... a stutter.
This is not a therapist of the sofa variety, but a physical therapist, so we don't actually have to talk very much. The word, in Turkish, is kekelemek, and it is pronounced just as his stutter sounds.
I feel really bad, because I already have to work hard to understand Turkish, a language of many syllables. So, while I am desperately working to follow his directions, I now have the additional task of preventing my face from twisting into a grimace, or a smirk... worse yet, I'm also holding in the desire to laugh at the situation.
I mean come on... this is way over the top, and my poor sense of irony can't handle it. It's not his stutter that is funny, rather me, in the situation, trying to follow what he is saying. This is the kind of scenario that language school simply cannot prepare a person for.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
When I say "gimmick"...
... you say "cheap".
50 Cent is in Turkey this week. Curtis Jackson, in the middle of a performance in the Aegean summer resort of Çeşme, draped himself in a Turkish flag and began holler'in at the crowd:
"When I say Atatürk, you will say respect."
He also went on to ask audience members where he could find some weed.
Hayatimda bu kadar aptal bir hedefi benim memleketimden buraya gelebilecektiğini inanamiyordum.
Or in English, "Why do only douche bags have passports?"
Atatürk is a debatable figure, particularly among the audience that would want to see 50 Cent in concert here. It's hip-hop for god's sake, anti-establishment, anti-authoritarian, and lots of shiny. Bling... bling... come on!
Is it poor planning on the part of his handlers? I seriously doubt Curtis Jackson would knowingly go to Spain and pay his respects to Franco, or give a shout-out to Mussolini in Italy.
It's crap like this that makes it distincly embarrassing for me to be an American living in Turkey. In general, Americans know two things about Turkey:
1. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk (by that I mean his name)
2. A problem with Kurdish people is happening somewhere near here
Many would be hard pressed to find it on a map, because we haven't ever formally declared war on the country, so there's been little media interest.
Just as when Hillary, and later Obama, came to visit, I'll hear about this event for months; from taxi drivers and pastry sellers, and all sorts of people, generally on the right wing of Turkish politics that I prefer not to speak with because most of them will probably echo the same damn opinion. Somehow, this will get sucked into the nationalist rhetoric that I so frequently run into, and I'll be the ass (or worse, really offend someone) for pointing out that Curtis Jackson, in point of fact, is just an ignorant hip-hop star and not really the sort of person a proper Kemalist wants waving the flag around.
Seriously, every time an American gets a hold of a microphone in this country, they take a shot at exposing how fundamentally retarded and ill-informed we can be. I need my insulated, self-righteous indignation and sense of cultural superiority in order to justify continuing to live here. It's just too easy to connect the dots: Curtis Jackson = Tard, and Curtis Jackson = American, thus American = Tard, and in conclusion Sean = Tard.
Thanks a lot Curtis, keep on rockin.
50 Cent is in Turkey this week. Curtis Jackson, in the middle of a performance in the Aegean summer resort of Çeşme, draped himself in a Turkish flag and began holler'in at the crowd:
"When I say Atatürk, you will say respect."
He also went on to ask audience members where he could find some weed.
Hayatimda bu kadar aptal bir hedefi benim memleketimden buraya gelebilecektiğini inanamiyordum.
Or in English, "Why do only douche bags have passports?"
Atatürk is a debatable figure, particularly among the audience that would want to see 50 Cent in concert here. It's hip-hop for god's sake, anti-establishment, anti-authoritarian, and lots of shiny. Bling... bling... come on!
Is it poor planning on the part of his handlers? I seriously doubt Curtis Jackson would knowingly go to Spain and pay his respects to Franco, or give a shout-out to Mussolini in Italy.
It's crap like this that makes it distincly embarrassing for me to be an American living in Turkey. In general, Americans know two things about Turkey:
1. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk (by that I mean his name)
2. A problem with Kurdish people is happening somewhere near here
Many would be hard pressed to find it on a map, because we haven't ever formally declared war on the country, so there's been little media interest.
