I wanted to make the lives of the curious that much easier, and gathered several links about the revolution (not sure what else to call it) in Greece. They include:
Statement by Greek Anarchists/ Anti-Authoritarians
Blog of a British Anarchist
Link to pictures... everything is basically on fire.
There was a call for global solidarity protests today, and I'll be checking the newspapers tomorrow to see if anything happened in Turkey. Last night, as we strolled past the Greek consulate, along the Istiklal, I noticed a police bus parked directly in front of the entrance, several cops dozing inside.
It was a rainy day today, but I do so hope they had to earn their paychecks.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Pepper gas makes me sneeze...
There is a key component to political activism, one that all of my direct action experiences have lacked, and that is the potential to go completely bat-shit crazy.
In the run-up to the Iraq war, myself and 200,000 "focus group" members marched on Washington D.C. It was icy-cold, we had driven all night, and after listening to speeches on the mall, we took a long walk through the city toward the Navy yard. I knew I was there to oppose the coming war, but I remember saying to a friend:
"If we have all these people, and we really want to prevent this war, why don't we take over and occupy the White House and the Capitol Building. It'll at least be warmer."
So much for that plan. It's a lucky thing we were wrong and the war was a success.
Last May, I participated in an Istanbullu leftist right-of-passage, marching on Taksim Square to commemorate the victims of the 1 Mayis, 1977, state-authorized massacre there. About 20,000 protestors came out this year, in various parts of the city. Ultimately, we weren't much of a match for the 30,000 police and 2,000 jandarme, who had a busy day, and began raiding buildings and making arrests before dawn.
My friends and I got into Taksim on our good looks and charm, talking our way past a few cops by playing the "English teacher" card. I participated in one clash with police, which was a lot of running away from pepper grenades and water cannons, and after that I spent part of the day wandering the neighborhood observing smaller clashes, as the police demostrated their complete control of the situation. So thorough in their control were they, that at one point they beat and arrested some tourists. Me, I mostly just drank coffee in a leftist cafe, filled with other leftists hiding from an almost certain ass-kicking.
Walking home that day, my nose began to sting a little, like I'd just eaten something spicy. As a fit of sneezing set in, I realized I would probably never be much of a revolutionary. Sneezing like a baby panda doesn't exactly inspire fear.
Because these experiences were both unfulfilling and unsuccessful, I have the utmost respect for what Greek anarchists are doing to their country. In response to the slaying of a teenager by police, Greek leftists and youths have asserted their destructive potential. What better way to let your government know it has screwed up, than to burn it to the ground.
It has certainly gotten the attention of the powers-that-be.
I don't want this to be a treatise on government, or I would explain my reasoned argument for my support (I've even decided to start learning modern Greek!). I think it is sufficient to say that property destruction, interruption of infrastructure, and the shock-and-awe value of such tactics, is what state authorities respond to and how reform is provoked. Certainly, there are other methods, but those I listed above should have remained on the table before the Iraq war began, and they could make a valuable point here in Turkey as well.
In the last year, Turkish police violence has risen dramatically, detainees have been tortured or killed, and such behavior from police has become the rule, rather than the exception.
It's an old platitude, but one that appears tried and true:
No justice, no peace.
In the run-up to the Iraq war, myself and 200,000 "focus group" members marched on Washington D.C. It was icy-cold, we had driven all night, and after listening to speeches on the mall, we took a long walk through the city toward the Navy yard. I knew I was there to oppose the coming war, but I remember saying to a friend:
"If we have all these people, and we really want to prevent this war, why don't we take over and occupy the White House and the Capitol Building. It'll at least be warmer."
So much for that plan. It's a lucky thing we were wrong and the war was a success.
Last May, I participated in an Istanbullu leftist right-of-passage, marching on Taksim Square to commemorate the victims of the 1 Mayis, 1977, state-authorized massacre there. About 20,000 protestors came out this year, in various parts of the city. Ultimately, we weren't much of a match for the 30,000 police and 2,000 jandarme, who had a busy day, and began raiding buildings and making arrests before dawn.
My friends and I got into Taksim on our good looks and charm, talking our way past a few cops by playing the "English teacher" card. I participated in one clash with police, which was a lot of running away from pepper grenades and water cannons, and after that I spent part of the day wandering the neighborhood observing smaller clashes, as the police demostrated their complete control of the situation. So thorough in their control were they, that at one point they beat and arrested some tourists. Me, I mostly just drank coffee in a leftist cafe, filled with other leftists hiding from an almost certain ass-kicking.
Walking home that day, my nose began to sting a little, like I'd just eaten something spicy. As a fit of sneezing set in, I realized I would probably never be much of a revolutionary. Sneezing like a baby panda doesn't exactly inspire fear.
Because these experiences were both unfulfilling and unsuccessful, I have the utmost respect for what Greek anarchists are doing to their country. In response to the slaying of a teenager by police, Greek leftists and youths have asserted their destructive potential. What better way to let your government know it has screwed up, than to burn it to the ground.
It has certainly gotten the attention of the powers-that-be.
I don't want this to be a treatise on government, or I would explain my reasoned argument for my support (I've even decided to start learning modern Greek!). I think it is sufficient to say that property destruction, interruption of infrastructure, and the shock-and-awe value of such tactics, is what state authorities respond to and how reform is provoked. Certainly, there are other methods, but those I listed above should have remained on the table before the Iraq war began, and they could make a valuable point here in Turkey as well.
In the last year, Turkish police violence has risen dramatically, detainees have been tortured or killed, and such behavior from police has become the rule, rather than the exception.
It's an old platitude, but one that appears tried and true:
No justice, no peace.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
It's like being in a gang...
Walking through the halls of the high school today, I came across the Turkish colleague, with whom I had gone to the Beşiktaş match. We had marched to the stadium with an army of fans, a peculiar troupe including his mother, my room mate, and two other foreigners, all clearly tipsy.
Last Friday's game still rings in my ears...
He was intently listening to another teacher, but we still made eye contact. Over the shoulder of the speaker, whose back was to me, he performed a wink, cocking his head slightly to the left, but never distracting the teacher speaking to him. The gesture said everything, "We are Beşiktaş."
That is as much as we've interacted all week...
It inspired me to post a couple of Beşiktaş songs here, and maybe I'll be bothered with translations, later.
Beşiktaşım/
sen çok yaşa/
Canım feda olsun sana/
Hiç bir şeye/
değişilmez/
Seni sevgim bu dunyada!
The tune is identical to that of "The Lucille Ball-Desi Arnaz Show".
OK, I lied... the tune is nothing like that.
Here's another that I appreciate for the 9-11 reference it incorporates.
Nasıl bıraktın o mübarek sakalı/
Amerika'yı bombaladın/
Usame Baba bize kıyak yapsana/
Kadıköy'ü bombalasana.
"How did you grow that holiest of beards/
you, who bombed America/
Osama bin Ladin, can you do us a favor/
And send a bomb over to Kadıköy/
Kadıköy is the home of Fenerbahçe, the arch rivals of Beşiktaş, with whom we are forever locked in an enduring struggle for control of the universe. Inciting Islamist terrorism is a very Machiavellian approach for the notoriously secular, politically left fan base, but one must consider the cause. We're just doing it for the cause.
Anyhow, you'll surely catch me singing these and more when I'm state-side.
Last Friday's game still rings in my ears...
He was intently listening to another teacher, but we still made eye contact. Over the shoulder of the speaker, whose back was to me, he performed a wink, cocking his head slightly to the left, but never distracting the teacher speaking to him. The gesture said everything, "We are Beşiktaş."
That is as much as we've interacted all week...
It inspired me to post a couple of Beşiktaş songs here, and maybe I'll be bothered with translations, later.
Beşiktaşım/
sen çok yaşa/
Canım feda olsun sana/
Hiç bir şeye/
değişilmez/
Seni sevgim bu dunyada!
The tune is identical to that of "The Lucille Ball-Desi Arnaz Show".
OK, I lied... the tune is nothing like that.
Here's another that I appreciate for the 9-11 reference it incorporates.
Nasıl bıraktın o mübarek sakalı/
Amerika'yı bombaladın/
Usame Baba bize kıyak yapsana/
Kadıköy'ü bombalasana.
"How did you grow that holiest of beards/
you, who bombed America/
Osama bin Ladin, can you do us a favor/
And send a bomb over to Kadıköy/
Kadıköy is the home of Fenerbahçe, the arch rivals of Beşiktaş, with whom we are forever locked in an enduring struggle for control of the universe. Inciting Islamist terrorism is a very Machiavellian approach for the notoriously secular, politically left fan base, but one must consider the cause. We're just doing it for the cause.
Anyhow, you'll surely catch me singing these and more when I'm state-side.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
These folks are happy about Obama...
So happy, in fact, that in the city of Van they sacrificed forty-four sheep!
Following Friday prayers, in the village of Çavuştepe, the sheep were sacrificed in the hopes that Obama will be able to solve the global economic/political/terrorism problem (take your pick, there was a list). According to the daily newspaper, Milliyet, the villagers smeared the blood of the sheep across several posters, bearing slogans such as:
"The people of Van love Obama!"
"Obama, you are the man who will change the world!"
"You are one [a part] of us!"
After the sacrifice, portions of the sheep were combined with rice and the people of the village enjoyed a feast.
The people of Çavuştepe will also send several of the posters, and the famous Van cat, to the White House. I hope it doesn't bother Malia's allergies.
Following Friday prayers, in the village of Çavuştepe, the sheep were sacrificed in the hopes that Obama will be able to solve the global economic/political/terrorism problem (take your pick, there was a list). According to the daily newspaper, Milliyet, the villagers smeared the blood of the sheep across several posters, bearing slogans such as:
"The people of Van love Obama!"
"Obama, you are the man who will change the world!"
"You are one [a part] of us!"
After the sacrifice, portions of the sheep were combined with rice and the people of the village enjoyed a feast.
The people of Çavuştepe will also send several of the posters, and the famous Van cat, to the White House. I hope it doesn't bother Malia's allergies.
You'll never walk alone.
I like a spectacle, so any large gathering of people can pique my interest, regardless of whether I intend to share in the emotion of the experience. Whether it's airports, concerts, sporting events, political rallies, or the end of the school day, I'm always keen to be on hand to watch.
This last week was special because I was witness to two spectacles.
Wednesday morning, I got up early (3:30 AM) to watch election results come in with a gathering of expatriates. The event was interesting, and I'm sure that Obama's election is important... I'm just not sure if it is for me. There were tears of joy, shouting, and cheering when Obama was declared the winner. My first thought was:
"It's 5:30 AM, and we've only been here for an hour. How can the show be over already?"
The memories of two successive elections, left undecided after a night of tallying results, left me feeling that Obama's landslide victory had robbed me of my spectacle (for which I had payed 5 TLY).
Friday, I made up for it by going to a Beşiktaş match.
They say that there are three types of foreigners in Istanbul, and you can distinguish them by the team they support:
Fenerbahçe fans are 'fresh off the boat', and taken by the widespread popularity of the Blue and Yellow. They don't know Turkish, and certainly don't know Turkey, so they can hardly be blamed. These are people who buy Yankees hats when they visit New York City, fair weather fans.
Expatriate Galatasaray supporter have been in Turkey long enough to meet some actual Turks, and at least make their acquaintance. Self-identifying "liberals" (according to the American definition), this group will take up the Red and Yellow mantle for the experience of "Turkish" football, and upon their return to Starbucks, email friends and family from their MacBook Pro and blog about their experience at "the crossroads of civilization".
Foreigners in Turkey have to find Beşiktaş. The informed ex-pat, one who speaks Turkish and knows about Turkey and Turkish history, who approaches the world with a sense of ideology, and who knows that the fan base is more important than the team, will sift through the mosaic of Turkish football and come realize it's fundamental duality, embodied by the Black and White.
In my first year here, Beşiktaş was merely the home team. The stadium was close, and it made sense to support them... I could hear the games from our apartment. These days, home games are part of the rhythm of living in Istanbul. It isn't about about geography anymore, nor the team, and much less football, instead it's part ideology part song. If I'd been in Spain in the 1940s, I would have been a leftist for no other reason than the people. Beşiktaş offers me that, so I'll continue to walk with them.
Friday afternoons, school lets out early, so myself and two colleagues were in Beşiktaş and sipping rakı by 4:15. We snacked on appetizers, drank, talked about past matches, and were joined later by one colleague's mother and two English teachers. Around 6, things began getting rowdy...
It started with songs. These were hymns, really, as the tunes were often the same while the words changed. Our fan base is creative, and the song list is endless. For over an hour we sang and cheered, drinking and eating, until at 7:30 we began the march to the stadium.
I've been in Kadıköy during a Fenerbahçe match, and one could always distinguish when the goals occurred by the peak in sound. From outside Inönü Stadium, it sounded like a riot was happening around some corner. It was sheer volume.
Inside, the sound was the constant white noise of a cheering croud. Occasionally, coordinated in song, but never less than the volume of a baseball game when a run is batted-in: a crush of sound. The passion of Beşiktaş has no analogy, and I now remember ball games as study destinations, like libraries or well-lit corners.
The match took ninety minutes, but for my effort I got a lasting, six-hour dose of pure spectacle. It should tide me over to the next game.
This last week was special because I was witness to two spectacles.
Wednesday morning, I got up early (3:30 AM) to watch election results come in with a gathering of expatriates. The event was interesting, and I'm sure that Obama's election is important... I'm just not sure if it is for me. There were tears of joy, shouting, and cheering when Obama was declared the winner. My first thought was:
"It's 5:30 AM, and we've only been here for an hour. How can the show be over already?"
The memories of two successive elections, left undecided after a night of tallying results, left me feeling that Obama's landslide victory had robbed me of my spectacle (for which I had payed 5 TLY).
Friday, I made up for it by going to a Beşiktaş match.
They say that there are three types of foreigners in Istanbul, and you can distinguish them by the team they support:
Fenerbahçe fans are 'fresh off the boat', and taken by the widespread popularity of the Blue and Yellow. They don't know Turkish, and certainly don't know Turkey, so they can hardly be blamed. These are people who buy Yankees hats when they visit New York City, fair weather fans.
