clammy, although I was feeling rather warm. The American teacher insisted I go to the hospital immediately.

I tried to explain that I had just eaten some hot, spicy soup and that that might have something to do with my clamminess. I told her that I would agree to go to the hospital in the morning, but that all I really wanted was some sleep.

"What if something happens to you in the night?" she said, apparently convinced that I was critical and that my life was at stake. Despite my protests, she made a proactive move and called Karen, who is the head gal of English Time and who also used to be my manager at the English Time branch I worked for last year. Karen bustled on down from her apartment and took me to the hospital, which was one of the Turkish national health clinics.

We went to the Taksim clinic not far from the dormitory. We went to the emergency room since it was the only thing still open at eleven in the evening. After a few minutes a young nurse came over and asked, "What's wrong?" I said that I had a really strange pain from my groin muscles on up to my belly-button. "You look fine," she responded.

"Well, thanks," I said. "But this pain is not normal. I'd like to see a doctor."

"Well, you look ok," she said again, this time more emphatically.

"Thanks," I responded again, hoping that she could pick up on the sarcasm. "But can I see a doctor?"

"Oh, you can see the doctor," she told me (emphasis on the word see), and I got her sarcasm clear as a bell.

She went over and told the doctor that I wanted to see him. The doctor came over and said, "Are you the foreigner? What's the problem?" I told him the issue. "He looks all right," he told the nurse, who translated it again to me in broken English (as if I don't know the Turkish word for ok... it's the same as the English... retards). Then the doctor walked off to do other things.

The nurse asked me to come with her so that she could give me an injection. I was suddenly alarmed. "An injection? For what?" I began picturing a horror movie where a lonely foreigner wanders into a national health clinic for some help. The doctors and nurses, laughing maniacally and groping for a foreign credit card with a high limit, drag him off into the back room and put him through all sorts of unecessary tests and administer strange, unwanted injections.

"For your pain," she explained, as if that were the most normal thing in the world.

"I don't want an injection," I told her. "I wanted to get a doctor to check me out."

"You'll have to come back tomorrow for that during daily work hours. Until then, we can give you a shot for your pain."

"I'm not letting them give me an injection," I told Karen. She agreed.

We didn't thank them, and we walked out of the clinic (were kicked out, really) grumbling about the strangeness of a health system that will shoot you full of drugs and send you back out into the streets rather than take a few minutes to do a routine check-up (you know, the whole turn your head and cough bit... I was, after all, there to see if I do, indeed, have a hernia). I guess that's the difference between a good and a bad health system. Good systems work to prevent a crisis, and the others just treat the crisis after it has happened.

I told this story to a friend of mine who just nodded and chuckled. We were so used to the Turkish system that we expected nothing less. Then he snapped his fingers and laughed. "Ha, at least now I know where to go if I need a quick fix."

I doubt he's the first person who's thought of that.

Open For Business

I was teaching a grammar point, no doubt something eye-opening and brilliant, when I realized that it was five minutes past break time.

"All right everybody," I said to the class of fourteen students. They were an eclectic group composed of university students, professionals who were learning English to help them get a better job, still other professionals who were learning the language of international business in the hopes of getting preferential promotions at their current jobs, and even a housewife. "You can close your grammar books and take a break."

The teaching system I was working under required that teachers teach three consecutive fifty minute blocks with two ten minute breaks in between the first and second hours. On break the students would flock en masse to the canteen upstairs and slam a shot of sugary Lipton tea, eat a chocolate bar, and chain-smoke a cigarette or two.

I don't smoke, I don't really like tea, I don't eat chocolate, and I since I lecture for three straight hours I drink a lot of water, so I generally use break time to use the toilet. On this particular occasion I had drunk a lot of water, and instead of waiting for my students to leave the room first as I usually do, I left the room ahead of everyone else.

After I use the toilet I usually go up and chat with my students on break. Hanging out with them in a more social environment builds a teacher-student cohesion that is not possible unless you treat them more like friends than students every once and a while (and they are, after all, mostly professionals, not young children). On the way up the stairs I realized that I forgot my cell phone in the classroom. I walked into the room to retrieve it and was confronted with all of the men in class sitting in the classroom looking rather sullen.

I was instantly worried. The last thing you want in a classroom setting like this is a schism, especially one that starts along gender lines. It doesn't happen very often, but when it does, it's ugly.

Since I had dealt with a situation like that before, I decided to address the issue head on. "Hey, guys," I said, planting myself firmly in front of them, hands on hips. "What's up?"

They looked at me with blank expressions, then looked at each other, and looked back at me. No one said anything, which was very unlike them. They were typically a very animated group.

"Why are you guys down here and all the girls are up in the canteen? Are we segregating?" I jibed.

One of them, a fellow with really good English named Ahmet, looked at me with a pained expression on his face. "Jared, I need to tell you something," he said.

Again, I was worried. Nothing good has ever followed those words, I'm sure. "Yeah, sure. What's up?"

"Jared, I..." Normally a loquacious and forthright person, Ahmet seemed to be lost for words. He looked over at his fellow students, one of who just shrugged helplessly. "I need to... I need tell you something before the girls come back."

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Your shop is open."

I looked at him blankly. Everyone's face was as still as stone.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"Your shop is open," he said more forcefully, clearly at a loss for anything else to say.

I didn't understand. I looked at the other students for help. One, a guy I had known for a long time, smirked and pointed at my waist.

I looked down and there, open as the day is long, was my zipper.

"Oh, open for business!" I said, comprehension dawning. I zipped it up right there.