Just as when Hillary, and later Obama, came to visit, I'll hear about this event for months; from taxi drivers and pastry sellers, and all sorts of people, generally on the right wing of Turkish politics that I prefer not to speak with because most of them will probably echo the same damn opinion. Somehow, this will get sucked into the nationalist rhetoric that I so frequently run into, and I'll be the ass (or worse, really offend someone) for pointing out that Curtis Jackson, in point of fact, is just an ignorant hip-hop star and not really the sort of person a proper Kemalist wants waving the flag around.
Seriously, every time an American gets a hold of a microphone in this country, they take a shot at exposing how fundamentally retarded and ill-informed we can be. I need my insulated, self-righteous indignation and sense of cultural superiority in order to justify continuing to live here. It's just too easy to connect the dots: Curtis Jackson = Tard, and Curtis Jackson = American, thus American = Tard, and in conclusion Sean = Tard.
Thanks a lot Curtis, keep on rockin.
Monday, June 22, 2009
I have a driver...
OK, not in the sense that I have retained a chauffeur to drive me around the city, but kinda. I have a 'friend' who drives a taxi and lets me pay him to drive me around, and he is pretty much on call.
I met Hamdi sometime in the middle of the semester, so around March. I was running stupid-late for school, and jumping into a cab was really the only way I could avoid a lecture, explaining to me that I was late (which would clearly be redundant as I was already aware of my tardiness). I've lived in Turkey long enough to know that avoiding such lectures is worth as much as fifty lira, because the process is essentially a long dialog where my mistake is explained to me, I accept my mistake, and then the mistake is re-explained in similar words, after which I take responsibility, and there is a final round of examining why my mistake is important enough to be noted.
Taxi ride from my home to school: 8.26 Lira
Hamdi is really outgoing, and overly friendly in a way that Turkish people can sometimes be, in cases where the extent of the relationship is a financial transaction. For instance, the simitçi from whom I purchased a morning pastry, twice, seven months ago, felt completely comfortable engaging me in a conversation about the state of my knee when he saw it in a brace.
Weird.
In any event, Hamdi continued to follow-up with me after our first trip together, greeting us on our way to school, or giving us hell for not riding with him. I maybe got a ride from him twice more. Three weeks ago when I tore my ACL, I knew I would need safer transport than the jostling around that the bus could provide. Calling Hamdi seemed logical, and for the past several weeks, he's been ferrying me to and from school.
Needless to say, we are now becoming 'close' in his mind.
I suppose this is what I really want to write about. Turkey constantly presents challenges to my personal space. I've lost count of how many times I, the only person on a wide sidewalk, have been bumped into by the only other person on the sidewalk, who would have cleared me by fifteen feet if they hadn't drifted my way. On a visit to San Fransisco, in the fall of 2007, I reveled in the freedom of movement and walked a deserted (by my Istanbul standards) rush-hour block, with both my hands completely outstretched to their full wing-span.
I didn't touch a soul.
For our purposes now, I am not speaking of personal space in the how-close-you-stand-when-speaking-to-me sense. There are additional challenges to my sense of friendship and loyalty. Hamdi is a nice example of one such challenge. We talk in the cab, and he is entertaining. I do not dislike him. He consistently picks me up, gets me where I need to be, and we have not been in anything resembling an accident (which I consider a perk). I offer what I feel is customer loyalty, calling him back because I trust and am pleased with his service.
I just don't know what to do, though, when the man begins asking me to get breakfast with him in the morning, or go to a cafe on the other side of Istanbul for an afternoon. The seeming homo-eroticism of a man-date with Hamdi does not bother me. I have lived here long enough to know there is nothing sexual about it.
Rather, I simply don't feel a man-date with my driver is appropriate.
I met Hamdi sometime in the middle of the semester, so around March. I was running stupid-late for school, and jumping into a cab was really the only way I could avoid a lecture, explaining to me that I was late (which would clearly be redundant as I was already aware of my tardiness). I've lived in Turkey long enough to know that avoiding such lectures is worth as much as fifty lira, because the process is essentially a long dialog where my mistake is explained to me, I accept my mistake, and then the mistake is re-explained in similar words, after which I take responsibility, and there is a final round of examining why my mistake is important enough to be noted.