Expatriate Galatasaray supporter have been in Turkey long enough to meet some actual Turks, and at least make their acquaintance. Self-identifying "liberals" (according to the American definition), this group will take up the Red and Yellow mantle for the experience of "Turkish" football, and upon their return to Starbucks, email friends and family from their MacBook Pro and blog about their experience at "the crossroads of civilization".
Foreigners in Turkey have to find Beşiktaş. The informed ex-pat, one who speaks Turkish and knows about Turkey and Turkish history, who approaches the world with a sense of ideology, and who knows that the fan base is more important than the team, will sift through the mosaic of Turkish football and come realize it's fundamental duality, embodied by the Black and White.
In my first year here, Beşiktaş was merely the home team. The stadium was close, and it made sense to support them... I could hear the games from our apartment. These days, home games are part of the rhythm of living in Istanbul. It isn't about about geography anymore, nor the team, and much less football, instead it's part ideology part song. If I'd been in Spain in the 1940s, I would have been a leftist for no other reason than the people. Beşiktaş offers me that, so I'll continue to walk with them.
Friday afternoons, school lets out early, so myself and two colleagues were in Beşiktaş and sipping rakı by 4:15. We snacked on appetizers, drank, talked about past matches, and were joined later by one colleague's mother and two English teachers. Around 6, things began getting rowdy...
It started with songs. These were hymns, really, as the tunes were often the same while the words changed. Our fan base is creative, and the song list is endless. For over an hour we sang and cheered, drinking and eating, until at 7:30 we began the march to the stadium.
I've been in Kadıköy during a Fenerbahçe match, and one could always distinguish when the goals occurred by the peak in sound. From outside Inönü Stadium, it sounded like a riot was happening around some corner. It was sheer volume.
Inside, the sound was the constant white noise of a cheering croud. Occasionally, coordinated in song, but never less than the volume of a baseball game when a run is batted-in: a crush of sound. The passion of Beşiktaş has no analogy, and I now remember ball games as study destinations, like libraries or well-lit corners.
The match took ninety minutes, but for my effort I got a lasting, six-hour dose of pure spectacle. It should tide me over to the next game.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A quick update...
There's been a lot happening, and I feel bad that I haven't been writing as much, so I'll throw all these out there in short-form:
- My employers have finally figured out why they hired me, and I've been doing actual work, at work. That's not to say they can keep me completely busy, because I found time to write this.
- I bought a bicycle, and I'm taking new risks with Turkish cab drivers and delivery mopeds with each new day. It's exhilarating. I'm also perfecting the over-the-shoulder-flick-off with my left hand, while keeping control of the bike with my right. Good times.
- We have a new President... apparently, he's a black man?
- We threw a crazy Halloween party at our place, last Friday. One of the neighbors got angry, and challenged our forty-strong group to a fight in the street. We sent him home without his fight, and brought the party to Taksim. Homeboy didn't want things to end, though, and came back looking for a fight (specifically with me) on Saturday evening. Luckily, I was busy, looking at a bike.
- Turks are ridiculously happy about Obama becoming the President... all except the two guys who make my sandwiches, at the grocer's. They don't think that the American political system changes dramatically with a shift in leadership. They believe the United States is a fundamentally right-of-center country, no matter who's in charge. They also don't think that a black man will behave all that differently from a white man, when it comes to issues of foreign policy (they cited US support for Israel, an aggressive posture for foreign interventions, the diplomatic stance to leftist nations like Cuba and Venezuela). All I could do is shrug... I am about as cynical as they are, and the excitement about Obama has been lost on me. I just don't place hope in people. They, on the other hand, are Marxist-Lenninists, so their opinions probably don't matter.
- My room mate Emrah went to India. I hope he's having fun there. He'll get back tomorrow evening to find an American using his bed... I love guests!
- If it has ninjas, it must be cool? Ask this guy...
- My employers have finally figured out why they hired me, and I've been doing actual work, at work. That's not to say they can keep me completely busy, because I found time to write this.
- I bought a bicycle, and I'm taking new risks with Turkish cab drivers and delivery mopeds with each new day. It's exhilarating. I'm also perfecting the over-the-shoulder-flick-off with my left hand, while keeping control of the bike with my right. Good times.
- We have a new President... apparently, he's a black man?
- We threw a crazy Halloween party at our place, last Friday. One of the neighbors got angry, and challenged our forty-strong group to a fight in the street. We sent him home without his fight, and brought the party to Taksim. Homeboy didn't want things to end, though, and came back looking for a fight (specifically with me) on Saturday evening. Luckily, I was busy, looking at a bike.
- Turks are ridiculously happy about Obama becoming the President... all except the two guys who make my sandwiches, at the grocer's. They don't think that the American political system changes dramatically with a shift in leadership. They believe the United States is a fundamentally right-of-center country, no matter who's in charge. They also don't think that a black man will behave all that differently from a white man, when it comes to issues of foreign policy (they cited US support for Israel, an aggressive posture for foreign interventions, the diplomatic stance to leftist nations like Cuba and Venezuela). All I could do is shrug... I am about as cynical as they are, and the excitement about Obama has been lost on me. I just don't place hope in people. They, on the other hand, are Marxist-Lenninists, so their opinions probably don't matter.
- My room mate Emrah went to India. I hope he's having fun there. He'll get back tomorrow evening to find an American using his bed... I love guests!
- If it has ninjas, it must be cool? Ask this guy...
Friday, October 31, 2008
Sorry for the delay...
... I was subject to a government ban against blogger.com.
The ban was lifted after the court, which had initially ordered the ban, decided it needed more evidence, and a prosecution and trial, before it could actually carry out a decision to ban anything.
Of course, during the days that the court was able to act unilaterally to strip freedom of speech, I didn't do much writing.
The reason for the ban is not very interesting. DigiTurk, a satellite television provider, is upset that users of blogger.com are posting footage from football matches, footage DigiTurk owns. They complained, and subsequently, a court order to block the site was issued.
What I find fascinating is their approach to copyright infringement: socialized punishment. Rather than attempt to find the perpetrators, the court simply issued a ban against the website. The expediency of totalitarian behavior is mind boggling. I wonder why we trouble ourselves with a justice system in the United States, when our ally Turkey provides such forthright examples of a state's alternatives.
For the time being, I should be able to write, pending a "legal case," to be heard in a Diyarbakir court.
The ban was lifted after the court, which had initially ordered the ban, decided it needed more evidence, and a prosecution and trial, before it could actually carry out a decision to ban anything.
Of course, during the days that the court was able to act unilaterally to strip freedom of speech, I didn't do much writing.
The reason for the ban is not very interesting. DigiTurk, a satellite television provider, is upset that users of blogger.com are posting footage from football matches, footage DigiTurk owns. They complained, and subsequently, a court order to block the site was issued.
What I find fascinating is their approach to copyright infringement: socialized punishment. Rather than attempt to find the perpetrators, the court simply issued a ban against the website. The expediency of totalitarian behavior is mind boggling. I wonder why we trouble ourselves with a justice system in the United States, when our ally Turkey provides such forthright examples of a state's alternatives.
For the time being, I should be able to write, pending a "legal case," to be heard in a Diyarbakir court.
Friday, October 17, 2008
It's really a question...
of which is more embarrassing...
- Someone pointing out your mistake.
- Walking to the bus stop, standing for 15 minutes, riding the bus for 10 minutes, walking to work along a busy street, entering the school and saying hello to the security guard, talking with the woman who brings tea to my office, walking to the restroom, and discovering that my fly is unzipped.
- Someone pointing out your mistake.
- Walking to the bus stop, standing for 15 minutes, riding the bus for 10 minutes, walking to work along a busy street, entering the school and saying hello to the security guard, talking with the woman who brings tea to my office, walking to the restroom, and discovering that my fly is unzipped.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Apartment hunting...
Yesterday, my room mates and I went out searching for a new place to live. We haven't exactly cleaned up, since the party, and we decided that moving would get us away from the potato-chip-and-spilled-beer-vomit-cat smell, which presently seeps from under the refrigerator, but which we fear will migrate to the rest of the house. I'm most worried about this, because it'll come to my room first.
You'll have to forgive me, because I'm about to lay down the names of several Istanbul neighborhoods (in italics). There is a map, here, for those who would like to follow our adventure. The terminal locations are located about 5 km away from one another, close to the word Beşiktaş, in the center of your map.
We left the Rumeli Hisarüstü at about 4 in the afternoon, to see what we could see, Taksim and a bar with friends being the ultimate goal. Having listed some phone numbers, taken from a real estate website, we had a few places in mind when we started looking. Sahibinden.com is a good starting point, for those who are in the market. It translates to "from the owner", and we hoped using it would circumvent annoying real estate agent fees. I don't know how things are done in the states, because I never used a real estate agent there, but here in Istanbul, I pay someone to help me find a house.
I'll preface the peculiar afternoon with a quote from my room mate, although he didn't tell me this until the end of the day. "In Turkey, if you have no skills, you become a real estate agent."
Apartment hunting is a funny process, here, where people are so keen to sell you something you don't want, that they'll basically offer whatever crap they have and try to dress it up with words.
"Oh, don't worry, you can fit a bed in here."
"The last family just kept their refrigerator in the hallway."
"If you don't open this window, you don't have to worry about the trash falling in."
"If you want the windows to open, it won't be hard to chip off the paint."
'Lipstick on a pig', if I can use the hackneyed phrase.
The first place we wanted to see was in Mecidiyeköy, north of Şişli. After getting off the bus in the wrong place, we met the agent at a pleasant, neighborhood mosque, whence he led us on a ten minute walk to the apartment building. We never got a look at the place, however, because just as he put the key in the door, the owner of the market across the street shouted "it's sold." Without a word, the real estate agent went to talk to the man, and we slunk away, one failure in hand.
We hopped a taxi to Kurtuluş, near Osmanbey, with two other places specifically in mind.
There are three of us, grown men (-ish), looking for a place to room together. Despite that obvious fact, agents kept leading us into apartments with two, well-lit, comfortable bedrooms, and one small, dark room, which each of us would fight to not take. The first place was a bust, for that very reason, and so we called the agent for the last place on our list.
The agent led us into the belly of Kurtuluş, to a neighbohood that fits every American's image of a bombed-out Balkan city (Sarajevo, Belgrade, take your pick). After we climbed the stairs to the top floor, my meager excitement about the prospects were crushed...
The agent had the wrong key!
We trekked back down the stairs, and he offered to show us another place while he fetched the key. We must've walked for twenty minutes to his office, only to discover that the key was lost completely. No matter, he was able to show us another dirty two-and-a-half bedroom apartment, which left me feeling that real estate agents were inbred or retarded or both.
As it got dark, we wandered into one last agent's office. The office was big, double and triple the size of the others. There was an aquarium in the corner, carpets on the floor, big and comfy leather chairs, and two large desks. The office inspired confidence. The agent wasn't there, when we arrived, so we called the number on the door and he came in a few minutes. He ordered us tea, we chatted about what we do for work, we basically performed the ritual that begins all serious business in Turkey, and it led me to believe we would find something nice.
Before we started talking details, the agent told us he had the perfect place. One minute from the metro, top floor, 500 square feet, nice balcony, the place where three young bachelors want to live.
The only problem was a landlord, who was insistent that no single men would be living in the house.
So, strike three, and we are about to leave, when the agent suggested one last place, that was in the direction we were heading anyway. He dispatched a second agent, who had just shown up, to lead us, and we went together.
On our way, we passed the first agent's office, who politely inquired of our current leader, where we were heading. They spoke breifly, and in doing so established that we had already been shown the house we were about to visit, by the first agent.
We gave up, went to a restaurant in Şişli, and ate kebap and drank rakı and generally forgot about the crappiness of the afternoon. After that we headed to a gathering at a friend's home near Taksim. When we arrived, our hostess mentioned that two of the apartments in the building were available, and she even had the keys.
I had told my room mate, Emrah, that I would only really get interested in moving if we were moving to an interesting place. I wanted to be excited about the new apartment. In fact, the exact word I used were:
I'll post pictures when we get serious about moving there.
You'll have to forgive me, because I'm about to lay down the names of several Istanbul neighborhoods (in italics). There is a map, here, for those who would like to follow our adventure. The terminal locations are located about 5 km away from one another, close to the word Beşiktaş, in the center of your map.
We left the Rumeli Hisarüstü at about 4 in the afternoon, to see what we could see, Taksim and a bar with friends being the ultimate goal. Having listed some phone numbers, taken from a real estate website, we had a few places in mind when we started looking. Sahibinden.com is a good starting point, for those who are in the market. It translates to "from the owner", and we hoped using it would circumvent annoying real estate agent fees. I don't know how things are done in the states, because I never used a real estate agent there, but here in Istanbul, I pay someone to help me find a house.
I'll preface the peculiar afternoon with a quote from my room mate, although he didn't tell me this until the end of the day. "In Turkey, if you have no skills, you become a real estate agent."
Apartment hunting is a funny process, here, where people are so keen to sell you something you don't want, that they'll basically offer whatever crap they have and try to dress it up with words.
"Oh, don't worry, you can fit a bed in here."
"The last family just kept their refrigerator in the hallway."
"If you don't open this window, you don't have to worry about the trash falling in."
"If you want the windows to open, it won't be hard to chip off the paint."
'Lipstick on a pig', if I can use the hackneyed phrase.
The first place we wanted to see was in Mecidiyeköy, north of Şişli. After getting off the bus in the wrong place, we met the agent at a pleasant, neighborhood mosque, whence he led us on a ten minute walk to the apartment building. We never got a look at the place, however, because just as he put the key in the door, the owner of the market across the street shouted "it's sold." Without a word, the real estate agent went to talk to the man, and we slunk away, one failure in hand.
We hopped a taxi to Kurtuluş, near Osmanbey, with two other places specifically in mind.