They lost it. They broke into raucous laughter, pounding the table and repeating the words "It's open for business!" in between gasps for air. I taught them the phrase 'Your fly is open' so that, if they ever had another dumb English speaking teacher who forgets to close up shop, they can break that communication barrier right away.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1205265120/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1205265120/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1205265120/tpod.html Thu, 24 Apr 2008 08:11:07 -0400 Istanbul: Memories in the City

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Istanbul, Turkey

To make a seven-month-long story short, I left America in August 2007 to fly back to the US and get my work visa and residence permit from the Indian consulate in Chicago so that I could start a job in India. The process, and the company I was supposed to work for, made me very anxious about going to work in a situation that I was becoming increasingly unsure about.

Three months into the visa obtaining process, I realized that I hadn't been home to see friends and family in five years. Count it: 4 years in college and 1 year in Istanbul = 5 years. I stuck around Iowa and South Dakota for almost 7 months until it was just no longer economically feasible for me to continue being in the country (I came back to Turkey with money in my bank account and I left America significantly deeper in debt). Working $8 an hour jobs just doesn't cut the proverbial mustard when you have college loan payback on the horizon.

I got back to Istanbul after a long, grueling, arduous process of connecting drives and flights. The first leg was Sioux City to Omaha, where I had a three hour delay in Omaha due to bad weather further west. I met a man there who was dressed in a hospital gown. He was shaking badly and had bruises all over his face. He overheard me ask someone if they were destined for London. We struck up a conversation and he told me that he was an American living in Germany. He worked for a German energy company and had come to Omaha on business. He had walked into a barber shop somewhere in Omaha to get a trim, and that's the last thing he remembered before he woke up in someone's basement. The barber had slipped a drug of some sort into his drink. The guy didn't go into detail, but it sounded like they had basically tortured him in some strange fashion for several days and then dumped him on the street. All of his possessions had been taken, and he spent a few days in a hospital recovering. He had to have airport personnel assist him so that he could walk.

So yes, even the beginning of the trip was interesting.

I flew to Chicago where an airline employee directed me to the wrong terminal. The Chicago O'Hare terminal is the size of a small town but more difficult to traverse than most big cities. The misdirection cost me half an hour, which after the 3 hour delay in Omaha gave me about a half hour to get from one terminal to the next. The airline employee who gave me the unfortunate news shook his head as if to say, "Better luck next time, buddy."

(Side note: a similar thing happened to me in the Chicago O'Hare terminal when I came home from Greece during my 2004 Middle East trip. I ran from one terminal to the next with a twenty-five pound bag on my back, which felt as heavy as lead after a half hour of running up and down stairs dodging old ladies and baby buggies. The result of this was bruises on my shoulders from the backpack bouncing up and down as I ran and a backache that didn't go away for months.)

I had done it once, and I refused to accept that the terminal run couldn't be done again (granted, I actually ended up missing the 2004 flight despite my efforts). I took my guitar in hand and strapped my backpack securely to my torso. I got to speed walking and asked every airport employee I saw how to get to my terminal (one wrong turn spelled my doom). I made it to my terminal with time to spare and had a great flight.

In London I had a short layover in Heathrow, where I got a coffee and a muffin. When the total came to $8 I almost choked. In the US, a coffee and a muffin for that price only happens to people with down and out luck in New York City. I instantly flashed back to an episode of Sex & the City where Miranda orders a coffee and a muffin from a sheikh little sidewalk cafe. Her total only came to $7.

The flight to Istanbul was unventful. The arrival, however, was not. I got through the visa process fairly quickly since the line was short and I already had a Turkish residency permit. I waited for my bags for about twenty minutes. Then the conveyor belt stopped and the sign changed to indicate that the baggage from another flight would be arriving shortly. The Turkish guy next to me looked at me, shrugged, and pointed to an office with a sign that read "Lost and Found".

I went with him into the Lost & Found office where we waited in a long line of people whose bags were lost. Then the gentleman explained to the Lost & Found workers that his bags and my bags were lost, and that we were on the same flight (thank goodness for Turkish hospitality... that would have been a nightmare for me to try to explain!). I was given a piece of paper with a phone number on it and a reference number. "Don't lose this," the office worker told me in Turkish. The severity of her expression told me that if I lost this paper, I would effectively be losing my bags. Then she underlined the phone number three times as if to say, "You call us, because we sure as hell aren't going to call you." Which, in all fairness, they never did.

Oh well, I thought. Bags get lost all the time. Even though I don't trust the Turkish airport baggage handlers, at least they work for British Airways, which is a reputable Western company, right? Well, actually, I was about to find out that this assumption (presumption) was a complete fabrication on my part.

I went out into the Ataturk airport's waiting area to find the van that English Time had arranged to pick me up from the airport and shuttle me to the English Time dormitory. I waited for an hour before I decided that I had been left to fend for myself. Since I was familiar with Istanbul this wasn't as scary as it might at first seem, although it was certainly frustrating and disconcerting. I flipped on my cell phone and found the English Time manager's number and, wonderfully enough, I found a Turkish phone card that still had a few minutes of talk time on it. I gave her a call. She told me to take a taxi and that English Time would reimburse me for it.

I went to an exchange office and picked up some Turkish liras. I hailed a taxi which, since it was rush hour, took an hour and a half to get from the airport to Taksim Square, where the English Time dormitory is. I was given a room that, while not good, was not the closet (if you remember from my previous travel blog, the first time I got to the English Time dormitory, lovingly called the Lojman, they stuck me in the closet). For the next week I proceeded to tell people that it was nice to finally be out of the closet.