Taxi ride from my home to school: 8.26 Lira
Hamdi is really outgoing, and overly friendly in a way that Turkish people can sometimes be, in cases where the extent of the relationship is a financial transaction. For instance, the simitçi from whom I purchased a morning pastry, twice, seven months ago, felt completely comfortable engaging me in a conversation about the state of my knee when he saw it in a brace.
Weird.
In any event, Hamdi continued to follow-up with me after our first trip together, greeting us on our way to school, or giving us hell for not riding with him. I maybe got a ride from him twice more. Three weeks ago when I tore my ACL, I knew I would need safer transport than the jostling around that the bus could provide. Calling Hamdi seemed logical, and for the past several weeks, he's been ferrying me to and from school.
Needless to say, we are now becoming 'close' in his mind.
I suppose this is what I really want to write about. Turkey constantly presents challenges to my personal space. I've lost count of how many times I, the only person on a wide sidewalk, have been bumped into by the only other person on the sidewalk, who would have cleared me by fifteen feet if they hadn't drifted my way. On a visit to San Fransisco, in the fall of 2007, I reveled in the freedom of movement and walked a deserted (by my Istanbul standards) rush-hour block, with both my hands completely outstretched to their full wing-span.
I didn't touch a soul.
For our purposes now, I am not speaking of personal space in the how-close-you-stand-when-speaking-to-me sense. There are additional challenges to my sense of friendship and loyalty. Hamdi is a nice example of one such challenge. We talk in the cab, and he is entertaining. I do not dislike him. He consistently picks me up, gets me where I need to be, and we have not been in anything resembling an accident (which I consider a perk). I offer what I feel is customer loyalty, calling him back because I trust and am pleased with his service.
I just don't know what to do, though, when the man begins asking me to get breakfast with him in the morning, or go to a cafe on the other side of Istanbul for an afternoon. The seeming homo-eroticism of a man-date with Hamdi does not bother me. I have lived here long enough to know there is nothing sexual about it.
Rather, I simply don't feel a man-date with my driver is appropriate.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
More on Iran...
Just cause this stuff is important...
The writer of the blog and these twitter posts is an Iranian that Gregg met through a friend. He is in Iran presently.
South is South
Homeboy on Twitter
There's a lot of information, misinformation, and rumor going around, and this is probably the last I will post on the matter (as I am neither there, nor informed enough to be a source of quality info). His description of the protests seems similar to what we do in Istanbul on May 1, except that paramilitaries and cops are shooting people. I watched an incredibly disturbing video on Facebook, of a woman bleeding from several bullet wounds: one to the breast, one to the eye.
She is most assuredly dead now.
The tactics and approach of the Iranian leadership are nothing short of fascist. I don't know if the term "Islamo-fascism" is being thrown around stateside, but I wanted to offer that the term is misleading. What we are witnessing in Iran is typical of how states behave, when their power is seriously challenged. Islamic, Catholic, Communist, Democratic... everything happening in Iran right now has happened before elsewhere.
From what little I know of Musavi's politics, I know that I don't like them. This is surely the situation for many protesters on the street, who are agitating for wholesale reform of the Iranian mechanisms of government and economics. Revolutions make for strange bedfellows, just as they did in Iran's previous revolution. I hope that the Iranian left has enough sense to get armed and prepare for a backlash from the political right, should the present stage of dissent succeed.
Otherwise, we will probably witness a repeat of the 1980s, with a new pro-western face for the fascism.
The writer of the blog and these twitter posts is an Iranian that Gregg met through a friend. He is in Iran presently.
South is South
Homeboy on Twitter
There's a lot of information, misinformation, and rumor going around, and this is probably the last I will post on the matter (as I am neither there, nor informed enough to be a source of quality info). His description of the protests seems similar to what we do in Istanbul on May 1, except that paramilitaries and cops are shooting people. I watched an incredibly disturbing video on Facebook, of a woman bleeding from several bullet wounds: one to the breast, one to the eye.