There are three of us, grown men (-ish), looking for a place to room together. Despite that obvious fact, agents kept leading us into apartments with two, well-lit, comfortable bedrooms, and one small, dark room, which each of us would fight to not take. The first place was a bust, for that very reason, and so we called the agent for the last place on our list.
The agent led us into the belly of Kurtuluş, to a neighbohood that fits every American's image of a bombed-out Balkan city (Sarajevo, Belgrade, take your pick). After we climbed the stairs to the top floor, my meager excitement about the prospects were crushed...
The agent had the wrong key!
We trekked back down the stairs, and he offered to show us another place while he fetched the key. We must've walked for twenty minutes to his office, only to discover that the key was lost completely. No matter, he was able to show us another dirty two-and-a-half bedroom apartment, which left me feeling that real estate agents were inbred or retarded or both.
As it got dark, we wandered into one last agent's office. The office was big, double and triple the size of the others. There was an aquarium in the corner, carpets on the floor, big and comfy leather chairs, and two large desks. The office inspired confidence. The agent wasn't there, when we arrived, so we called the number on the door and he came in a few minutes. He ordered us tea, we chatted about what we do for work, we basically performed the ritual that begins all serious business in Turkey, and it led me to believe we would find something nice.
Before we started talking details, the agent told us he had the perfect place. One minute from the metro, top floor, 500 square feet, nice balcony, the place where three young bachelors want to live.
The only problem was a landlord, who was insistent that no single men would be living in the house.
So, strike three, and we are about to leave, when the agent suggested one last place, that was in the direction we were heading anyway. He dispatched a second agent, who had just shown up, to lead us, and we went together.
On our way, we passed the first agent's office, who politely inquired of our current leader, where we were heading. They spoke breifly, and in doing so established that we had already been shown the house we were about to visit, by the first agent.
We gave up, went to a restaurant in Şişli, and ate kebap and drank rakı and generally forgot about the crappiness of the afternoon. After that we headed to a gathering at a friend's home near Taksim. When we arrived, our hostess mentioned that two of the apartments in the building were available, and she even had the keys.
I had told my room mate, Emrah, that I would only really get interested in moving if we were moving to an interesting place. I wanted to be excited about the new apartment. In fact, the exact word I used were:
Emrah, I want to live in an apartment that gives me a hard-on every time I come home, that gives a girl a hard-on when she visits, that gives all of my friends hard-ons when we are sitting around the TV playing Mortal Kombat.This was that place, and I had a hard-on for it.
I'll post pictures when we get serious about moving there.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Hauz Parti!
I've written, quite a bit, on the woefully absurd elements of my experience in Turkey.
So, I decided post a story about the cheerfully absurd ones.
House parties are rare, in Turkey.
Let me rephrase that... house parties seem rare, in Turkey. It only just occurred to me that, perhaps, Turks simply do not invite me to their homes for parties. In any event, we hosted one last weekend, and things got out of hand (as they do).
There was alcohol...
There was food...
There was dancing...
There was a room mate, who didn't know about the party until he got home...
There was romance...
I don't know how to explain this, but it was there, too...
He is calm as a coma about the chips in his lap.
Stats for the night:
People - 25
Annoyed Neighbors - 1
Broken Bottles of Beer - 3
Trashed rooms - 2 (my room and the kitchen)
Vomits cleaned up by the hosts - 2 (one in our small bathroom, another on a car beneath our balcony)
So, I decided post a story about the cheerfully absurd ones.
House parties are rare, in Turkey.
Let me rephrase that... house parties seem rare, in Turkey. It only just occurred to me that, perhaps, Turks simply do not invite me to their homes for parties. In any event, we hosted one last weekend, and things got out of hand (as they do).
There was alcohol...
There was food...
There was dancing...
There was a room mate, who didn't know about the party until he got home...
There was romance...
I don't know how to explain this, but it was there, too...
He is calm as a coma about the chips in his lap.
Stats for the night:
People - 25
Annoyed Neighbors - 1
Broken Bottles of Beer - 3
Trashed rooms - 2 (my room and the kitchen)
Vomits cleaned up by the hosts - 2 (one in our small bathroom, another on a car beneath our balcony)
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Road Trip!
We had the week off from work, to spend celebrating the end of Ramadan... or to do something cool, like traveling. In the last two weeks, I considered no less than six destinations: Athens, Belgrade, Chicago, Mardın, Marseilles, and New York.
We went to Edirne!
Just three hours north of Istanbul, getting to Edirne was as easy as swiping a Turkish room mate's car (he was out of town with family), rousing the riffraff, and hitting the long, empty highway.
My friends, Kristen and Henry, had business to attend to (renewing their tourist visas by passing into Greece, and then coming back), so Gregg and I dropped them off and made arrangements for a place to drink and another to stay.
Here are some pictures, courtesy of Gregg:
Henry and I enjoy Turkish börek, starchy potatoes wrapped in greasy, flaky pastry.
Kristen reacts to something Gregg said....
Turkish 4-wheeled people carrier.
Gregg and the Prophet, Muhammad (peace be upon him).
This image is here for no other reason than to satisfy Orientalists.
It was really great to travel, though Edirne can only be described as "quaint". Despite my fascination (or lack thereof) with the city, I still realize that there is something therapeutic about such mindless doffing about as we experienced in Edirne.
Destinations be damned, I need movement to really be happy!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Poetry...
The collision is beautiful, the politics and the pop culture, and I can't convey enough how richly and seamlessly absurd it can all be.
This is why I keep living in Turkey:
Bülent Ersoy, on her way to court to defend herself against the medieval Turkish legal code, had the support of more than one creative fan. The charge against her, of attempting to alienate the Turkish people from military service, follows her statements denouncing the mindless waste of life caused by Turkey's unofficial war against the Kurds of Northern Iraq.
"If I had a son, I would not send him to serve in the military."
As she entered the courthouse, spectators held signs reading "Biji Diva!"
Ersoy is reknowned in Turkey as one of the nation's first openly transexual singers. The signs championing her cause, written in Kurdish, best translate as "Long live the Diva!"
This is why I keep living in Turkey:
Bülent Ersoy, on her way to court to defend herself against the medieval Turkish legal code, had the support of more than one creative fan. The charge against her, of attempting to alienate the Turkish people from military service, follows her statements denouncing the mindless waste of life caused by Turkey's unofficial war against the Kurds of Northern Iraq.
"If I had a son, I would not send him to serve in the military."
As she entered the courthouse, spectators held signs reading "Biji Diva!"
Ersoy is reknowned in Turkey as one of the nation's first openly transexual singers. The signs championing her cause, written in Kurdish, best translate as "Long live the Diva!"
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Hooray for Muhammad!
I understand that the function of religion is not, necessarily, to provide the believer with a means of being served by the divine, but rather to provide a framework for service to the divine. So, the question below is probably rooted in my infidel conception of tit-for-tat.
Anyhow, If you had asked me last week, to answer the question, "What good has religion ever done for you?", I would have been hard pressed to find an answer (outside of the litany of emotional scars and insecurities). All told, my exposure to religion has provided me with little more than the minimal theological foundation for a good joke, every now and again.
Until now!
Ramazan started on the 1st of September. Several friends an I rang in the season of fasting and reflection by getting drunk and going to a Beşiktaş match. What can I say, I'm an aspiring hooligan, and no religious holiday is going to change that (Beşiktaş won over Konyaspor, 2-0). Of course, due to the general feeling, among Turks, that those who aren't fasting during Ramadan should show respect for those who are, we found a dark corner of the Çarşı (the meeting place for B-taş fans) and drank there... in shame.
So, my approach to Ramadan (this time around) has been neither a penance nor penitent (I feel it's a good balance to four years ago, when I lived in Damascus and did fast for a month).
Anyhow, to my shame, the Muslim world has repaid my sin with mercy.
Maybe I'm just a sucker for free stuff, but when I got on the bus last night, about an hour before iftar (roughly 6 PM), the machine that registers my AkBil (the public transit smart-pass) was turned off.
The Akbil (see how conveniently it fits on a key chain!)
The Register (switched on)
Before I could ask the driver how I would be able to pay, he explained that it was free until eight. "Ramazan kutlu olsun!" (Happy Ramadan!).
I have heard tale of people, who pass out free break-fast meals, in the evenings. I haven't encountered one yet, but there is even a potential #2 for my list of good things religion has done for me.
Anyhow, If you had asked me last week, to answer the question, "What good has religion ever done for you?", I would have been hard pressed to find an answer (outside of the litany of emotional scars and insecurities). All told, my exposure to religion has provided me with little more than the minimal theological foundation for a good joke, every now and again.
Until now!
Ramazan started on the 1st of September. Several friends an I rang in the season of fasting and reflection by getting drunk and going to a Beşiktaş match. What can I say, I'm an aspiring hooligan, and no religious holiday is going to change that (Beşiktaş won over Konyaspor, 2-0). Of course, due to the general feeling, among Turks, that those who aren't fasting during Ramadan should show respect for those who are, we found a dark corner of the Çarşı (the meeting place for B-taş fans) and drank there... in shame.
So, my approach to Ramadan (this time around) has been neither a penance nor penitent (I feel it's a good balance to four years ago, when I lived in Damascus and did fast for a month).
Anyhow, to my shame, the Muslim world has repaid my sin with mercy.
Maybe I'm just a sucker for free stuff, but when I got on the bus last night, about an hour before iftar (roughly 6 PM), the machine that registers my AkBil (the public transit smart-pass) was turned off.
The Akbil (see how conveniently it fits on a key chain!)
The Register (switched on)
Before I could ask the driver how I would be able to pay, he explained that it was free until eight. "Ramazan kutlu olsun!" (Happy Ramadan!).
I have heard tale of people, who pass out free break-fast meals, in the evenings. I haven't encountered one yet, but there is even a potential #2 for my list of good things religion has done for me.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
True Story...
When I'm back home in the states, I get a lot of questions about Turkey. Most often, a pretty flaccid, "so, how is Turkey?" Sometimes, people ask me about the food, or the lifestyle, politics, safety, terrorism or my worries about it.
Very occasionally, I get asked about the people. I always answer the same thing, which is, that I find the people here to be similar to people back home. Of course, conditions are different, there's culture and history and language to consider, but at the end of the day, I've found a life with friends, here in Turkey, consistent with that I have in the USA.
This story should illustrate my point. I wasn't there, but since returning to Istanbul last Sunday, I've been appraised of the situation by the parties involved and one eye-witness. Next time someone asks about people in Turkey, I'll tell them this (I have concealed the names to protect the intoxicated)...
Last Friday there was a party, which I would have no doubt attended, had I been in the city. My room mate was celebrating his 26th birthday. T, a friend from my Ultimate team, was celebrating his new job. Another Turkish friend was having a housewarming party, at her house. To set the scene, you must understand that Turkish apartments don't come equipped with a refrigerator or an oven, and nothing had been moved in, save a card table and chairs. Sparse conditions at best.
As my room mate put it, "there wasn't even salt or lemon for the Tequila."
The three friends and the larger group, eight people total, sat together around the table, drinking and talking. This was a pre-party, before heading out to the bars in Taksim.
It was three parties in one, so the pre-party was looong, and T drank about three times as much as he probably should have. He is also a very enthusiastic story teller. Three hours into the party, the mix of alcohols (Tequila, Absinthe, and who knows what else) combined with his wild gesticulating... poorly.
In mid sentence, T stuck his head under the table and spewed vomitus onto the floor.
In Turkey, taking off ones shoes upon entering a house is a nearly universal practice (the logic is sound, considering some of the things I've stepped in here). Generally, they stay by the door, in some kind of cupboard. I was once robbed by a con man, who came to our apartment pretending to a solicitor, and even he took off his shoes before coming in (that story some other time).
There are exceptional cases, though, and this was one. The apartment was still pretty dirty with the sort of dusts that go along with moving, and so all the guests in attendance were still wearing their shoes, as small bits of T's dinner prepared to ricochet off the floor towards them.
Everyone, that is, except my room mate, who had taken his off to be more comfortable.
T is a smart guy, and when his head dipped below the surface of the table, he knew what was about to happen. Quick thinking, a keen eye, and fast hands saved the day. T grabbed my room mates shoes and proceeded to fill them "to the brim" with puke, surfacing from beneath the table to continue his story.
It's hard not to notice a person vomiting at a small party (as I know all too well), and the detail was not lost upon my room mate. The argument that followed went something like this:
RM: "You asshole! Why did you throw up in my shoes?"
T: "Why did you leave your shoes in the living room?"
RM: "What do you mean?"
T: "If you hadn't left them in the living room, I wouldn't have thrown up in them!"
RM: "You asshole! I can leave my shoes in the living room, that doesn't mean you, or anyone, has the right to throw up in them."
T: "If you leave your shoes where they don't belong, I think I do have the right to throw up into them."
And so on.
The shoes were eventually cleaned out, and the party continued. There was the lingering problem of what to do when they left to go dancing in Taksim, and my room mate was sly about preparing for it. He was already wearing one of T's shoes when everyone else began getting ready to leave.
A wrestling match ensued, in which T managed to regain his other shoe and put it on, basically bringing the situation to a stalemate. Oceania and Eurasia, it seemed, were going to have to try diplomacy.
There was a long argument, my room mate insisting that T surrender the shoe, and wear his wet, smelly ones instead. T fell back on the strength of his logic, that the situation was indeed unfortunate, but that he wasn't personally responsible as the shoes should have been by the door, and not in the living room.
With diplomacy failing, and half the party leaving to go on ahead, a truly brave sole stepped forward and demanded that they both shut up, take one of his own shoes each, and he would wear the soggy, smelly shoes.
S, wore the shoes out of the house, and half the walk Taksim. At some point though, with my room mate and T still arguing, the discomfort of the wet shoes, and the knowledge that the contents of a stomach had recently found a home there, S reasoned he should get his own shoes back. Reluctantly, T and my room mate each took a barf shoe.
When my room mate woke up, the following morning, with a hangover that kept him vomiting "until after dinner", there was one brown Adidas tennis shoe and one white Adidas tennis shoe, kicked haphazardly onto the floor of his room.