But oh! the bag fiasco was not yet finished, not by a long shot. I called British Airways' Turkish sector every day for two weeks. On the first day I was told, "Your baggage is in London. It will be coming tomorrow." Great, I thought. I won't even buy any new soap or clothes. On the second day they informed me that "Actually, your bags are in Omaha. They never left Omaha. They should arrive in Istanbul tomorrow." In that case, I figured I should buy some bar soap. On the third day my bags were in London again. I bought new underwear and socks and toyed with the idea of picking up some shampoo since bar soap makes one's hair feel like straw. I had started two new classes by the fifth day, and I introduced myself by saying, "Hi, my name is Jared. Now, I know I look professional," motioning to my attire, which consisted of a black polo t-shirt and designer jeans, "But let me tell you about my last five days." By the sixth day I was told that my bags had not, in fact, been located. They were still searching. Since my scalp was beginning to flake from bar soap application and my shirt was thoroughly dirty, I picked up some extra clothes, shampoo, and other necessities. From there on out my bags were alternately anywhere in between Omaha and Istanbul. After two weeks they arrived at the English Time office in Besiktas. The zipper on my suitcase was broken and one shirt inside was completely soaked... but just one shirt, whereas nothing else in the bag was even remotely damp. Strange.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1183939200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1183939200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1183939200/tpod.html Tue, 14 Aug 2007 18:58:54 -0400 Istanbul: Memories in the City

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Olympos, Turkey

Sunday, July 8--Istanbul to Antalya

The easiest way to get to Olympos, which was the first destination on the itinerary, was to take a bus from Istanbul to Antalya. Ece and I scoured the Besiktas bus companies looking for a good ticket price. The ride from Istanbul to Antalya takes twelve hours, and the ticket prices can change dramatically depending on the name of the company (big name companies with expensive buses obviously cost more). One company quoted us 67 lira, another 65, Metro Turizm asked 60, but we went with a small company that charged only 45 YTL.

We got on the Besiktas service bus at 7 p.m. It was supposed to take us to the Otogar, Istanbul's main bus depot, but instead it dropped us in a miscellaneous Istanbul suburb. We stood for an hour (until 8:30) next to a little mosque on the interstate waiting for the bus to arrive.

"This is what you get for 45 YTL I guess," joked Ece (not that my experience with other companies has been any more encouraging).

The bus stopped several times along the way, including two thirty minute food and bathroom breaks in Adapazari and Afyon (famous for its spicy sausages). At 8:15 in the morning we arrived in the bustling beach town of Antalya.

Monday July 9: Antalya to Olympos

We stepped bleary-eyed from the big bus and got directly onto a mini-bus headed towards Olympos. Since Olympos is a small sea-side affair up in the mountainous countryside of Southern Turkey, it takes two service buses to make the journey from Antalya (or, similarly, from any destination). We rode west of Antalya for another 100 km, which took another three hours after numerous stops and waits (I'll never get used to this efficient but slow system of independently operated transportation management. It's very good for local small business owners, as every driver owns or operates his own mini-bus and has a vested interest in the financial outcome of every journey, which, unfortunately, means that he will wait until until the bus is full before he departs, which can take a very long time).
But one more service connection later and we had arrived.

12 p.m.: Olympos

Located about a kilometer from the beaches of the Mediterranean Sea and nestled amidst the ancient ruins of a Hellenistic, Roman, and Lycian city of the same name, Olympos is a wonderful little cove of rural relaxation. Numerous small, private hotels and pensions dot the area, offering luxury accommodation options for a reasonable price (40-50 YTL), nice rooms for a good price (35-40 YTL), and tree house bungalows for next to nothing (15-20 YTL). If you stay at Kadir's, or particularly at Turkmen, two of the areas largest pensions, the price includes a nice Turkish breakfast, a spectacular dinner buffet, and free coffee and tea all day long. There was even a Foster's beer special going on when I arrived. $1 for a bottle (you can't even beat that in the States!)!

Since we had missed breakfast by one hour, Ece and I ate some crackers and headed down to the water. She had come to Olympos four years earlier, and as we walked down the dirt road toward the sea she marveled at how much everything had changed. Little restaurants, cafes, and markets dotted the road where before there had been none. Food and drinks were plentiful and cheap, where before they had been scarce and expensive ("Olympos used to be very expensive," Ece explained. "You could pay 9 YTL for a carton of juice.")
As of late, Olympos has begun to compete with the other very popular beach resorts of Southern Turkey and is making a bid to attract local and international bargain hunters. Which it has, especially since it has the natural and historical equipment to do so.

We paid 2 YTL each to access the beach (an all day pass). Up on the hill I could see the remains of a ancient Acropolis. On my right were what was left of a grand riverside palace. The aqueducts were still standing, the supporting walls of which created a funnel-like pathway that fed you down toward the sea, and further back in the forest and up on the hill above were the well-preserved remains of an amazing mausoleum, an old Byzantine church, and another Acropolis. Since I love old things, I wanted to go up and see everything now. "Let's go tomorrow," said Ece, who was aching to swim. I wiped my brow and agreed. The one o'clock heat was already stifling, and it was only going to get hotter.

Olympos' beach is mostly rocks, although sand can be found. The water bottom is also rocky, and I recommend bringing sandals or shoes you can get wet. I brought shoes that I didn't want to get wet, and I took them off and burnt the bottoms of my feet on the scalding rocks in my first hour on the beach, a mistake for which my blistered tootsies paid for two days.

We spent the rest of the afternoon swimming around the rocky coves near the beach. In the late afternoon we bought a cold fruit plate from a local market for lunch. Dinner at 8 p.m. proved to be to filling, and after very little sleep the night before, a day in the sun, and a big meal, we passed out at 10:30 p.m. for 11 hours.

Tuesday, July 10

When I awoke at 9:30 I didn't want to get up, but I knew that it was better to go hiking early in the day than during the 1-4 p.m. heat wave.

After a plate of the traditional Turkish breakfast (white salty unsalted cheeses, two kinds of olives, jam, honey, yogurt, and bread) and a not-so-traditional Nescafe coffee, I took my camera and headed for the hills. For the next two hours Ece and I trekked through the dense, rocky forest that covers what is left of Lycian, Roman, and Byzantine Olympos: Four Acropoli, a wrecked theatre, numerous foundations of houses, shops, palaces, and fortresses, and the remains of a sixteenth century cathedral. We walked both sides of the shallow river that separates the old city in two. The walking, however, was not easy. Ascending the two hilltop Acropoli (which I believed were, in fact fortresses, due to their strategic proximity to the sea, and which wikipedia tells me may in fact be Venetian, Genoese, or Rhodian) overlooking the sea is difficult, and we didn't see any other tourists do it the whole time we were in Olympos.