She is most assuredly dead now.
The tactics and approach of the Iranian leadership are nothing short of fascist. I don't know if the term "Islamo-fascism" is being thrown around stateside, but I wanted to offer that the term is misleading. What we are witnessing in Iran is typical of how states behave, when their power is seriously challenged. Islamic, Catholic, Communist, Democratic... everything happening in Iran right now has happened before elsewhere.
From what little I know of Musavi's politics, I know that I don't like them. This is surely the situation for many protesters on the street, who are agitating for wholesale reform of the Iranian mechanisms of government and economics. Revolutions make for strange bedfellows, just as they did in Iran's previous revolution. I hope that the Iranian left has enough sense to get armed and prepare for a backlash from the political right, should the present stage of dissent succeed.
Otherwise, we will probably witness a repeat of the 1980s, with a new pro-western face for the fascism.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Historically speaking...
A few days ago I was thinking about Columbia (it came up in a class I was teaching), and the thought led me back to Turkey. The thought was something like:
'Imagine a _____ [fill in a country] where there had been no US intervention in the 20th century. What paths would the many imaginative and beautiful people there have chosen for themselves? What lives would they be living now? What national obsessions and grass-roots initiatives would they be acting out?'
I don't think people fully realize, that an event like the Iranian revolution, in 1979, doesn't represent merely a serious change in 1980. Rather, it represents frantically dramatic and unpredictable changes for their culture in 2009. We are witnessing that play out now.
Turkey, which saw huge gains for labor and human rights in the 60s and 70s, is instead (almost thirty years after the last coup), now a country of high unemployment and authoritarian management-worker relations, a stifled press, etc. My school, for example, keeps taking parts of my paycheck, and that just doesn't happen in countries with strong unions.
The consequences of these and other historic catastrophes make me uncomfortable. I feel both a sense of powerlessness and accompanying discomfort due to the awareness that, back home in the US in the same thirty-year period, we nurtured a culture of largely playful people, who are highly digital-savvy, and for the most part, pretty cool.
There's a bit of white guilt buried there, I suppose, but more than that, I am merely aghast at how horrifyingly wrong our foreign policy has been... pretty much as long as we've had foreign policy. From where I sit, I feel that the US and Western Europe are, or rather were, securely insulated by their prosperity. A lot of beautiful things resulted from that, along with a lot of waste.
With all this in mind, I found the graphic below, which made my jaw drop...
This image represents the catastrophic failure of free-market capitalism (if not, simply, all capitalism) over the last twelve months. Looking forward, I feel this bodes ill for the United States' future prospects, particularly if we intend to continue with a modified capitalist economy. We were a country that could spend on demonstrably influential projects (even if I don't agree with all/any of them). From here on out, I don't know that we will have money to spend at all.
Here is a link to the article.
I am trying to imagine how distinctly different American culture is now, from say the oil crises of the 1970s (I'm just choosing a random crisis from roughly thirty years ago). The America my kids (God-forbid) grow up in will be distinctly less-influential than that into which I was born. Who knows whether that will be a good thing, but I doubt it.
For real though, the AIG bailout costs the same as the Marshal Plan did!?!
Jumpin' gee wilikers!
'Imagine a _____ [fill in a country] where there had been no US intervention in the 20th century. What paths would the many imaginative and beautiful people there have chosen for themselves? What lives would they be living now? What national obsessions and grass-roots initiatives would they be acting out?'
I don't think people fully realize, that an event like the Iranian revolution, in 1979, doesn't represent merely a serious change in 1980. Rather, it represents frantically dramatic and unpredictable changes for their culture in 2009. We are witnessing that play out now.
Turkey, which saw huge gains for labor and human rights in the 60s and 70s, is instead (almost thirty years after the last coup), now a country of high unemployment and authoritarian management-worker relations, a stifled press, etc. My school, for example, keeps taking parts of my paycheck, and that just doesn't happen in countries with strong unions.