The point of this was just to say, on any given day of the week, the same absurd behavior can be expected from my very American friends and myself. If there exists a place, where the people don't do hilariously stupid crap... well, I'll do what I can to avoid going there.
Cheers to all my friends, who've gotten it, all this time.
Very occasionally, I get asked about the people. I always answer the same thing, which is, that I find the people here to be similar to people back home. Of course, conditions are different, there's culture and history and language to consider, but at the end of the day, I've found a life with friends, here in Turkey, consistent with that I have in the USA.
This story should illustrate my point. I wasn't there, but since returning to Istanbul last Sunday, I've been appraised of the situation by the parties involved and one eye-witness. Next time someone asks about people in Turkey, I'll tell them this (I have concealed the names to protect the intoxicated)...
Last Friday there was a party, which I would have no doubt attended, had I been in the city. My room mate was celebrating his 26th birthday. T, a friend from my Ultimate team, was celebrating his new job. Another Turkish friend was having a housewarming party, at her house. To set the scene, you must understand that Turkish apartments don't come equipped with a refrigerator or an oven, and nothing had been moved in, save a card table and chairs. Sparse conditions at best.
As my room mate put it, "there wasn't even salt or lemon for the Tequila."
The three friends and the larger group, eight people total, sat together around the table, drinking and talking. This was a pre-party, before heading out to the bars in Taksim.
It was three parties in one, so the pre-party was looong, and T drank about three times as much as he probably should have. He is also a very enthusiastic story teller. Three hours into the party, the mix of alcohols (Tequila, Absinthe, and who knows what else) combined with his wild gesticulating... poorly.
In mid sentence, T stuck his head under the table and spewed vomitus onto the floor.
In Turkey, taking off ones shoes upon entering a house is a nearly universal practice (the logic is sound, considering some of the things I've stepped in here). Generally, they stay by the door, in some kind of cupboard. I was once robbed by a con man, who came to our apartment pretending to a solicitor, and even he took off his shoes before coming in (that story some other time).
There are exceptional cases, though, and this was one. The apartment was still pretty dirty with the sort of dusts that go along with moving, and so all the guests in attendance were still wearing their shoes, as small bits of T's dinner prepared to ricochet off the floor towards them.
Everyone, that is, except my room mate, who had taken his off to be more comfortable.
T is a smart guy, and when his head dipped below the surface of the table, he knew what was about to happen. Quick thinking, a keen eye, and fast hands saved the day. T grabbed my room mates shoes and proceeded to fill them "to the brim" with puke, surfacing from beneath the table to continue his story.
It's hard not to notice a person vomiting at a small party (as I know all too well), and the detail was not lost upon my room mate. The argument that followed went something like this:
RM: "You asshole! Why did you throw up in my shoes?"
T: "Why did you leave your shoes in the living room?"
RM: "What do you mean?"
T: "If you hadn't left them in the living room, I wouldn't have thrown up in them!"
RM: "You asshole! I can leave my shoes in the living room, that doesn't mean you, or anyone, has the right to throw up in them."
T: "If you leave your shoes where they don't belong, I think I do have the right to throw up into them."
And so on.
The shoes were eventually cleaned out, and the party continued. There was the lingering problem of what to do when they left to go dancing in Taksim, and my room mate was sly about preparing for it. He was already wearing one of T's shoes when everyone else began getting ready to leave.
A wrestling match ensued, in which T managed to regain his other shoe and put it on, basically bringing the situation to a stalemate. Oceania and Eurasia, it seemed, were going to have to try diplomacy.
There was a long argument, my room mate insisting that T surrender the shoe, and wear his wet, smelly ones instead. T fell back on the strength of his logic, that the situation was indeed unfortunate, but that he wasn't personally responsible as the shoes should have been by the door, and not in the living room.
With diplomacy failing, and half the party leaving to go on ahead, a truly brave sole stepped forward and demanded that they both shut up, take one of his own shoes each, and he would wear the soggy, smelly shoes.
S, wore the shoes out of the house, and half the walk Taksim. At some point though, with my room mate and T still arguing, the discomfort of the wet shoes, and the knowledge that the contents of a stomach had recently found a home there, S reasoned he should get his own shoes back. Reluctantly, T and my room mate each took a barf shoe.
When my room mate woke up, the following morning, with a hangover that kept him vomiting "until after dinner", there was one brown Adidas tennis shoe and one white Adidas tennis shoe, kicked haphazardly onto the floor of his room.
The point of this was just to say, on any given day of the week, the same absurd behavior can be expected from my very American friends and myself. If there exists a place, where the people don't do hilariously stupid crap... well, I'll do what I can to avoid going there.
Cheers to all my friends, who've gotten it, all this time.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Turkey, a leader in porn...
web searches...
I know I've drifted off-topic (rather, out of the region) in the past few posts, so I thought I should put things back on course by offering something we can all relate to.
Although in Turkish, this article is treasure. The gist is, that according to Google's own research, Turkey ranks Number One among nations where the term "porn" was input into the search engine. This is a second global title for Turkey, which ranked first in 2006, but then fell to third in 2007. A strong competitor, Turkey has been in the top three for each of the past five years.
I am really glad this news broke, because it inspired me to dig this nugget out of the TDN archives. According to one condom company's rigorously researched internet survey, Turks are the most promiscuous of peoples, with "a whooping average of 14 sexual partners in a lifetime".
I'm really not sure what to make of a place, that claims both the globe's highest research interest in pornography and the highest number of sexual partners in a lifetime. Of course, one Turk does have an opinion:
What I love, is that this was published in Foreign Policy magazine. I'll be sure to renew my subscription, so as to keep up with other highly dubious claims about global affairs.
I know I've drifted off-topic (rather, out of the region) in the past few posts, so I thought I should put things back on course by offering something we can all relate to.
Although in Turkish, this article is treasure. The gist is, that according to Google's own research, Turkey ranks Number One among nations where the term "porn" was input into the search engine. This is a second global title for Turkey, which ranked first in 2006, but then fell to third in 2007. A strong competitor, Turkey has been in the top three for each of the past five years.
I am really glad this news broke, because it inspired me to dig this nugget out of the TDN archives. According to one condom company's rigorously researched internet survey, Turks are the most promiscuous of peoples, with "a whooping average of 14 sexual partners in a lifetime".
I'm really not sure what to make of a place, that claims both the globe's highest research interest in pornography and the highest number of sexual partners in a lifetime. Of course, one Turk does have an opinion:
"Turkish people are known as good sexual partners and we believe having 14 partners in a lifetime is in line with reality."
What I love, is that this was published in Foreign Policy magazine. I'll be sure to renew my subscription, so as to keep up with other highly dubious claims about global affairs.
How to say "Fuck Off" in Arabic...
Iraq Signs Oil Deal With China Worth Up to $3 Billion
"The United States Embassy in Baghdad had no immediate comment on the oil deal."
"The United States Embassy in Baghdad had no immediate comment on the oil deal."
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Holy Shit!
Nothing to do with Turkey, really, but sometimes I do get a question from a curious taxi driver, or there's a conversation with other expats, about whether I will vote in the upcoming election.
Truth be told, I believe that electoral and other representative political systems are anti-democratic, and for the sake of freedom, should be fought wherever they are found.
Ahhh, but there is such power in that which I have been programmed to believe is important...
So, I tended to think I would vote. I missed the last election, on account of traveling, and I logged a note somewhere in my brain that I should make up for that lapse in my civic duty by voting in the next one.
Course, then I read stuff like this:
That covers every election I have been legally eligible to vote in. EVERY. FUCKING. ONE.
The article is here, and I found out about it here...
If someone told me that, in order to select a new President, I should transform a glass of water into ice, with my mind, I probably wouldn't give them the time of day (least, not more than 10 minutes). Here I am, thousands of miles away, and I'm being asked to play craps (or worse, the lottery) with my vote.
I cast it, and maybe they'll count it.
So, the answer to the question is a definitive "no".
Truth be told, I believe that electoral and other representative political systems are anti-democratic, and for the sake of freedom, should be fought wherever they are found.
Ahhh, but there is such power in that which I have been programmed to believe is important...
So, I tended to think I would vote. I missed the last election, on account of traveling, and I logged a note somewhere in my brain that I should make up for that lapse in my civic duty by voting in the next one.
Course, then I read stuff like this:
A voting system used in 34 states contains a critical programming error that can cause votes to be dropped while being electronically transferred from memory cards to a central tallying point, the manufacturer acknowledges.
The problem was identified after complaints from Ohio elections officials following the March primary there, but the logic error that is the root of the problem has been part of the software for 10 years, said Chris Riggall, a spokesman for Premier Election Solutions, formerly known as Diebold.
That covers every election I have been legally eligible to vote in. EVERY. FUCKING. ONE.
The article is here, and I found out about it here...
If someone told me that, in order to select a new President, I should transform a glass of water into ice, with my mind, I probably wouldn't give them the time of day (least, not more than 10 minutes). Here I am, thousands of miles away, and I'm being asked to play craps (or worse, the lottery) with my vote.
I cast it, and maybe they'll count it.
So, the answer to the question is a definitive "no".
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Thanks, Elwood.
This evening, as the sun was setting over the western Taurus Mountains, I took a sailboat out on the Mediterranean Sea. It was just a little Lazer, a learner's boat, but it was damn fun!
I haven't been sailing in about four years, when my sister and I took out my uncle's MC-Scow, and proceeded to capsize it multiple time on a blustery day at Cross Lake, in Shreveport, LA. The scow is a squirrely boat, unlike other sailing vessels. Designed with a flat bottom, the pilot is supposed to keep the thing on one keel or the other, for maximum effect.
Anyhow, that was a learning day.
I really learned to sail in a Sunfish on Lake Mauvaisterre, back in Jacksonville, and did a good deal more of it in Copper Harbor, MI, where Elwood and I lived and worked during the summer of 2000. It was mostly Elwood who taught me to sail, so, thanks.
Today's was a new experience. The Mediterranean was especially choppy (apparently, an Agean storm has things stirred up), but the wind was not fast, a steady 6 knots, and I puttered around for about an hour, as far from the coast as I dared venture.
No disco music.
No Russians in tacky bathing outfits.
No absurd job.
Bliss.
I was really rusty though. It's amazing how poorly a person can remember something that they never really learned to do confidently. I breezed of the dock, looked really good doing so, and didn't have any problems until I was about a half kilometer from shore, attempting my first tack. It went so poorly, that I decided to head upwind, and make a long series of close reaches and a lot of tacks for practice. Elwood and I had always tried to milk speed out of our boats, which was really hard in J'ville. Anyhow, the knack came back, and I began to get the hang of dealing with the waves and how to predict what pitching and rolling would do to my speed and direction.
I started to get... confident.
I had been heading southwest, for about a kilometer, and decided to turn around. I set myself up for a long, downwind tack, back in the direction the resort. I was feeling good, smart, and once I began heading east, decided to practice jibing. You know, just to get the hang of it, again.
In my life, I've taken three women out in a boat: my mother, my sister, and my first girlfriend, Kate Nelson. Jibing, a maneuver in which the stern (back) of the boat passes through the source of the wind as it turns, has always been a challenge for Sean. Pulling it off with an extra person consistently proved a disaster, and each of those women I share love with ended up in the water.
Not exactly proud moments.
Like I said though, it was just me, and I was feeling smart.
Of all the things Elwood taught me, knots, maneuvering, reading the wind, the love of sailing...
...today, I am most grateful he taught me how to right a boat.
I haven't been sailing in about four years, when my sister and I took out my uncle's MC-Scow, and proceeded to capsize it multiple time on a blustery day at Cross Lake, in Shreveport, LA. The scow is a squirrely boat, unlike other sailing vessels. Designed with a flat bottom, the pilot is supposed to keep the thing on one keel or the other, for maximum effect.
Anyhow, that was a learning day.
I really learned to sail in a Sunfish on Lake Mauvaisterre, back in Jacksonville, and did a good deal more of it in Copper Harbor, MI, where Elwood and I lived and worked during the summer of 2000. It was mostly Elwood who taught me to sail, so, thanks.
Today's was a new experience. The Mediterranean was especially choppy (apparently, an Agean storm has things stirred up), but the wind was not fast, a steady 6 knots, and I puttered around for about an hour, as far from the coast as I dared venture.
No disco music.
No Russians in tacky bathing outfits.
No absurd job.
Bliss.
I was really rusty though. It's amazing how poorly a person can remember something that they never really learned to do confidently. I breezed of the dock, looked really good doing so, and didn't have any problems until I was about a half kilometer from shore, attempting my first tack. It went so poorly, that I decided to head upwind, and make a long series of close reaches and a lot of tacks for practice. Elwood and I had always tried to milk speed out of our boats, which was really hard in J'ville. Anyhow, the knack came back, and I began to get the hang of dealing with the waves and how to predict what pitching and rolling would do to my speed and direction.
I started to get... confident.
I had been heading southwest, for about a kilometer, and decided to turn around. I set myself up for a long, downwind tack, back in the direction the resort. I was feeling good, smart, and once I began heading east, decided to practice jibing. You know, just to get the hang of it, again.
In my life, I've taken three women out in a boat: my mother, my sister, and my first girlfriend, Kate Nelson. Jibing, a maneuver in which the stern (back) of the boat passes through the source of the wind as it turns, has always been a challenge for Sean. Pulling it off with an extra person consistently proved a disaster, and each of those women I share love with ended up in the water.
Not exactly proud moments.
Like I said though, it was just me, and I was feeling smart.
Of all the things Elwood taught me, knots, maneuvering, reading the wind, the love of sailing...
...today, I am most grateful he taught me how to right a boat.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
False cognates...
My job has taken me away from Istanbul, again, after a four day visit which involved a job interview sandwiched between visits to the Istanbul Police Office (where I applied for and received a residency permit).
Still not sure if I got the job.