After the sweaty undertaking, we had quick dip in the ice-cold river and then jumped from the rocks, which are jumbled around an inlet that once served as a docking point for small ships, into the sea. Then we walked back down the road to get a lunch of Kavun Dondurma, which means honey-dew melon with ice-cream piled inside (at 7 YTL it's a delicious deal on a hot day).

The rest of the day was spent kicking around on the beach, consuming another nice dinner, and finally a rousing round of Fosters. Then it was off to find the Olympos night life!

There are a variety of options around Olympos to this effect. Live music plays every night at a bar near Turkmen. Two pensions play nighttime movie selections and anyone from any pension is welcome to attend. We walked down to Kadir's, which has a killer night club that plays all of Turkey and Europe's dance favorites, with some eclectic American sound bytes thrown in. The young people all flock here to dance around the bonfire and sit around the Old West, rodeo-style dance pavilion.

We called in an early night at 2, maybe 3 or 4 a.m. (I don't really know for sure).

Wednesday, July 11

We arose late today. At 10:15 we were out the door for breakfast. Usually I hate beaches and find them very boring, but the beauty, activity, and calm of Olympos combine to make the time pass quickly. I didn't even notice it was lunch time until 5:00.

Walking back to the hotel, I caught sight of a phenonomen I had only heard about, but never seen: the Burqini (a juxtaposition of burka and bikini, get it? ha...ha), or the conservative female Islamic full body bathing suit.
"Silly," scoffed Ece under breath.
"Interesting," I agreed. The bathing suit was formfitting, but showed no skin except for around the eyes.
"I think it's just silly," Ece repeated. "These women. They want to be Islamic but they also want to be modern. They think they can live for God, by the Koran, and do modern things like go swimming, too."
"And what do you think of that?" I asked.
"Only in Turkey," she commented ruefully, "Can you find modern Islamists." (Sarcasm dually noted).
(Ece is of a secularist mindset believing that Islam, if it is followed as set forth in the Koran, cannot coexist with modern or liberal values, and is dangerous to democracy. She, as well as a number of modern secularist Turks, see conservative Islam as the single biggest threat to the Turkish Republic, and to their personal freedoms as individuals, especially as women. "If AK comes to power again," she told me, referring to the leading political party in Turkey, which many people accuse of having an Islamic agenda, "we will see Turkey as another Iran." Though I disagree with this doomsday hypothesis, I definitely sympathize with the gravity of the threat it implies.)

The rest of the night followed lazily. We went to bed early, having booked a day full of river rafting starting at 8:45 the following morning. At only 45 YTL a piece, breakfast and lunch included, we figured it was money well spent since neither of us had ever whitewater rafted before.

Thursday, July 12

We woke up at 8, had a hurried breakfast at 8:30, and went to wait for the service bus. It didn't come until 9:10.

Enter: Turkish mini-bus hell. The projected length and time of travel was 2 ½ hours for a 200 km trip.

First we stopped at several other pensions to pick up travelers, who I assumed were other rafters. Then we drove to Antalya, about 90 km east of Olympos, where we stopped at the bus station, the airport, and then at a gas station (this may not sound bad, but Antalya is not a small city). By this time an hour and a half had passed.

We continued on toward Alanya (no, that's not a typo, it's a different city). We drove at breakneck speed through little mountain roads, whipping around corners and over hills like a bat out of hell. I started to feel carsick and Ece was white as a sheet. Toward the end she was breathing into a plastic grocery bag.

After another hour and a half we finally stopped. We were given a life jacket and helmet and piled back into the bus, which drove us another 5 km and deposited us at the top of a ravine.
We walked to our boat, where our river guide gave us survival instructions and general rules to follow. I didn't understand but I kept silent, not wanting to give away my non-Turkish ness (besides, I was the only person on board who had over held an oar before).

We were nine people all together. We began by rowing upstream to a small waterfall where we met up with another boat of rafters. Everybody got out to put their feet in the ice-cold stream pouring from the rocks. In our boat there was a little plastic, lunchbox-like container meant to keep things dry that people wanted to bring on the voyage: cameras, cell phones, wallets, but which was actually filled only with cigarettes and lighters. Every person, one and all, got out their smokes and lit up, a scene that reminded me of the intermission at every Turkish cinema showing.

After the cigarette break we turned back downstream. I could tell straight away that I was rowing with a group of people who had never even seen an oar before (indeed, our river guide, who steered the raft from his perch on the back, was grinding his teeth at the inadequacy of our effort).

But really, the trip was pure comedy. We had one man, a strange little bald soldier, who loved splashing people and giggled like a child whenever he did so. We were riding in tandem with another boat, inside of which were a family of eight that consisted of two solid looking men and four gigantic women of varying ages. Their guide was a very experienced and energetic young man. Every time this (or any other) boat came within range, our solder let fly a string of splashes and high-pitched giggles. But the other boat's guide was much better at this game than our soldier, and the end result was always that we were soaked. The whole journey. Practically waterlogged by the end.

Then there were the two people in the front of our boat, a man and wife. Half the time we were rowing, this rotund, lazy man was not. Every ten minutes he asked our guide, "Are we finished yet? Are we almost finished? How long until we're done?" He resembled the other, larger man on our boat who rowed a little, huffed and puffed, and stopped rowing. This left me, effectively, as the only man who was rowing, what with the soldier splashing away.

At one point, after trying and failing to out-row the boat of overweight old women, one woman, who was actually a good rower, exclaimed: "Look at them! Why are we not beating them?" To which our deeply annoyed guide replied, "Because we are rowing very weakly." I chuckled, as I agreed completely.