The consequences of these and other historic catastrophes make me uncomfortable. I feel both a sense of powerlessness and accompanying discomfort due to the awareness that, back home in the US in the same thirty-year period, we nurtured a culture of largely playful people, who are highly digital-savvy, and for the most part, pretty cool.
There's a bit of white guilt buried there, I suppose, but more than that, I am merely aghast at how horrifyingly wrong our foreign policy has been... pretty much as long as we've had foreign policy. From where I sit, I feel that the US and Western Europe are, or rather were, securely insulated by their prosperity. A lot of beautiful things resulted from that, along with a lot of waste.
With all this in mind, I found the graphic below, which made my jaw drop...
This image represents the catastrophic failure of free-market capitalism (if not, simply, all capitalism) over the last twelve months. Looking forward, I feel this bodes ill for the United States' future prospects, particularly if we intend to continue with a modified capitalist economy. We were a country that could spend on demonstrably influential projects (even if I don't agree with all/any of them). From here on out, I don't know that we will have money to spend at all.
Here is a link to the article.
I am trying to imagine how distinctly different American culture is now, from say the oil crises of the 1970s (I'm just choosing a random crisis from roughly thirty years ago). The America my kids (God-forbid) grow up in will be distinctly less-influential than that into which I was born. Who knows whether that will be a good thing, but I doubt it.
For real though, the AIG bailout costs the same as the Marshal Plan did!?!
Jumpin' gee wilikers!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Iranian Revolution: Part II?
Thursday, June 4, 2009
These things happen...
... I suppose.
I'll start with a story my friend Phil told me, one night over cards in Damascus.
One afternoon, whilst wandering the ancient paradise-turned-real estate venture we were using as a place for Arabic study and spy games, Phil had an epiphany: "The instance of random death or injury are much higher in the Middle East, than other places I have been."
This revelation was inspired by an air conditioning unit. Air conditioning units being not uncommon in desert climates, this unit was unique in that it had, seemingly out of boredom or discomfort, detached itself from the side of a tall apartment building. Without so much as a murmur to warm pedestrians, the air conditioner fell in a path predetermined by the Earth's gravitational pull, and crashed into the sidewalk fifty meters or less in front of Phil.
Friends may have noticed my habit of looking up whilst walking the city. This is an attempt to mitigate the threat of random death. If nothing else, this routine has saved me from having dirty laundry water dumped on me, and enabled me to avoid a few carelessly discarded cigarette butts.
Alas, in a world where the only benevolent force I observe is that of Murphy's Law (not so much a force as a universal constant), randomness caught up with me over the weekend.
Beşiktaş was in its final, and most important match of the past several years, Saturday night. Effectively tied with Sivas Spor, Beşiktaş needed a win in order to secure the championship. This has been a great season for my team (we won the Turkish Cup not two weeks ago), but I had never before had the pleasure of witnessing a winning season, much less a championship, for Beşiktaş.
I was excited.
Excitement took me to a crowded alley, that for the night of the match, was serving as a restaurant and viewing area. The match was taking place in Denizli, so television was our best option for watching it. Rakı, bira, peynir, yemek...
(Drunk + food)^match = good time
Here's a taste:
By the second half, we were ahead by a goal, and the news had come down that Sivas Spor was losing. You could smell the coming alcohol-fueled celebrations only 45 minutes away. We watched and drank and enjoyed the moment.
This is me, getting into the drama:
Sometime later, I noticed a few tourists walking past, gawking at the fervor. I thought to myself, "let's invite them to join us!"
So, I took my beer, left the throng of tables and people and food, and walked behind the TV to say "hello" to these Austrians, as they turned out to be.
The first rule about Beşiktaş matches: Never turn your back on the game. That's when you miss goals.
The second rule has something to do with fire...
Anyhow, I was separated from the solidarity of the pack... easy prey, as it were, for other drunk fans. When Beşiktaş scored its second goal, I didn't see it. I saw the reaction of my fellow diners, and I put my hands in the air. I began screaming some Turkish cheer (probably "Şampiyonluk bizim, kupa bizim!", the championship is ours, the cup is ours).
Then, someone picked me up...