I should talk about the residency application process, sometime, but this isn't the post where I want to complain about Turkey's bureaucratic difficulties of Ottoman proportions. I'll just say, I was glad my friends Gregg and Emrah came along. Their commentary made the affair a good deal more fun.
Monday, I took the midnight flight to Antalya (48 minutes), was received by a bewildered driver at the airport ("Sean" sounds distinctly feminine, when Turkish logic is applied to the phonemes. Read it "se-an"), was then driven to Club Salima (50 KM from the Antalya airport), and by 2:30 was settling into my room at a Mediterranean resort.
I was excited!
The veil of expectations, however, was lifted the following morning. Although waking up to the sounds of children, blowing whistles and singing to club music, at 10 AM (which is an early hour, these days), didn't do much for my confidence in a pleasant stay, I think it was a scantily clad, obese Russian family that finally enervated my hopes.
At Club Salima, I'm that guy who thinks the whole place is retarded (or insane, or absurd), and who invariably (I try not to!) exhibits disdain in every movement, spoken phrase, or dip in the sea.
I'm reminded of Bill Murray's character in Lost in Translation, because that is exactly how I feel.
It's been four days. I've gotten to know several of the staff, all good people who seem to have had their nerves frayed by a summer of working with the globe's neediest population: tourists. I've also met some Russian college kids, and though they don't speak any English, they were excited when I smiled at them, said "I like Russia", and gave them a thumbs-up. That, and I bought several rounds of vodka for the lot of 'em (and then suffered the worst hangover in years).
Today really tied it all together. Another beach-goer had seen me speaking Turkish with the staff, and then correctly surmised that I wasn't from around here. This Turkish man was doing his best to figure out what I was doing at a resort for Russians, Italians, and Germans, and tried a little of all three languages before settling into Turkish.
He asked me if I was an animatör.
I didn't understand, what could give him the impression that my line of work involved drawing, much less drawing cartoons. So, I offered him the side-to-side head shake and shrug, which in Turkish means, "I don't understand".
Again, "are you an animator? Do you do animation here at the resort?"
I told him "no", but also asked that he explain. The mimes that this request provoked took me off guard, as the man began jumping from side to side, jazz-hands in the air, smiling like a fool.
Then he said "animation man", several times, and it clicked.
A Turkish animatör is an entertainer.
Still not sure if I got the job.
I should talk about the residency application process, sometime, but this isn't the post where I want to complain about Turkey's bureaucratic difficulties of Ottoman proportions. I'll just say, I was glad my friends Gregg and Emrah came along. Their commentary made the affair a good deal more fun.
Monday, I took the midnight flight to Antalya (48 minutes), was received by a bewildered driver at the airport ("Sean" sounds distinctly feminine, when Turkish logic is applied to the phonemes. Read it "se-an"), was then driven to Club Salima (50 KM from the Antalya airport), and by 2:30 was settling into my room at a Mediterranean resort.
I was excited!
The veil of expectations, however, was lifted the following morning. Although waking up to the sounds of children, blowing whistles and singing to club music, at 10 AM (which is an early hour, these days), didn't do much for my confidence in a pleasant stay, I think it was a scantily clad, obese Russian family that finally enervated my hopes.
At Club Salima, I'm that guy who thinks the whole place is retarded (or insane, or absurd), and who invariably (I try not to!) exhibits disdain in every movement, spoken phrase, or dip in the sea.
I'm reminded of Bill Murray's character in Lost in Translation, because that is exactly how I feel.
It's been four days. I've gotten to know several of the staff, all good people who seem to have had their nerves frayed by a summer of working with the globe's neediest population: tourists. I've also met some Russian college kids, and though they don't speak any English, they were excited when I smiled at them, said "I like Russia", and gave them a thumbs-up. That, and I bought several rounds of vodka for the lot of 'em (and then suffered the worst hangover in years).
Today really tied it all together. Another beach-goer had seen me speaking Turkish with the staff, and then correctly surmised that I wasn't from around here. This Turkish man was doing his best to figure out what I was doing at a resort for Russians, Italians, and Germans, and tried a little of all three languages before settling into Turkish.
He asked me if I was an animatör.
I didn't understand, what could give him the impression that my line of work involved drawing, much less drawing cartoons. So, I offered him the side-to-side head shake and shrug, which in Turkish means, "I don't understand".
Again, "are you an animator? Do you do animation here at the resort?"
I told him "no", but also asked that he explain. The mimes that this request provoked took me off guard, as the man began jumping from side to side, jazz-hands in the air, smiling like a fool.
Then he said "animation man", several times, and it clicked.
A Turkish animatör is an entertainer.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
"The patient is well and in stable condition..."
So says the doctor/spokesperson of the İzmir Dokuz Eylül Üniversitesi Tıp Fakültesi Hastanesi (what a mouthful, Izmir's 9th of September University Medical School Hosptial).
If you know Turkish, check it out.
For those of you with better things to do, here's the short story.
A 'misplaced file' in the university hospital redirected a 55 year old Turkish woman, Saadet Kılıç, from her scheduled cataract surgery. As a result of the confusion, her eyes weren't operated upon.
Instead, her uterus was removed.
Whoopsydoodle!
If you know Turkish, check it out.
For those of you with better things to do, here's the short story.
A 'misplaced file' in the university hospital redirected a 55 year old Turkish woman, Saadet Kılıç, from her scheduled cataract surgery. As a result of the confusion, her eyes weren't operated upon.
Instead, her uterus was removed.
Whoopsydoodle!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
This seemed apt...
... hopefully, folks will forgive the language. I heard this here in Turkey, and the "n" word sometimes gets thrown around by Turks who have no idea of the baggage it carries. I figure, they wrote the joke, so it's a little dishonest to rephrase the thing.
If it's true, all I can say is, way to go, 'Red, White, and Blue'.
To avoid appearing a Rusky-phile, I'll add that Putin's idea of a measured response to conflict is, well, so much like Israel's that it confounds all notions of justice. I reckon Saakashvili got more than he bargained for, but it's all pretty complicated.
In high school, I remember studying a little-known kid named Gavrilo Princip, who somehow managed to spark The Great War by assassinating Franz Ferdinand, Archduke of Austria. Beats the hell out of your best college prank. Chopping the history lecture down to size, EVERYBODY in Europe, and a number of others, decided to get involved in one of the largest land-grabs since the Oklahoma Land Run of 1889.
Quite a few parties involved, and a whole lot of oil, gas, and other stuff. Looks like we're getting ready to see how much like the 20th century we can make our 21st.
A new agent was brought into Langley for training by the CIA. The program took years, and cost millions, as the agent was trained for all possible mission circumstances: jungle and arctic warfare, high an low elevation para trooping, airplane and helicopter flight, deep sea diving, Russian, Ukrainian, Kazakh, and Polish.Reading this article, I remembered the joke...
Weeks of his training emphasized the history and geography of Moscow. The agent became an expert in the Kremlin, and needed to be, as he would be a covert operative in the heart of Soviet Union. Studying maps, local stories and anecdotes, he was prepared to appear a native of Moscow, born and raised, and to reside in the city for five years.
The insertion itself was dangerous, involving (surprisingly) both a submarine and a high altitude jump. After his arrival in Moscow, the operative met his contacts, settled into his safe house, and took his first week to explore the city, finding it just as he had been trained to.
After receiving orders for his first mission, the agent stopped into a local pub, known as a gathering place for intelligence personnel from various agencies. It was a good place to get information.
The agent went to the bar and ordered a vodka, in fluent Russian. Striking up a conversation as the keep poured his drink, he felt confident that he would begin to glean information about the patrons. Setting down the vodka, the bar keep stopped the agent mid-sentence.
"Look, if you want to talk with your KGB friends, go over there, table is in the corner."
The agent was dumbstruck. "How did you recognize that I'm an agent?"
Cleaning out a glass, the bartender looked at him, "Your Russian is fluent, you know city and culture well. Only, we have not a lot of niggers in Moscow."
If it's true, all I can say is, way to go, 'Red, White, and Blue'.
To avoid appearing a Rusky-phile, I'll add that Putin's idea of a measured response to conflict is, well, so much like Israel's that it confounds all notions of justice. I reckon Saakashvili got more than he bargained for, but it's all pretty complicated.
In high school, I remember studying a little-known kid named Gavrilo Princip, who somehow managed to spark The Great War by assassinating Franz Ferdinand, Archduke of Austria. Beats the hell out of your best college prank. Chopping the history lecture down to size, EVERYBODY in Europe, and a number of others, decided to get involved in one of the largest land-grabs since the Oklahoma Land Run of 1889.
Quite a few parties involved, and a whole lot of oil, gas, and other stuff. Looks like we're getting ready to see how much like the 20th century we can make our 21st.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
"My hands smell like poop."
Expatriate life involves new and exciting experiences for many of the most mundane of daily tasks. I've said before, that the main reason I travel is the puzzle that a new country presents for everyday tasks: using the post office, ordering food, asking directions, brushing my teeth, and yes, using the toilet.
Two friends and I kicked it up a notch, though, in the summer of 2005. We took a cross-Turkey hitch-hiking trip. It was a blast. I have no idea how many kilometers we covered, but if I ever find the map I kept, I'll try to post the route we took. I've linked a map of Turkey, so folks can at least get an idea of the scale. We started in Istanbul, and finished there, having visited Nevşehir, Malatya, Hasan Keyf (not shown), Urfa, Mardin, Batman (no joke, check the map), Tatvan, and then some other obscure places: Doğubeyazıt and Çalderon (basically, this place was Iran), before Diyarbakır, whence we took the train to the 'Bul.
Instead of the full three-week narrative, I'll put this out there in pieces, and I'll try to consult my friends to get up some pictures up, too.
This is a story from Mardin.
By the time we arrived there, we had been traveling for about ten or twelve days, and we had been exposed to a number of new foods, many truck stops, and less than sanitary conditions. We were all ill with something, and I was taking my turn with a stomach illness.
An Istanbullu friend had insisted we contact his family in Mardin, when we got there. On the day in question, a brother-in-law was giving us a tour of a Syrian Orthodox church, The Fourty Martyr's Church (click here for a crappy panoramic tour).
When I see churches in Europe, 'opulent', 'excessive', and 'huge', are all words that come to mind. I hear the message they tried to send to the infidel:
I excused myself from our tour and entered the immaculately white-tiled restroom. Windows, carved into the rock above, illuminated the interior, and while walking through, the contrast of light and shadow danced in the room and from the mirrors. I checked each stall, as I am prone to do with an upset stomach, and found that there were no European-style toilets.
This was a squatty-potty day and it would be messy.
Diarrhea doesn't negotiate, really, so I counted myself lucky to have found a tiled hole, measured against the very real alternative of shitting my pants.
Skipping the details, lets just say I was happy to have gotten up and out of that situation having only soiled my hands. There wasn't any toilet paper, and if you check the picture, you'll notice the faucet at about knee-height next to the toilet. That's a pretty typical feature in Turkish toilet facilities, the idea being that water is cleansing. Indeed it is, and even though I had a wet bum, the alternative was, again, far more uncomfortable. I find that I am often willing to accept a poor option when the only alternative is a horrifying option. Given my overall feeling of discomfort and ickyness, I was really looking forward to a good hand-scrubbing.
I have a former room mate that consistently pointed out to me, that Europeans use paper on their backsides and that this doesn't clean everything. He always joked about European people, referring to them as "shitty-asses". It was cute, and I never bothered to mention that the bidet has a silent "t" because it is a French invention. In any event, water is a big part of Turkish backside-cleansing culture. Use a squatty-potty often enough, and one can learn to enjoy the intimate interaction with one's 'down-theres' that the quest for true cleanliness entails.
As I approached the sink, my heart, dare I say it, felt as though it had been flushed. In front of me were five immaculate sinks (again, there was the light and all that). Each sink had a soap dish, carved into the marble counter, and above each, on the wall, were attached plastic soap dispensers.
All shone with that shiny newness that accompanies never having held soap.
Two friends and I kicked it up a notch, though, in the summer of 2005. We took a cross-Turkey hitch-hiking trip. It was a blast. I have no idea how many kilometers we covered, but if I ever find the map I kept, I'll try to post the route we took. I've linked a map of Turkey, so folks can at least get an idea of the scale. We started in Istanbul, and finished there, having visited Nevşehir, Malatya, Hasan Keyf (not shown), Urfa, Mardin, Batman (no joke, check the map), Tatvan, and then some other obscure places: Doğubeyazıt and Çalderon (basically, this place was Iran), before Diyarbakır, whence we took the train to the 'Bul.
Instead of the full three-week narrative, I'll put this out there in pieces, and I'll try to consult my friends to get up some pictures up, too.
This is a story from Mardin.
By the time we arrived there, we had been traveling for about ten or twelve days, and we had been exposed to a number of new foods, many truck stops, and less than sanitary conditions. We were all ill with something, and I was taking my turn with a stomach illness.
An Istanbullu friend had insisted we contact his family in Mardin, when we got there. On the day in question, a brother-in-law was giving us a tour of a Syrian Orthodox church, The Fourty Martyr's Church (click here for a crappy panoramic tour).
When I see churches in Europe, 'opulent', 'excessive', and 'huge', are all words that come to mind. I hear the message they tried to send to the infidel:
"Our God is a really, really big God, and he can squish you."On the other hand, this church is older, by about five hundred years, than the oldest that I saw in Christendom. It spoke to me that day, three years ago, a message about community, tolerance, peace, and clean bathrooms.
I excused myself from our tour and entered the immaculately white-tiled restroom. Windows, carved into the rock above, illuminated the interior, and while walking through, the contrast of light and shadow danced in the room and from the mirrors. I checked each stall, as I am prone to do with an upset stomach, and found that there were no European-style toilets.
This was a squatty-potty day and it would be messy.
Diarrhea doesn't negotiate, really, so I counted myself lucky to have found a tiled hole, measured against the very real alternative of shitting my pants.