Although Ece and I had hoped that this rafting trip would be an adventure tour through quick rivers and down huge rapids, we realized early on that we were on a family tour. We were pleasantly surprised, however, when we expressed this sentiment to our guide and he, unhappy-looking devil, got everybody off at one of the rapids and let us jump into the current, which swept us off like a shotgun. A little ways further down the river we stopped again at a group of rocks and climbed up a ladder onto a wooden plank suspended about thirty feet above the water.

Ece, who is a little wary of heights, hesitated momentarily at the top. "Jump," demanded our guide, whose day it just was not, and Ece leapt into the river. I was very surprised and congratulated her on her feat. She was beaming with adrenaline. "What could I do?" she said. "That man is very aggressive."

After a few more rapids, the tour came to an end. We took the raft out of the water and piled it onto a truck that was waiting for us. Other groups, most of which consisted of Ukrainian and Russian families, were doing likewise. But just as our truck was taking off, the guide of our sister-boat hopped off, walked back to the groups putting their rafts onto the trucks, and threw three quick roundhouse punches, giving some unsuspecting guy a sound thrashing. The momentary scuffle was broken up quickly, and the guide swaggered back to our truck with half a smile curling his lips. My boat's guide looked unsurprised. No one seemed to think it was out of the ordinary.

They took us back to the staging center, which was called Klas (Restaurant) Rafting, and we had lunch on the riverside. Freshly cooked fish, wrapped in salt-cured grape leaves ('dolma' in Turkish) and garlic, and two kinds of salad on the side. I squeezed a lemon over the whole thing and settled into some of the best fish I've ever eaten.

Sapped from a long day of rowing in the sun, we slept the whole way back to Olympus (this time sitting in the front seat). We skipped dinner and retired to bed early.

Friday, July 13

On our last day in Olympos, we decided that another relaxing beach day was in order (do you sense a theme being established yet?). We scaled up to the remnants of the only Acropolis we had yet to see. After that we lounged about, I took some more pictures, and Ece set herself the goal of getting as burnt as possible (when I asked her why she wasn't wearing any sunscreen she said, "Yanacagim," which literally means "I'm going to (I want to) burn." So far, I haven't found a Turkish equivalent for the word 'tan'). As for me, I sat in the comfortable, sandy shade. We had another fruit plate for lunch.

But later that night I finally convinced Ece to go on the Yanartas Tour (which means Flame Tour) to see the Chimaera. She despises tours, and this one proved to be no exception.

Since it only cost 7.50 YTL, I thought it would be cheap, easy fun. We booked a spot on the minibus only to find that the actual price was 10 YTL, since the advertised price didn't cover the Yanartas admission fee. We also learned that the tour, which starts every evening after dinner at 9 o'clock, didn't end until 12:15! I was surprised since all of the blog writers on Virtualtourist said they had insufficient time on the mountain. Since the Chimaera was only 20 kilometers away from the pension--maybe a half hour ride-- where did this extra hour and a half come from?

Much to my dismay, I discovered the answer when our bus driver handed me a flashlight, said "One, two people," indicating Ece and I were to share, and motioned us up the mountain. "One hour," he said.

The walk up was not short, nor was it easy. The path is broken, rock-strewn, and treacherous, and there are a lot of stairs, each one of which is about three times as high as a normal stair. One unlucky man tripped in the darkness and twisted his ankle.

The Chimaera itself is interesting enough, especially since my Internet research sources tell me that it's the only thing of its kind in the world. I wondered if this could have been the phenomena responsible for the story of the burning bush; if Mount Sinai could have once had a similar wonder that burnt itself out or was destroyed by an earthquake; or if simple anachronism could have juxtaposed the story of this mountain, very famous and important in antiquity, with that of the other religiously storied Mount.

On the way down our flashlight died. We had to wait for another group and follow them down. By the time we reached the bottom we were soaked in sweat. Ece bought a bottle of ice cold water, which is ready and waiting for you at the bottom, chugged it and straightaway stated "I hate the Yanartas Tour." Although she doesn't recommend it, I thought that it was neat enough.

We went back to the hotel and passed out.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1187051220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1187051220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1187051220/tpod.html Tue, 14 Aug 2007 18:57:23 -0400 Istanbul: Memories in the City

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Kas, Turkey

Saturday, July 14- Olympos to Kas (pronounced like the word "cash", but with the A like an "aah")

We left after breakfast on the 10 am service bus from Turkmen. 3 YTL each got us up to the main road, where we paid an additional 11 YTL each for the minibus to Kas. Not wishing to repeat the carsickness debacle, we rushed the bus and took the front seat by storm.

With all the stops and winding mountain roads, the trip from Olympos to Kas takes about three hours. We decided on Kas because I have two friends, a well-traveled English woman and a Turkish man, who met there, and they rave about it. When I got there, I knew why.

Kas is one of the most beautiful and cozy tourist towns I've ever seen. And it is just that, a tourist town. It's small. Everything looks brand new, from the boats waiting on the pier to take tourists on Mediterranean tours to the freshly built hotels and pensions dotting the cityscape; from the almond vendor's mobile kiosk to the Turkish delight seller's shop; from the restaurants selling 50 YTL per plate fish courses to the cute little dress shops offering simple flower imprinted designs for 100 YTL; from the "traditional Turkish" rug sellers, who have probably only seen a handful of hand-woven rugs in their lives (most of the rugs looked machine made) to the hawkers of other "traditional" Turkish goods.