I'm not sure why, but now airborn, I understood that this was all part of the celebration. I was fully held off the ground, by someone slightly shorter than me, but strong. Whoever he was, he was himself jumping around.
Then, he lost his balance.
As we tumbled I planted my right leg to stop the fall, and immediately felt the pop, which my doctor later identified as a torn ACL. Despite my effort, I didn't stop falling, and managed to end our trip ground-ward by planting my face firmly into the corner of the table which held the TV.
In the aftermath, as I collected my pieces, I noticed that the man was gone. I don't know who it was, and never saw him. My glasses were on the ground, and before I could collect the pieces, I had to wipe the blood off my face.
Then, for the first time that evening, I set down my beer.
Go Beşiktaş!
I'll start with a story my friend Phil told me, one night over cards in Damascus.
One afternoon, whilst wandering the ancient paradise-turned-real estate venture we were using as a place for Arabic study and spy games, Phil had an epiphany: "The instance of random death or injury are much higher in the Middle East, than other places I have been."
This revelation was inspired by an air conditioning unit. Air conditioning units being not uncommon in desert climates, this unit was unique in that it had, seemingly out of boredom or discomfort, detached itself from the side of a tall apartment building. Without so much as a murmur to warm pedestrians, the air conditioner fell in a path predetermined by the Earth's gravitational pull, and crashed into the sidewalk fifty meters or less in front of Phil.
Friends may have noticed my habit of looking up whilst walking the city. This is an attempt to mitigate the threat of random death. If nothing else, this routine has saved me from having dirty laundry water dumped on me, and enabled me to avoid a few carelessly discarded cigarette butts.
Alas, in a world where the only benevolent force I observe is that of Murphy's Law (not so much a force as a universal constant), randomness caught up with me over the weekend.
Beşiktaş was in its final, and most important match of the past several years, Saturday night. Effectively tied with Sivas Spor, Beşiktaş needed a win in order to secure the championship. This has been a great season for my team (we won the Turkish Cup not two weeks ago), but I had never before had the pleasure of witnessing a winning season, much less a championship, for Beşiktaş.
I was excited.
Excitement took me to a crowded alley, that for the night of the match, was serving as a restaurant and viewing area. The match was taking place in Denizli, so television was our best option for watching it. Rakı, bira, peynir, yemek...
(Drunk + food)^match = good time
Here's a taste:
By the second half, we were ahead by a goal, and the news had come down that Sivas Spor was losing. You could smell the coming alcohol-fueled celebrations only 45 minutes away. We watched and drank and enjoyed the moment.
This is me, getting into the drama:
Sometime later, I noticed a few tourists walking past, gawking at the fervor. I thought to myself, "let's invite them to join us!"
So, I took my beer, left the throng of tables and people and food, and walked behind the TV to say "hello" to these Austrians, as they turned out to be.
The first rule about Beşiktaş matches: Never turn your back on the game. That's when you miss goals.
The second rule has something to do with fire...
Anyhow, I was separated from the solidarity of the pack... easy prey, as it were, for other drunk fans. When Beşiktaş scored its second goal, I didn't see it. I saw the reaction of my fellow diners, and I put my hands in the air. I began screaming some Turkish cheer (probably "Şampiyonluk bizim, kupa bizim!", the championship is ours, the cup is ours).
Then, someone picked me up...
I'm not sure why, but now airborn, I understood that this was all part of the celebration. I was fully held off the ground, by someone slightly shorter than me, but strong. Whoever he was, he was himself jumping around.
Then, he lost his balance.
As we tumbled I planted my right leg to stop the fall, and immediately felt the pop, which my doctor later identified as a torn ACL. Despite my effort, I didn't stop falling, and managed to end our trip ground-ward by planting my face firmly into the corner of the table which held the TV.
In the aftermath, as I collected my pieces, I noticed that the man was gone. I don't know who it was, and never saw him. My glasses were on the ground, and before I could collect the pieces, I had to wipe the blood off my face.
Then, for the first time that evening, I set down my beer.
Go Beşiktaş!
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