Skipping the details, lets just say I was happy to have gotten up and out of that situation having only soiled my hands. There wasn't any toilet paper, and if you check the picture, you'll notice the faucet at about knee-height next to the toilet. That's a pretty typical feature in Turkish toilet facilities, the idea being that water is cleansing. Indeed it is, and even though I had a wet bum, the alternative was, again, far more uncomfortable. I find that I am often willing to accept a poor option when the only alternative is a horrifying option. Given my overall feeling of discomfort and ickyness, I was really looking forward to a good hand-scrubbing.
I have a former room mate that consistently pointed out to me, that Europeans use paper on their backsides and that this doesn't clean everything. He always joked about European people, referring to them as "shitty-asses". It was cute, and I never bothered to mention that the bidet has a silent "t" because it is a French invention. In any event, water is a big part of Turkish backside-cleansing culture. Use a squatty-potty often enough, and one can learn to enjoy the intimate interaction with one's 'down-theres' that the quest for true cleanliness entails.
As I approached the sink, my heart, dare I say it, felt as though it had been flushed. In front of me were five immaculate sinks (again, there was the light and all that). Each sink had a soap dish, carved into the marble counter, and above each, on the wall, were attached plastic soap dispensers.
All shone with that shiny newness that accompanies never having held soap.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Cool...
I found this on the blog of a friend in Japan, and decided it's worth sharing.
It is a memory-enhancing method, that Chris is applying to language learning.
I'm going to try this out.
Update:
Actually, I'm going to use the free and open source version of the same program.
It is a memory-enhancing method, that Chris is applying to language learning.
I'm going to try this out.
Update:
Actually, I'm going to use the free and open source version of the same program.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
My first good haircut in Turkey...
... was followed immediately by my worst, by about six weeks.
I wish I had a camera to show it off, but then, I was actually so embarrassed by it, that I took the long way back to the hotel, through an alley from the barber's, and then, a construction site. I doubt it would have occurred to me to take a picture. I have found a limit to my self-deprecating sense of irony.
I don't know why I can't get a good haircut here, generally, because I have the vocab and always explain what I want. In June, I went to a place near the hotel, and felt dumb for doing so when I was charged 20 YTL for the cut. On reflection, in the mirror, I realized that the barber had done a perfect job: not too short, not cut like a soldier's hair, layered on the sides, reasonable bangs... it was... nice to look at, fitting my personal aesthetic and demanding no attention whatsoever.
Until, it needed to be cut again.
I figured, I had gotten what I paid for, the haircut I wanted.
Never before had I had that in Turkey. I even once cut my hair myself, with a beard trimmer, because I couldn't rationalize paying 5 YTL for another Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, the 'American haircut', the one that makes me look like I'm a Marine. Lately, I've been in the habit of fixing each trim at home with the same beard trimmer.
Nothing against Marines... I just don't want to look like one.
This, I always thought should be simple, but over and over again, I got the same result, no matter what I asked from a barber. If I insisted my hair be kept long, or asked for "just a trim off the top", the result was always the same. Sometimes, barbers would even sneak up on me, and achieve the crew-cut effect with scissors, what the electric clippers could do in a quarter of the time. Just so long as they gave me the Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, which must be what they thought I really wanted, even though I never said it.
Thus, I was so happy with my haircut of eight weeks ago, that I returned to the same barber, fully prepared to pay another 20 YTL. I don't care if that's too much, or even if they were ripping me off. You must understand, in my quest to maximize utility, my lowered expectations had finally found an appropriate balance of price and quality.
Something went wrong...
The barber who had cut my hair previously was busy, but we made eye contact on my arrival. I read in his gaze that I could trust the other barber to do the same, fine job he had done, the job I would ask for after sitting down, and the job this new barber actually began doing. In fact, it is the same, fine job, of the first barber, but with a tragic or ironic twist.
Actually, with a totally tragic faux-hawk twist.
One must understand, the Turkish barber shop culture is about comfort. The barber didn't just trim my hair. He shampooed and conditioned my hair, twice. He massaged my face and shoulders with lemon cologne. He lulled me into a sense of security, a feeling of comfort, and I let down my guard. Then, while my eyes were closed, he attacked me with hair gel, a blow drier, and then hairspray.
Having not used 'product' on my hair, since high school, I thought, "let's see how the pros do it".
There is a logical fallacy in abdicating one's habitually simple desires to the whims of 'experts'. These same experts lead the way in fashion trends that I never follow, advertising campaigns for products I never buy, and are the same people who brought us Crystal Pepsi.
The mistake was short-lived. Though I didn't have the courage to tell the barber to wash it all out, ten minutes later, I was in my hotel room doing just that.
Getting what you want, even if it isn't that complicated, can truly be an adventure in a foreign country. From now on, I'm trusting my hair to the beard trimmer.
I wish I had a camera to show it off, but then, I was actually so embarrassed by it, that I took the long way back to the hotel, through an alley from the barber's, and then, a construction site. I doubt it would have occurred to me to take a picture. I have found a limit to my self-deprecating sense of irony.
I don't know why I can't get a good haircut here, generally, because I have the vocab and always explain what I want. In June, I went to a place near the hotel, and felt dumb for doing so when I was charged 20 YTL for the cut. On reflection, in the mirror, I realized that the barber had done a perfect job: not too short, not cut like a soldier's hair, layered on the sides, reasonable bangs... it was... nice to look at, fitting my personal aesthetic and demanding no attention whatsoever.
Until, it needed to be cut again.
I figured, I had gotten what I paid for, the haircut I wanted.
Never before had I had that in Turkey. I even once cut my hair myself, with a beard trimmer, because I couldn't rationalize paying 5 YTL for another Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, the 'American haircut', the one that makes me look like I'm a Marine. Lately, I've been in the habit of fixing each trim at home with the same beard trimmer.
Nothing against Marines... I just don't want to look like one.
This, I always thought should be simple, but over and over again, I got the same result, no matter what I asked from a barber. If I insisted my hair be kept long, or asked for "just a trim off the top", the result was always the same. Sometimes, barbers would even sneak up on me, and achieve the crew-cut effect with scissors, what the electric clippers could do in a quarter of the time. Just so long as they gave me the Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, which must be what they thought I really wanted, even though I never said it.
Thus, I was so happy with my haircut of eight weeks ago, that I returned to the same barber, fully prepared to pay another 20 YTL. I don't care if that's too much, or even if they were ripping me off. You must understand, in my quest to maximize utility, my lowered expectations had finally found an appropriate balance of price and quality.
Something went wrong...
The barber who had cut my hair previously was busy, but we made eye contact on my arrival. I read in his gaze that I could trust the other barber to do the same, fine job he had done, the job I would ask for after sitting down, and the job this new barber actually began doing. In fact, it is the same, fine job, of the first barber, but with a tragic or ironic twist.
Actually, with a totally tragic faux-hawk twist.
One must understand, the Turkish barber shop culture is about comfort. The barber didn't just trim my hair. He shampooed and conditioned my hair, twice. He massaged my face and shoulders with lemon cologne. He lulled me into a sense of security, a feeling of comfort, and I let down my guard. Then, while my eyes were closed, he attacked me with hair gel, a blow drier, and then hairspray.
Having not used 'product' on my hair, since high school, I thought, "let's see how the pros do it".
There is a logical fallacy in abdicating one's habitually simple desires to the whims of 'experts'. These same experts lead the way in fashion trends that I never follow, advertising campaigns for products I never buy, and are the same people who brought us Crystal Pepsi.
The mistake was short-lived. Though I didn't have the courage to tell the barber to wash it all out, ten minutes later, I was in my hotel room doing just that.
Getting what you want, even if it isn't that complicated, can truly be an adventure in a foreign country. From now on, I'm trusting my hair to the beard trimmer.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
The People I Meet When I Travel: The King of Bahrain
OK, so that's a lie, I didn't actually meet the king of Bahrain.
I did, however, become wildly inebriated within fifty feet of him.
I did not know he was there.
I was waiting for him to arrive, and my buddies were late pointing out that I'd missed him coming in.
Basically, I popped down to the hotel lobby because there was a lot of noise in front of the hotel. I was with two of the military intel people that help me pass the time, so I figured, "what the hell, let's see what this is all about".
There was quite an entourage. Security people kept wandering in, slowly. Some were dressed like tourists, except for their funny earpieces. Others had their suits. As more of these folks began to arrive, the lobby bar slowly cleared out, until only myself and my two pals were left. I actually missed his entrance because I went to the little boy's room.
If we were expected to leave, nobody said anything. Some security people just sat down next to us at the bar. I hope these people understood English, cause it would be nice to think that someone from the king's crew could follow our jibes.
Everyone comes from a birth canal, and each of those is pretty special, in its own right. So, I'm not about to regard someone who came from a 'royal' birth canal as particularly unique. Certainly, I'm not about to give any person absolute power on the basis that the birth canal from whence they were delivered is superior to those of other mortals.
In the case of King Hamad ibn Isa al-Khalifah, he was actually the emir of Bahrain, up until he changed his title to king. So much for divine right. Abandoning one's own ridiculous absolutist customs for those of the European middle-ages may, at first glance, seem desirable. Let's be honest though, everybody can see through what you're doing, and they still think you're a dick for it.
The ceremony with which the king departed the lobby drove the point home, for me. Everybody in the lobby stood (that is, everybody except me and the remaining intel guy). There were two rows of dignitaries, military men, and security, through which the king proceeded, on his way down to the hotel club. I couldn't see him until he was very close, and learning why had a pronounced effect on my reaction.
When I saw that the king comes up to about my shoulder, and has a striking resemblance to Ron Jeremy, well, I choked on my beer and began coughing... loudly.
I did, however, become wildly inebriated within fifty feet of him.
I did not know he was there.
I was waiting for him to arrive, and my buddies were late pointing out that I'd missed him coming in.
Basically, I popped down to the hotel lobby because there was a lot of noise in front of the hotel. I was with two of the military intel people that help me pass the time, so I figured, "what the hell, let's see what this is all about".
There was quite an entourage. Security people kept wandering in, slowly. Some were dressed like tourists, except for their funny earpieces. Others had their suits. As more of these folks began to arrive, the lobby bar slowly cleared out, until only myself and my two pals were left. I actually missed his entrance because I went to the little boy's room.
If we were expected to leave, nobody said anything. Some security people just sat down next to us at the bar. I hope these people understood English, cause it would be nice to think that someone from the king's crew could follow our jibes.
Everyone comes from a birth canal, and each of those is pretty special, in its own right. So, I'm not about to regard someone who came from a 'royal' birth canal as particularly unique. Certainly, I'm not about to give any person absolute power on the basis that the birth canal from whence they were delivered is superior to those of other mortals.
In the case of King Hamad ibn Isa al-Khalifah, he was actually the emir of Bahrain, up until he changed his title to king. So much for divine right. Abandoning one's own ridiculous absolutist customs for those of the European middle-ages may, at first glance, seem desirable. Let's be honest though, everybody can see through what you're doing, and they still think you're a dick for it.
The ceremony with which the king departed the lobby drove the point home, for me. Everybody in the lobby stood (that is, everybody except me and the remaining intel guy). There were two rows of dignitaries, military men, and security, through which the king proceeded, on his way down to the hotel club. I couldn't see him until he was very close, and learning why had a pronounced effect on my reaction.
When I saw that the king comes up to about my shoulder, and has a striking resemblance to Ron Jeremy, well, I choked on my beer and began coughing... loudly.
The People I Meet When I Travel: Military Intelligence, The Translator
This sub-series of The People I Meet When I Travel will need to be broken down. There are twenty or thirty military intelligence people living in the hotel, somewhere above me. I've only spoken with some of them, I only know what one of them does, and, well, as is the nature of their work, I'm not really sure I know enough to write about.
They are fun to drink with, though.
As happens, when you combine alcohol and people, a chemical reaction takes place that can be observed in a person's increased comfort with their surroundings; inhibitions are reduced, laughter and merriment are easily achieved, and people talk more readily about what's on their mind.
I won't learn anything classified from these folks, cause they are, well, professionals. Also, I won't learn what they are doing here, or why their mission is a short-term one (Nov. 2007- Nov. 2008).
They do bitch about work though, about bosses (which are generals, in this case), about co-workers (I've met some of them, and yes, there are insane people in uniform), and about the logic of their mission.
Saturday night I got lit with the translator. He's an American, who went to high school in Turkey, knows Turkish fluently, and then returned to the states to attend the Air Force Academy. Much respect. Dennis is a husky guy, reddish hair, freckled skin, and when he speaks Turkish, it sounds like Ankara people speaking Turkish... so, it's a little weird to watch (as I imagine it must be weird when I speak).
He knows the language and the culture, and Turkish women, and he's great company because we can joke about all three. Dennis can also share anecdotes about the embarrassing ways that the American military, when it doesn't consult him, puts its proverbial 'foot' in it, while trying to accomplish some task requiring Turkish and American cooperation.
Something Dennis notices often, is the way Americans try to reward a job well-done, by a Turkish counterpart. Military operations have a number of local support staff, and sometimes, personnel want to express their gratitude to the natives. People's hearts are in the right place, the execution, however, leaves much to be desired. He explains:
Dennis is the only fluent Turkish speaker on staff with his office. He is also the only person there who has lived in Turkey for any amount of time. Next week he goes home, and there isn't anyone coming here to fill his shoes.
George Carlin introduced a list of oxymora to his stand-up act, and along with Jumbo Shrimp there was Military Intelligence.
I tend to agree with him, too.
They are fun to drink with, though.
As happens, when you combine alcohol and people, a chemical reaction takes place that can be observed in a person's increased comfort with their surroundings; inhibitions are reduced, laughter and merriment are easily achieved, and people talk more readily about what's on their mind.
I won't learn anything classified from these folks, cause they are, well, professionals. Also, I won't learn what they are doing here, or why their mission is a short-term one (Nov. 2007- Nov. 2008).
They do bitch about work though, about bosses (which are generals, in this case), about co-workers (I've met some of them, and yes, there are insane people in uniform), and about the logic of their mission.