Indeed, Kas was designed with foreign tourists in mind, and the prices and variety of touristy options (all advertised in English) reflect this. But the touristy overtones do not detract from the Turkish experience, as the people are still very hospitable and the restaurant workers still overly persistent. The cleanliness and organization of the town are not indicative of the typical Turkish town, however, a fact which led Ece to comment, "Kas is very nice. I think I like city tourism better than country tourism." (she was still reeling from the Yanartas Tour)

We gathered our belongings and went down to the rocks. Kas has very few beaches, two to be precise, one of which is only ten meters long, although the other one is considerably longer. But again, this did not take away from our enjoyment. We found a restaurant that gives people a nice, free dock to sit on, complete with sun chairs and a plank from which to jump into the water. Ece was once more heard to remark, "I think this is the best beach we've been on. And the best water!" The whole aura seemed so idyllic that the sea even tasted less salty (growing up around the lakes of Minnesota, I'm strictly a freshwater lover).

In the evening we shopped around the market bazaar of the city center. We picked up some cheese and fruit for dinner and sat on our balcony, which had a nice view of the distant islands, and I opened up the wine I had brought back from Thessolaniki, Greece, and which I had been saving for just such an occasion.

Sunday, July 15

We went on a boat tour today. Did you know that being on a midsized boat on the sea can make me very, very seasick? Well, neither did I. Surprise!

At 8:30 am the tourists of Kas all flock to the pier to board any one of the slew of tour ships waiting to escort them on an island excursion. Each tour lasts about six hours and offers to grill you lunch right there on the boat. The only difference between one tour and the next is the price, most tours being 45 YTL (especially if you want the glass bottom boat). Our tour was 30 YTL, and our boat was named Safari 2.

The first hour and a half were great. The ship bounced lazily around the islands, depositing us in different coves every half hour for a swim. We were provided with snorkeling gear and allowed to jump from any part of the boat we could climb up to.

But all of a sudden a change swept over me. My hands went completely numb. My arms tingled. I couldn't stand up, my legs wouldn't support me, and my breathing became a conscious effort. I retreated from the bow to the ship's stern and hope the sickness would abate. I noticed all of the people on board trying very hard not to look at me, which I think was a silent plea on their part that I wouldn't toss my cookies. I must have looked deathly. Ece later told me, "I was really scared for you. Your face was white as a ghost." In retrospect, I think I must have looked much like Jodie Foster in the movie Nell. I was swinging my numb, enfeebled limbs around and mumbling incoherencies like "I... don't wanna' be on a ship anymore." "Can we... go back? Is it possible?" and "Kill me now. Please."

We finally stopped at Kekova the Sunken City, which is the tour's main destination and attraction. We docked in the sunken city's old harbor. As the ship's crew prepared the meal, I curled up into the fetal position for about fifteen minutes until I worked up the strength to roll myself off the boat. I sunned myself on a rock like a turtle, and when the food was ready I decided to force some food on myself. It turned out to be a good idea since the grilled chicken was literally the best-spiced I've had in Turkey.

As for the sunken city itself, there is not much to see but the stubby remains of the old city walls, the poor quality of which reminded me of Troy. We departed from the sunken city and continued onto the above water city of Kekova for an hour-long excursion (my stomach was ecstatic about the prospect of this stop).

The modern-day island, however, is not really so modern. The first thing you notice is the giant citadel dominating the skyline, an Byzantine relic built on top of an earlier Lydian one. Upon exiting the boat you are swarmed by hoards of impoverished children selling bracelets and necklaces. I knew that they were very poor indeed not only from their dirty faces and shabby clothes, but by the fact that they didn't care if we were foreigners or Turkish. The prices of all wares stayed the same. "1 YTL for a bracelet?" a particularly cute little boy asked Ece. She couldn't bring herself to say no.

We walked up to the castle and paid the 5 YTL admission. We were two of only four tourists who did so. We were then escorted around the crumbling castle landscape by a rotund, energetic old woman who must have been half goat. She was giving men and women half her age a hand up the rocks. At the castle's summit she gave us insights, information and gossip about the city's wealthy population.

"You see those houses?" she asked, indicating four large villas complete with helipads. "They are own by (explain)

The return trip was much the same, minus the debilitating illness. I learned that by fixing my eyes to the horizon and bending my knees in sync with the ship's motions I could avoid the worst of it. But apart from that little stint right before Kekova, the tour was a magnificent journey and I highly recommend it.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1187051460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1187051460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/istanbulu_life/1187051460/tpod.html Tue, 14 Aug 2007 18:52:47 -0400 Istanbul: Memories in the City

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Fethiye, Turkey

Monday July 15-- Kas to Demre (Santa Claus!)

Again, through the same childlike persistence that convinced Ece to take the Yanartas tour, I convinced her to backtrack sixty kilometers toward Demre. But since we weren't taking a tour, she didn't mind so much.

We checked out of our hotel and took our bags to the bus station. We paid the men at the station a couple YTL to watch our big travel bags so that we didn't have to carry them with us. I took a backpack with all my important stuff in it (I don't trust anyone as far as I can throw 'em).

Demre doesn't have much to offer tourists. It has some beaches, sure. Every coastal town in Southern Turkey does. But one unique thing it does have is the Church of St. Nicholas, aka Santa Claus.

Demre turned out to be the most crowded place I would visit on my vacation. I hadn't seen a Greek person the whole time I had been in Turkey, but the area around the church of St. Nicholas was filled to bursting with Hellenes on a Greek Orthodox pilgrimage. Ece and I paid 4 YTL each to get into church, where we waited in long lines to see everything from the statues of Old St. Nick to the ruins of the ancient church, pieces of which dated from Roman times. Outside the church we wandered through icon shops that sold beautiful icons and little vials of holy water for a small fortune.

A half hour was enough in Demre. We caught the bus back to Kas, grabbed out bags, and left straightaway for Fetiye.

Kas to Fetiye

Kas to Fetiye was another three hour journey, and it was nail biting. We moved so slowly that I thought the driver might be drunk. The people on the bus were all hot and unhappy, and it seemed as if everyone was trying their best to make his or her neighbor feel the same.

By the time we got to Fetiye, Ece and I were ready to call it quits on buses. But Fetiye, although not a very populous city, is built on a hill, and the sections of town are spread out over a great distance. We learned that we had to take a service bus from the Otogar to get to where we wanted to be.

Thirty minutes later we were in Oludeniz, the party of town that boasts Fetiye's best beaches and nightlife. We were hot and tired. We walked into the Magic Tulip Hotel, which quoted us 35 YTL a night each for a room with air conditioning, tv, and breakfast. The hotel also had a pool.

"What do you think?" said Ece. "Should we look and see if we can find something else?"
"If we go searching, maybe we'll walk for an hour with our big bags and find a room for thirty YTL."

She took my point. We dropped off our bags, put on our swimsuits, and went down to the sea to cool off. Afterwards we showered and went out to get some food.

The first thing I noticed about Fetiye is that it's little Britain. I'm told that the city of Marmaris is worse, but that is difficult for me to imagine. There were very few Turkish people walking around. All of the signs were in English and half of the prices were in pounds. The waiters all had bad British accents and despicably styled hair (Turks by and large have adopted a David Beckam-ish, Sonic the Hedgehog style hairdo). Everyone called me "mate."

The prices also reflected British currency, as 1 pound is worth 3 Turkish liras. Food was ridiculously expensive, and Ece and I ended up splitting a half chicken breast with a smidgen of rice and potatoes on the side. That and two beers. Total bill: 24 YTL. ($18, but only 9 British pounds!).

After dinner we went in search of a tour to Saklikent Canyon, a place which Ece told me that I must see. There are many little tour companies offering a variety of options: paragliding, scuba diving, boat trips. We decided on a jeep safari tour. The salesman initially pitched a line to us in English, whereupon Ece surprised him with Turkish. He offered us a 25 YTL all day tour. Not bad. Then he heard my Turkish.
"You a foreigner?" he asked me suspiciously.
"Yeah, I'm from America."
"Well then," he chuckled, looking for all the world like he had missed a golden opportunity. "35 YTL for you." I laughed, although I didn't think it was funny. "Saka, saka," he said. "Joke." 35 YTL is the tourist price, and 25 YTL is the Turkish price.

Now that the next day was all planned and dusk was in full swing, we decided on one last dip in the sea. Then we retired early to conserve energy for our big day.

Tuesday July 16-- The area of Dalyan, featuring Tlos, Saklikent, Letoon, and Patara

The overriding theme for the day was dirt: How much dust and mud can we both cover ourselves in and ingest?

We got up at 7:45 am and caught breakfast just as it was being laid out. We were being picked up by our jeep to go on "safari" at 8:30. It would prove to be an interesting and exhausting day.

Our jeep rendezvoused at a gas station with several other jeeps. I was in the Turkish car, since our tour guide had apparently marked both Ece and I down as locals, and the remaining vehicles consisted mostly of Brits. These happy-go-lucky, wild people had all brought along water bottles and squirt guns, and they never missed a chance to fill them up and spray their fellow safari-ers. There was one boy in particular who Ece called "that maniac" and who resembled a younger version of our soldier on the rafting trip in Olympos.

Our first stop was Tlos, where there are some amazing Lycian tombs carved into the cliff face. The guide in charge of the whole operation made an announcement telling us that unfortunately we didn't have time to explore the ruins, since our tour would take us a total of 250 kilometers today. However, right after that we went to a little café where we stopped for a half hour. Apparently they had plenty of time to try and sell us food and drinks at criminal prices.

From there it was off to find Saklikent Canyon. To cover all the distance we needed to travel, we had to use the back roads, which are unpaved, dirt roads. Our driver always came third or fourth in the caravan, and the result was that we ate dust for almost half the trip. It was really disgusting. The landscape was dry as an old petrified bone, and the white sheathes of dust that each jeep kicked up created a wall so solid you couldn't even see. I put on my sunglasses and attempted to breath through my wet towel. By the time we got off the dirt roads (and there were many), everyone was always covered in white dust from head to waste.

Saklikent Canyon was the main attraction of the tour. Ece had visited it about a decade before, and she had fond memories. She recommended that if there was one place I see in the Fethiye/Kas area, Saklikent was it.

The jeeps curved down into the valley and deposited us on the banks of the river that cuts through the canyon. There was a big café there where we were to have lunch. The café was built on the banks of the river with tables right up on the water. We were given a half hour before lunch to walk and see what we could see, so us and every other tourist followed the river up the canyon. The walk wasn't exciting, and in hindsight I might have taken a different course (if there is one to be had, which there might not be). In any case, the midday culmination resulted in a nice fish dinner. Café workers took Polaroids of all the tourists eating and tried to sell them to us. The cameraman didn't like me since I wouldn't pose for his picture and I kept making faces.

Then we were off again! We went downstream to a place where the rocks turn to mud. Everyone jumped into the water and covered themselves in mud as thick as clay. Everyone who went into the water was covered from head to foot and resembled an elephant trying to keep itself cool at a watering hole. Our tour guide did some semi-choreographed water acrobatics that we were obliged to follow. Afterwards we walked across the road to the normal, rock bottom stream and washed ourselves off in the icy waters.

Again, during this whole ordeal they took digital pictures of us that they tried to sell to us later at a disgusting price. Since they know you can't touch your camera while you're covered in mud, and they also know that you, tourist # 568,969D, will probably want to encapsulate this mud caked memory of craziness in Southern Turkey for all of eternity, they are willing to oblige you with a burnt cd of the whole day for a mere 60 YTL (!!). Since Ece and I paid only 25 YTL each for the tour itself, we couldn't justify a cd at that price, especially since there were only a few pictures of us, none of them good (the workers only took pictures of the British tourists, particularly the families... they definitely know where their bread and butter is, that's for sure!).