Saturday night I got lit with the translator. He's an American, who went to high school in Turkey, knows Turkish fluently, and then returned to the states to attend the Air Force Academy. Much respect. Dennis is a husky guy, reddish hair, freckled skin, and when he speaks Turkish, it sounds like Ankara people speaking Turkish... so, it's a little weird to watch (as I imagine it must be weird when I speak).
He knows the language and the culture, and Turkish women, and he's great company because we can joke about all three. Dennis can also share anecdotes about the embarrassing ways that the American military, when it doesn't consult him, puts its proverbial 'foot' in it, while trying to accomplish some task requiring Turkish and American cooperation.
Something Dennis notices often, is the way Americans try to reward a job well-done, by a Turkish counterpart. Military operations have a number of local support staff, and sometimes, personnel want to express their gratitude to the natives. People's hearts are in the right place, the execution, however, leaves much to be desired. He explains:
I look over and Janet is pressing a twenty YTL bill into the hands of this hotel waitress, as she stands alongside two co-workers. Then, Janet just walks away, leaving the other wait staff hanging. Those were all people we see everyday., and all three had been serving our group that evening. AWKWARD!I tend to agree.
What gets me, is that I'm the cultural/linguistic advisor. I write memos on this shit and circulate them through the office. I helped develop a whole protocol for appropriately acknowledging the good work of our Turkish support staff. I know the culture, and the language, and one might think that my area of expertise matters, but obviously, people can't be fucked to read that shit, and the result is that we look like we're out to award servility. This kind of thing is dangerous, it attracts greedy people, makes us look like snobs, and it smacks of the behavior of empire builders. Just, give 'em a fucking certificate or something, but stop tossing tax-payer money around!
Dennis is the only fluent Turkish speaker on staff with his office. He is also the only person there who has lived in Turkey for any amount of time. Next week he goes home, and there isn't anyone coming here to fill his shoes.
George Carlin introduced a list of oxymora to his stand-up act, and along with Jumbo Shrimp there was Military Intelligence.
I tend to agree with him, too.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
The People I Meet When I Travel: The Turkish Envoy to Iraq
I met the Turkish envoy to Iraq on a flight to Ankara from Istanbul, in May. We were sitting next to each other, and when I noticed him reading an English newspaper, I struck up a conversation. I don't know what I said to get it started, and I never remember, so whenever I find myself in a situation to start talking with someone, I usually don't know what to say. I lucked out, anyhow, cause once he got his turn to speak, it turned into a mini-lecture, and I was saved all the effort of actually having to talk, or think about how fast an object free-falls.
He was on his way back to the capital from Baghdad, where he said the security situation was "improving". He and his staff never felt at risk, but it had taken time to get used to gun shots and explosions... which were a daily occurrence.
I didn't learn anything that research wouldn't turn up, but he had this matter-of-fact manner for describing the role of Turkey, vis-à-vis US foreign policy towards Iraq. He used terms like "mediator" and "intermediary" and "alternative voice", and discussed very honestly how Turkey's policy cues and talking points come largely from Washington. Perhaps, if he'd known the term, "step-and-fetch" would have been among them.
"Your State Department," he said, "needs Turkish diplomats to assert much of their agenda, because Iraqi's are growing tired of the American presence. It is an occupation, after all, and it helps if we can step in to make it look and feel less like that."
Iraq needs a lot of help, and Turkey has been doing a great deal of that, under the direction of the United States. He indicated that this kind of diplomacy was, obviously, very helpful for furthering Turkey's relations with their southern neighbor.
I assume there are additional, unspoken advantages, for both Turkey and the United States. I don't know what they are. I speculate, however, that one reason the House of Representatives abandoned its efforts to recognize the 'Armenian Question', as it's called in Turkey, as a genocide, has to do with our present interests in the region.
If the gentleman's demeanor was any indication, the Turkish government can do some serious bargaining with the US on a number of fronts. He seemed to feel pretty good about that.
He was on his way back to the capital from Baghdad, where he said the security situation was "improving". He and his staff never felt at risk, but it had taken time to get used to gun shots and explosions... which were a daily occurrence.
I didn't learn anything that research wouldn't turn up, but he had this matter-of-fact manner for describing the role of Turkey, vis-à-vis US foreign policy towards Iraq. He used terms like "mediator" and "intermediary" and "alternative voice", and discussed very honestly how Turkey's policy cues and talking points come largely from Washington. Perhaps, if he'd known the term, "step-and-fetch" would have been among them.
"Your State Department," he said, "needs Turkish diplomats to assert much of their agenda, because Iraqi's are growing tired of the American presence. It is an occupation, after all, and it helps if we can step in to make it look and feel less like that."
Iraq needs a lot of help, and Turkey has been doing a great deal of that, under the direction of the United States. He indicated that this kind of diplomacy was, obviously, very helpful for furthering Turkey's relations with their southern neighbor.
I assume there are additional, unspoken advantages, for both Turkey and the United States. I don't know what they are. I speculate, however, that one reason the House of Representatives abandoned its efforts to recognize the 'Armenian Question', as it's called in Turkey, as a genocide, has to do with our present interests in the region.
If the gentleman's demeanor was any indication, the Turkish government can do some serious bargaining with the US on a number of fronts. He seemed to feel pretty good about that.
Monday, August 4, 2008
I obviously don't understand Turkish politics...
Last week, there was a historic vote by the Turkish High Court, to decide a pending case against the ruling AK Party. The decision was, basically, a 'yea' or 'nay' vote to close down the party for being a threat to Turkey's secular constitution, or some such business. I could list the charges, but I don't want to bother. Sometimes, the absurd realities here are so numerous as to bore me.
For our purposes, the important details are, there are 11 judges, one abstained, four voted 'nay', and six voted 'yea'.
So, the party was shut down...
But NO! Apparently, having the majority of votes doesn't matter, and the party was not actually closed.
The article was in Turkish, and surely, the word "unanimous" was buried somewhere there, in reference to the necessary number of votes to pass. Least wise, there was some kind of explanation and I missed it. I think I had half-finished the article, when I realized there wasn't a closure happening and started over from the beginning. This is the problem when one reads a newspaper in a foreign language: details find the massive gaps in one's fluency.
Imagine reading:
During the baseball game between the Cardinals and the Cubs, as W*@^@! caught a &%^$ !@#$ from %$!@, a @#$! @#$%& %$!@ crashed into &%^$ @#$! @#$%& &%^$ and injuring left &%^$, DeRosa. The game @#$%& %$!@, ending @^@! 4-3 %& &%^ sixth %%$#.
Which would translate as:
During the baseball game between the Cardinals and the Cubs, as Ward caught a fly ball from Pujols, a meteorite crashed into left field, leaving a massive crater and injuring left-fielder, Mark DeRosa. The game was called, ending with a score of 4-3 in the sixth inning.
Sadly, all I walk away with is the score...
For our purposes, the important details are, there are 11 judges, one abstained, four voted 'nay', and six voted 'yea'.
So, the party was shut down...
But NO! Apparently, having the majority of votes doesn't matter, and the party was not actually closed.
The article was in Turkish, and surely, the word "unanimous" was buried somewhere there, in reference to the necessary number of votes to pass. Least wise, there was some kind of explanation and I missed it. I think I had half-finished the article, when I realized there wasn't a closure happening and started over from the beginning. This is the problem when one reads a newspaper in a foreign language: details find the massive gaps in one's fluency.
Imagine reading:
During the baseball game between the Cardinals and the Cubs, as W*@^@! caught a &%^$ !@#$ from %$!@, a @#$! @#$%& %$!@ crashed into &%^$ @#$! @#$%& &%^$ and injuring left &%^$, DeRosa. The game @#$%& %$!@, ending @^@! 4-3 %& &%^ sixth %%$#.
Which would translate as:
During the baseball game between the Cardinals and the Cubs, as Ward caught a fly ball from Pujols, a meteorite crashed into left field, leaving a massive crater and injuring left-fielder, Mark DeRosa. The game was called, ending with a score of 4-3 in the sixth inning.
Sadly, all I walk away with is the score...
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Bezbol...
I haven't met anyone in Turkey, that is, any Turkish people in Turkey, who understand or have an appreciation for baseball. I, myself, was never a devout and loyal fan of the sport, so I'm not really one to talk, but it is exactly the talking that exposes how baseball is an integral part of American life.
I have a number of Turkish friends, and I often use English to communicate with them. As a result, one of my primary tasks has been explaining baseball references. Almost always, I'll use one without realizing, and the puzzled expression on a friends face will cue an elaborate definition. Kenneth G. Wilson explains the conundrum of an American English speaker thusly, in The Columbia Guide to Standard American English:
I really appreciate his last piece of advice, to use "only the language your audience will understand".
Of course, I appreciate it only to the extent that I think it's crap. As a person who derives pleasure from language, from the use of language separate from meaning, I'd really have to dumb things down while speaking to most people in Turkey... and I would probably be a much less happier person, as a result. Also, I see it as my important contribution, perhaps, my calling from God, to bolster an English-learners vocabulary with essential baseball references and other flowery slang. English is, after all, the international language.
I decided to make a list of all the slang terminology I use, that I know comes from baseball. It was longer than I thought it would be:
ball park
base, first/second/third/home
bush-league
double (see 'bases')
charley horse
cover your bases
home run
league, in/out
left field, in/out of
play ball
play hardball
pickle, in a
pinch hit
pitching vs. catching
rain check
single (see 'bases')
step up to the plate
strike out
switch hitter
same team
touch base
triple (see 'bases')
I'm not even certain if this is the full list. I decided that, rather than defining them all, it would be fun to leave a reader to determine if they themselves know the meanings (or, just look them up here).
I had a proud moment, some months ago, when one of my room mates explained his chance tryst with a woman who was 'out of his league', describing the experience with just two words:
'Home run'.
I have a number of Turkish friends, and I often use English to communicate with them. As a result, one of my primary tasks has been explaining baseball references. Almost always, I'll use one without realizing, and the puzzled expression on a friends face will cue an elaborate definition. Kenneth G. Wilson explains the conundrum of an American English speaker thusly, in The Columbia Guide to Standard American English:
The vocabulary of baseball, probably more than that of any other sport, is as popular in figurative use throughout the society as is the argot of the theater and other entertainments or the cant of the underworld. To strike out, to be a bush leaguer [or just to be bush], to balk, to bat three hundred [or, hyperbolically, a thousand], to give [or] get an assist, to pinch hit, to score, to shut out, to begin a whole new ball game, or to be off base, to be in left field, or to be a screwball, to have somebody throw you a curve, and many, many more words and phrases have come into the general vocabulary from baseball’s slang and argot, to a point where many people use them who may not really be very sure about the nuances of the game itself. Indeed, many people who have never even seen a major or minor league or college game, even on television, use baseball terms, probably some without even being aware of the origins of the expressions they employ. Some of these baseball terms have become Informal or Semiformal and Conversational in the general vocabulary (to throw someone a curve, to drop the ball), others remain slang (to whiff, to throw a slurve), and a few indeed may have reached full Standard status (to make a hit, to swing and miss). Use only the language your audience will understand.
I really appreciate his last piece of advice, to use "only the language your audience will understand".
Of course, I appreciate it only to the extent that I think it's crap. As a person who derives pleasure from language, from the use of language separate from meaning, I'd really have to dumb things down while speaking to most people in Turkey... and I would probably be a much less happier person, as a result. Also, I see it as my important contribution, perhaps, my calling from God, to bolster an English-learners vocabulary with essential baseball references and other flowery slang. English is, after all, the international language.
I decided to make a list of all the slang terminology I use, that I know comes from baseball. It was longer than I thought it would be:
ball park
base, first/second/third/home
bush-league
double (see 'bases')
charley horse
cover your bases
home run
league, in/out
left field, in/out of
play ball
play hardball
pickle, in a
pinch hit
pitching vs. catching
rain check
single (see 'bases')
step up to the plate
strike out
switch hitter
same team
touch base
triple (see 'bases')
I'm not even certain if this is the full list. I decided that, rather than defining them all, it would be fun to leave a reader to determine if they themselves know the meanings (or, just look them up here).
I had a proud moment, some months ago, when one of my room mates explained his chance tryst with a woman who was 'out of his league', describing the experience with just two words:
'Home run'.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Tying it all together...
I live in a hotel in Ankara (the Sheraton, to be precise), and I am here for the summer teaching the heir to the NurOl Holding fortune. Ankara is a boring city: I don't have any friends here, the night life sucks, and well, Sheraton people are not really Sean people.
It was once said to me, and having not headed the advice, I repeat it again here:
"I've been to Ankara, so you don't have to."
To pass the time, I've started watching action movies broadcast on an Arabic-language channel. The movies are nearly always in English, with Arabic subtitles, so this isn't a challenge or a way to get smarter... it's just action movies.
The Al-Arabia News Agency aired the most amazing commercial last night, between a movie with Jackie Chan (something to do with water that dehydrates a person to death) and a spy flick that turns into a bank-robbery.
Honestly, I paid more attention to the commercial:
Two Arab men, garbed in white thobes, walk into a very ritzy restaurant. The place looks like it's on top of the Sheraton Hotel. They sit and the waiter comes over. One of them orders a grilled chicken from the menu, which sets off a British narrator and a series of video and still images (each item on the list was given a few seconds on-screen)...
'Chicks are fed on a diet of soya, which is imported on ships like these, which emit 30,000 tons of CO2, causing glacial ice to melt, and driving these Islanders from their homes into refugee camps, where some of them get an education in terrorism. Some of those terrorists go on to show how well-rounded an education they received (there is a scene of a suicide bomber, blowing himself up in a busy, city street, which looks distinctly like New York), which causes these men to go to war (image of American troops), raising uncertainties about the global oil supply, so that these ships can't travel, leaving these chicks without soya.'
Cutting back to the restaurant, and the two men are staring at the waiter with open menus.
'I'm sorry sir, but there's no chicken today.'
It's a commercial about being informed, up-to-date on the news, etc. In a very Marxist way, though, it answers a question that long ago led me to really admire 'true organic' farmers.
The question:
"Why the hell can't I just grow chicken feed on a field next to the coop?"
It was once said to me, and having not headed the advice, I repeat it again here:
"I've been to Ankara, so you don't have to."
To pass the time, I've started watching action movies broadcast on an Arabic-language channel. The movies are nearly always in English, with Arabic subtitles, so this isn't a challenge or a way to get smarter... it's just action movies.
The Al-Arabia News Agency aired the most amazing commercial last night, between a movie with Jackie Chan (something to do with water that dehydrates a person to death) and a spy flick that turns into a bank-robbery.
Honestly, I paid more attention to the commercial:
Two Arab men, garbed in white thobes, walk into a very ritzy restaurant. The place looks like it's on top of the Sheraton Hotel. They sit and the waiter comes over. One of them orders a grilled chicken from the menu, which sets off a British narrator and a series of video and still images (each item on the list was given a few seconds on-screen)...
'Chicks are fed on a diet of soya, which is imported on ships like these, which emit 30,000 tons of CO2, causing glacial ice to melt, and driving these Islanders from their homes into refugee camps, where some of them get an education in terrorism. Some of those terrorists go on to show how well-rounded an education they received (there is a scene of a suicide bomber, blowing himself up in a busy, city street, which looks distinctly like New York), which causes these men to go to war (image of American troops), raising uncertainties about the global oil supply, so that these ships can't travel, leaving these chicks without soya.'
Cutting back to the restaurant, and the two men are staring at the waiter with open menus.
'I'm sorry sir, but there's no chicken today.'
It's a commercial about being informed, up-to-date on the news, etc. In a very Marxist way, though, it answers a question that long ago led me to really admire 'true organic' farmers.
The question:
"Why the hell can't I just grow chicken feed on a field next to the coop?"
Friday, July 25, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
From the Indiana Jones side of Turkish history...
Every day is a new twist in the case of the coup attempt by "Ergenekon", which was recently sort-of attempted but then broken up.
Some of the highlights from last week:
- The diary of a general involved in the plot could not be admitted as evidence, but did outline how the coup was planned. Note to self, when planning a coup, it is best not to keep a journal about it.
- The case against Ergenekon members is in excess of 2,500 pages. This caused a delay in presenting the case in court, because there were problems with the printer.
- Several previous acts of terrorism and prominent assassinations, including that of Hrant Dink, are being linked to Ergenekon. It's really hard to say if this is wild speculation, or if it is information based on elements of the case. I was living here when this happened, and the events surrounding the murder and the arrest of key suspects gave the appearance of both a conspiracy and subsequent cover up.
- In a bit of political theater (which who knows, may turn out to be true), a leading AKP member suggested that the attack on the American consulate in Istanbul was part of the Ergenekon plot to destabilize the country. You gotta understand that in Turkey, the government and military seldom get along, and are prone to bickering with one another. When the military wants to take power, they generally precede their coup with paramilitary violence. Then, the military declares the government unfit to rule, and takes control. I'll sketch out the history of this later, because it has been done THREE TIMES in forty years. I used to fake asthma attacks to get out of school, but honestly, I think I did it twice.
The slow pace with which information reaches the public must be due to the fact that the case is 2,500 pages long. Takes time to read all that.
Today's new bit is really special.
The newest allegation from the case suggests that the Ergenekon group is linked to a mythical Turkish secret society, over 600 years old. The central Asian "Argata", were living a wretched existence in caves, trapped in a land surrounded by mountains. Conveniently, a she-wolf led them to freedom through a secret passage. Happy day!
That ancient group later became the Ergenekon, charged with ushering the Turks rise to world domination. Basically, it's the James Bond version of an Aesop fable. The length of the case may be explained by the fact that it contains the entire text of the Lord of the Rings trilogy as well as The Once and Future King.
Imagine if Bush were arrested for war crimes, and the case exposed that neo-conservative Republicans were the legacy of the Knights Templar.
Then imagine if a lawyer actually claimed that in court...
Some of the highlights from last week:
- The diary of a general involved in the plot could not be admitted as evidence, but did outline how the coup was planned. Note to self, when planning a coup, it is best not to keep a journal about it.
- The case against Ergenekon members is in excess of 2,500 pages. This caused a delay in presenting the case in court, because there were problems with the printer.
- Several previous acts of terrorism and prominent assassinations, including that of Hrant Dink, are being linked to Ergenekon. It's really hard to say if this is wild speculation, or if it is information based on elements of the case. I was living here when this happened, and the events surrounding the murder and the arrest of key suspects gave the appearance of both a conspiracy and subsequent cover up.
- In a bit of political theater (which who knows, may turn out to be true), a leading AKP member suggested that the attack on the American consulate in Istanbul was part of the Ergenekon plot to destabilize the country. You gotta understand that in Turkey, the government and military seldom get along, and are prone to bickering with one another. When the military wants to take power, they generally precede their coup with paramilitary violence. Then, the military declares the government unfit to rule, and takes control. I'll sketch out the history of this later, because it has been done THREE TIMES in forty years. I used to fake asthma attacks to get out of school, but honestly, I think I did it twice.
The slow pace with which information reaches the public must be due to the fact that the case is 2,500 pages long. Takes time to read all that.
Today's new bit is really special.
The newest allegation from the case suggests that the Ergenekon group is linked to a mythical Turkish secret society, over 600 years old. The central Asian "Argata", were living a wretched existence in caves, trapped in a land surrounded by mountains. Conveniently, a she-wolf led them to freedom through a secret passage. Happy day!
That ancient group later became the Ergenekon, charged with ushering the Turks rise to world domination. Basically, it's the James Bond version of an Aesop fable. The length of the case may be explained by the fact that it contains the entire text of the Lord of the Rings trilogy as well as The Once and Future King.
Imagine if Bush were arrested for war crimes, and the case exposed that neo-conservative Republicans were the legacy of the Knights Templar.
Then imagine if a lawyer actually claimed that in court...
Monday, July 14, 2008
It was a busy week last week...
There's not a lot that I worry about in Istanbul. There are worries, that are often discussed over beer with good friends, but I don't walk around Istanbul scared that any of the below list will actually victimize me. Rather, I take an academic interest in these potential disasters, because they always seem inevitable. The inevitability of the event has nurtured a desire to witness it, a desire to share with Istanbullu (Istanbul natives) the experience and a part of the collective memory. I'm not saying I want to be where it happens, and certainly not suffer from it, but I do want to know more about the event and learn of it through talking with Istanbullu. This might be a journalistic impulse, or that of the oral historian, or plain dumb, but I'd be lying if I denied it.
So, I'm miffed that my exile in Ankara condemned me to miss three out of the five on the list.
Top Five Lurking, Completely Random, and Imminent Fears of Sean Cox in Istanbul:
5. Getting stabbed by a glue-sniffer.
On a scale of 1-17 (as a good friend used to say), 1 being the least likely and 17 the most likely, I project the odds that I may be attacked by a crazy person sniffing glue at about a 4 (though with the present state of unemployment and political disenfranchisement, this number is likely to rise). This is the only thing I ever really worry about in Istanbul, and usually I keep an eye out to avoid situations where I might bump into people high on inhaled household products.
4.5 Blindness from drinking bad Rakı
I only worry about this when I'm drinking suspicious tasting rakı, the anise-flavored alcohol that is oh-so-good with fish and cheese. A few years ago, a moon-shine rakı was "accidentally" bottled by YeniRakı, a major producer of the stuff. A number of people died and several were struck blind. Like I said, it's only a worry when the restaurant you're in runs out of the quality stuff, and instead brings you their "special brew" in a fish bowl from behind the bleach on the counter.
4. Terrorism
Terrorism is a funny concept, and one I generally struggle to wrap my mind around. Depending on who you are and your intentions when you kill innocent people, you are a terrorist. If you attack police, military, jandarm, armed contractors, paramilitaries, or spies, you are also a terrorist (the same is not true of them if they attack you or innocent people). I could lump terrorism in with number two, because the tactics are similar and the experiences at the business end of it are basically the same. It makes me sad, but Turks seem to accept that armed groups (government/military affiliated or ideologically driven) will employ terror against random and unsuspecting civilians, in order to make a point. In any event, I never fear that this will happen to me in Turkey. The glue-sniffers pose a more realistic threat.
3. Tanker Ship Collision in the Bosphorus
The fear is not so much the collision itself, as what might happen to the contents of the tanker involved. Petroleum or chemical products may explode. Other chemical products may seep out and cause illness or death. A major tear in the side of the tanker may enable the glue-sniffing terrorists inside to escape and go on a rampage through the city. You get the picture.
2. Military Coup
This is higher on the list for two reasons. First, I think it more likely to directly affect me than anything else previously listed. Second, if it did happen, it would be way more interesting (for "interesting", read adventure-provoking) than most things previously listed. At least, one thinks so. In reality, it may just mean I take several days off work and have to buy my groceries at a certain time of day. Everybody I know on the political left would probably be detained, so I wouldn't have anyone to drink with. I imagine it would be a period of prolonged boredom, similar to what one experiences when living in Ankara.
1. Earthquake
This is something I think about on a weekly basis. Istanbul sits along the North Anatolian fault line, and has been struck by devastating earthquakes 12 times since the 5th century. The 1,000 mile long, strike-slip fault, transfers pressure from west to east, moving the epicenters of earthquakes along the fault and steadily closer to Istanbul over the years. The last major disaster on the fault, in 1999, leveled the nearby town of İznik, killed nearly 20,000 people, and scared the dickens out of Istanbullu, many of whom spent the next several weeks camping out in the streets. With little (or no) preparation on the part of the Turkish government, this disaster, when it comes, will be one of Biblical proportions.
So, to my chagrin, last week there was a derailed coup attempt, a shooting at the US consulate, and a tanker collision with a public park. All I could do was read the newspapers, which proved better at being retarded (and misleading) than writing informative articles. I refer you to the Turkish Daily News' headline from Friday, Al-Qaeda Linked to Istiniye Attack. Al-Qaida was not merely not involved, but they ran a headline based on speculation... probably a police officer saying, "Al-Qaeda is a terrorist group, maybe they could have done this." I guess it sells papers.
Each of these events probably deserves it's own post... and I'll try to get around to that. With disaster befalling the city I love, I busied myself with a trip to Hattuşaş, the ancient Hittite capital. It made for a lovely weekend.
So, I'm miffed that my exile in Ankara condemned me to miss three out of the five on the list.
Top Five Lurking, Completely Random, and Imminent Fears of Sean Cox in Istanbul:
5. Getting stabbed by a glue-sniffer.
On a scale of 1-17 (as a good friend used to say), 1 being the least likely and 17 the most likely, I project the odds that I may be attacked by a crazy person sniffing glue at about a 4 (though with the present state of unemployment and political disenfranchisement, this number is likely to rise). This is the only thing I ever really worry about in Istanbul, and usually I keep an eye out to avoid situations where I might bump into people high on inhaled household products.
4.5 Blindness from drinking bad Rakı
I only worry about this when I'm drinking suspicious tasting rakı, the anise-flavored alcohol that is oh-so-good with fish and cheese. A few years ago, a moon-shine rakı was "accidentally" bottled by YeniRakı, a major producer of the stuff. A number of people died and several were struck blind. Like I said, it's only a worry when the restaurant you're in runs out of the quality stuff, and instead brings you their "special brew" in a fish bowl from behind the bleach on the counter.
4. Terrorism
Terrorism is a funny concept, and one I generally struggle to wrap my mind around. Depending on who you are and your intentions when you kill innocent people, you are a terrorist. If you attack police, military, jandarm, armed contractors, paramilitaries, or spies, you are also a terrorist (the same is not true of them if they attack you or innocent people). I could lump terrorism in with number two, because the tactics are similar and the experiences at the business end of it are basically the same. It makes me sad, but Turks seem to accept that armed groups (government/military affiliated or ideologically driven) will employ terror against random and unsuspecting civilians, in order to make a point. In any event, I never fear that this will happen to me in Turkey. The glue-sniffers pose a more realistic threat.
3. Tanker Ship Collision in the Bosphorus
The fear is not so much the collision itself, as what might happen to the contents of the tanker involved. Petroleum or chemical products may explode. Other chemical products may seep out and cause illness or death. A major tear in the side of the tanker may enable the glue-sniffing terrorists inside to escape and go on a rampage through the city. You get the picture.
2. Military Coup
This is higher on the list for two reasons. First, I think it more likely to directly affect me than anything else previously listed. Second, if it did happen, it would be way more interesting (for "interesting", read adventure-provoking) than most things previously listed. At least, one thinks so. In reality, it may just mean I take several days off work and have to buy my groceries at a certain time of day. Everybody I know on the political left would probably be detained, so I wouldn't have anyone to drink with. I imagine it would be a period of prolonged boredom, similar to what one experiences when living in Ankara.
1. Earthquake
This is something I think about on a weekly basis. Istanbul sits along the North Anatolian fault line, and has been struck by devastating earthquakes 12 times since the 5th century. The 1,000 mile long, strike-slip fault, transfers pressure from west to east, moving the epicenters of earthquakes along the fault and steadily closer to Istanbul over the years. The last major disaster on the fault, in 1999, leveled the nearby town of İznik, killed nearly 20,000 people, and scared the dickens out of Istanbullu, many of whom spent the next several weeks camping out in the streets. With little (or no) preparation on the part of the Turkish government, this disaster, when it comes, will be one of Biblical proportions.
So, to my chagrin, last week there was a derailed coup attempt, a shooting at the US consulate, and a tanker collision with a public park. All I could do was read the newspapers, which proved better at being retarded (and misleading) than writing informative articles. I refer you to the Turkish Daily News' headline from Friday, Al-Qaeda Linked to Istiniye Attack. Al-Qaida was not merely not involved, but they ran a headline based on speculation... probably a police officer saying, "Al-Qaeda is a terrorist group, maybe they could have done this." I guess it sells papers.
Each of these events probably deserves it's own post... and I'll try to get around to that. With disaster befalling the city I love, I busied myself with a trip to Hattuşaş, the ancient Hittite capital. It made for a lovely weekend.
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