We were herded back on the jeeps. After more throwing of icy cold water and squirt gun fights, we sped off to Petara beach. On the way we passed Letoon, which was the sacred cult center of Lycia, as well as the empire's most important sanctuary. We buzzed on by again. It was painfully obvious that this was not a history tour.

Petara beach is made up completely of sand. This cannot be said for many of Turkey's beaches, so Petara is a beautiful exception. It is also the second longest beach in Eastern Europe, after one in Croatia. The water was beautiful and the sand felt great. I actually felt relaxed for the first time the whole tour! But thirty minutes later we were back on the jeep.

Our next stop was a gas station. There was a swimming pool, and we all sat there as they tried to sell us the 60 YTL burnt picture cds. They also gave us a questionnaire and survey and asked us to rate the tour. We gave it a great rating because as tours go this one was cheap and action-packed. But right after they gave us the survey they shuttled us off to a huge gold manufacturing center to try and sell us jewelry (I shoulda' seen it comin').

They took us back to our hotels one by one. I dragged my sunburnt, waterlogged, dust encrusted, tired butt out of the jeep, got it a shower, and went out to meet a couple friends of mine who I had been trying to hook up with for a few days. Ece and I met Rich and Damon, who were on a month long travel tour of Turkey, at a café a block from our hotel.

And then I went night swimming in the sea again.

Wednesday July 17-- Butterfly Valley

We awoke late. Very late. Like, it was noon.

This day in Fethiye was unplanned. Our original intention had been to catch a bus headed back toward Istanbul, but all of the buses headed in the general direction of Istanbul were booked solid.

The Turkish general elections were taking place on July 22nd, and Turks have to be in their home districts to vote. There are no absentee ballots. If you're not home, you can't vote. Since the elections were called early by the conservative leaning AK Party, many people feel that the July 22nd election date was a ploy aimed at limiting the voting rights of certain groups, most notably expatriates, poor people who work in different cities, students, and liberal secularists who are always on holiday debauching themselves in Southern Turkey this time of year.

Since we couldn't find a direct bus headed toward Istanbul, we booked a ticket to a non-tourist town for the next day in hopes that we could find an alternative route.

I convinced Ece to go on another boat trip with me. I don't know what possessed me to try it again. The sea just looked so enchanting, so calming and inviting, I could almost convince myself that my stomach wouldn't be a problem.

I wanted to go to Butterfly Valley. Butterfly valley is famous for two things: It's butterflies, which come once a year some time between June and September (there were no butterflies when I was there, apparently they're not very punctual creatures), and it's hippies. The valley is a major attraction for hippies on the old Lycian Way (you may know it as the hippy trail). I had heard many great things about this place from my students and from Rich and Damon, who had visited it the day before and raved about it.

We caught the 2 p.m. ferry. It is ten lira each for a roundtrip, and the ride is a half hour long. My stomach was fine for a half hour and I had no problems. However, when we got to the valley, Ece expressed her displeasure at the abominable heat. I promised her a waterfall, since I saw many promising signs decorating the landscape that pointed in the general direction of "back" and "up".

So we walked. And climbed. The climbing was quite treacherous, but we were driven by the thought of a beautiful waterfall. Then we found it. And boy, was it doozey... huge, gigantic, gargantuan, catastrophically momentous, one of the natural wonders of the world.

That was sarcasm.

It was a trickle. We had climbed up a hill of boulders to find what amounted to a trickle. We cooled ourselves off and headed back down the rocks.

By the time we got back to the beach we were thoroughly exhausted. The hippies were swaying to Bob Marley, drinking beer, smoking, and rubbing their dreadlocks in peaceful pleasure. It was the most contrived scene, and the most manufactured atmosphere, I have seen since I happened upon an Outkast concert way back in 2000.

And the beach sucked. Huge rocks. A boring place to swim. Ece and I were happy when the 5 o'clock ferry departure call was sounded. "This place is so boring!" Ece exclaimed. I concur, and I would be interested to hear, now that I have seen Butterfly Valley, exactly why other people find it so appealing.

Back at the ranch we grabbed some grub and lounged about. The day was basically done, so why exert ourselves? We waited for tomorrow and the impending day of bus riding.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/the_euro-stars/1158413400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/the_euro-stars/1158413400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jaredwall/the_euro-stars/1158413400/tpod.html Tue, 26 Jun 2007 15:24:55 -0400 There is a tale of two men who romp around the continent of Europe, causing all manner of untoward havoc. This is their story.

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Nice, France

September 16

On the train ride from Barcelona to Nice, Jon and I discovered where all the other Eurail travelers in Europe are training around. We met several other travelers who were doing the same trail that we are doing, from Spain along the coast, a couple days in the French Riviera, over to Rome, and north once again. The most plentiful travelers were the Canadians, transparent due to their oval-shaped O's and long A's (for instance, bagel the food sounds mysteriously like beagel, the dog, which comes as no surprise to me since I lived in Minnesota for four years but which I still find humorous).

Jon and I got to Nice around noon. We forced our huge bags into two small, itsy-bitsy lockers and struck out to find the beaches and cafes.

Nice (pronounced like "niece") was... well, how shall I put this?... nice. The weather was beautiful, which after 2 long days of rain in Barcelona was a welcome reprieve. The beach front property looked welcoming, although I only saw the part that streches along the city proper. There were people everywhere, rich-looking tourists, which jived well with the clean-looking buildings. I say clean-looking because, even though many buildings were obviously old, they were also well preserved.

There were cars, scooters, and motorcycles everywhere. In a walkable town where you don't even really need to drive, this is a surefire sign of big money.

Jon and I bought some fruit from local vendors, had a cappucino down by the beach, and perused some of France's richest resort areas. The only problem I had with Nice was that it was so picturesque that every photograph I took was like a postcard, which basically means "sterile."

But all in all it was, like I said, nice.

On to Montecarlo, home of casinos and fast cars!


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