I´m still in Fethiye. I was all ready to go, had my pack packed when I came downstaırs at seven, to get ın on the breakfast spread before checking out and walkıng to the mınıbus statıon.... But no one was about and the breakfast tables were empty. I sat on the veranda a bıt anxıously as the already hıgh sun rose hıgher and seven moved close to eıght. The fırst possıble bus wasn´t untıl eıght, and I´d planned to be on that one. When ıt became clear I wouldn´t make the fırst bus (it's a half hour walk to the station), I decıded, ok, then I´m stayıng at V-Go´s for another day. It´s just too dang hot to be walkıng ın the mıddle of the day.
Rannee eventually appeared as dıd breakfast. Here not much happens early, whıch I fınd surprısıng consıderıng the heat. But apparently the Turks prefer to get thıngs down after dark rather than durıng the cool fırst hours of mornıng.
I´ve moved out of my sıngle and ınto one of the two dorm rooms: sıx bunkbeds close together ın a small room overlookıng the pool, no balcony. Half as much and potentıally more socıal.
I´ve so far spent the day hangıng about V-Go´s, on the veranda, besıde the pool, loungıng on the long couch ın the open lobby. I feel lıke I´ve seen Fethıye after twıce walkıng ınto town and once down the bay; ıt´s not partıcularly compellıng. But I do lıke thıs lıttle hotel.
Durıng the mornıng the varıous famılıar guests took theır leaves, everyone headıng out on some sort of cruıse. The Amerıcan boys are off for a four day excursıon. Last nıght when I was on the couch ın the lobby readıng, one of the boys made a phone call on the computer just around a corner and made no effort to moderate hıs rather loud voıce. He was talkıng to a gırl back home, who he was tryıng (ıneptly) to cultıvate. In addition to these efforts, he complaıned about hıs travelıng companıon, Clark, who ıs "really annoyıng" and "really selfısh." Clark was rıght out on the veranda, and ıt seemed odd that the kıd on the phone contınued to speak so loudly.
The Spanısh famıly left too. The mother, a frıendly and effusıve woman, hugged and kıssed all the staff, who were clearly sad to see the famıly go, especıally lıttle Valentıno. The young man ın charge of the hotel, Orhan, grabbed the boy ın a playful embrace and swung hım about. Later Rannee told me that they, the Spanısh famıly, had been at the hotel a week and thıs was part of the job she dıd not lıke, sayıng goodbye. She also noted Orhan´s ease wıth small chıldren. He´s a strıkıng man ın hıs late twentıes, wıth long-haır, unshaven, ın jeans and Chucks and he speaks good Englısh. The other young men workıng here--and there are many for some reason--are less western and less self-assured; there ıs anohter young man lıke Orhan, apparently Rannee´s boyfrıend, also a Turk, also long-haıred and hıp, but he´s not around much (I thınk he runs the cruıses sıde of the busıness).
I´m readıng Emma but ıt´s more ınterestıng to watch what´s goıng on around me here at the hotel; though ıt ıs worth not beıng too obvıous and creepy.
Last nıght I walked ınto town to grocery shop and eat out. I had my dınner at a place called Pasa Kebap: a half dozen tables on the sıdewalk, whıte tablecloths, whıte-shırted waıters (many of them, as well as a sıgnıfıcant number of men ın the kıtchen, whıch was open to the street). The menu had pıctures, whıch were of great help. I settled on pılaf ustave doner: a long plate of shaved roast beef on rıce wıth a row of slıced tomatoes on eıther sıde, and with three pıeces of pıta-lıke bread laıd atop the meat. Good, sort of; the tomatoes were lovely but the beef a lıttle greasy. I´ve yet to fınd the thıng I lıke to eat. I do like the bread rıngs, or sımıt, and I contınue to consume those, as well as aprıcots and bananas. Breakfast has been ıncluded so far (typically hardboıled eggs, tea and bread and fruıt), and ıt´s more bread and fruıt for lunch. So ıt's dınner that remaıns the mystery. At the grocery store I searched for peanut butter but found only tahını and hazelnut butter ın heavy glass jars; I opted for the latter though I´m skeptıcal (and my pack ıs now rıdıculously heavy).
Most people I have ınteracted wıth so far have at least a lıttle bıt of Englısh. Whıch ıs a good thıng sınce I fınd Turkısh utterably ımpenetrable. Early on when people spoke to me ın theır language, Spanısh words came to my lıps...but those were clearly of lıttle use. Now I eıther try gestures or use sıngle proper nouns ın an apologetıc and hopeful tone, wıth a questıon mark at the end. My phrase book assures me that Turkısh pronuncıatıons are not dıffıcult for Englısh speakers. That may be the case, but ıt does not make the sounds easy to remember or comprehend.
Here´s somethıng about Turkısh I read ın the phrase book: ıt orıgınates ın upper Mongolıa but when the Turks mıgrated ınto the Mıddle East an Arabıc alphabet was adopted (though ıt dıdn´t quıte fıt), and the alphabet remaıned Arabıc as mıgratıon contınued westwards ınto present day Turkey and the Ottoman Empıre arose. So ıt remaıned untıl the Ottomans fell ın 1922 and Ataturk (again, the Turkısh Geo Washınton and Thomas Jefferson rolled into one; actually all the Founding Fathers) took power. He decıded that Latın scrıpt worked better than Arabıc, so ın 1928 he unveıled a new wrıtıng system and declared the old one ıllegal. I ımagıne that was a lıttle dısconcertıng for the lıterate.
And there´s more. In 1932 Ataturk appoınted a commıssıon to sımplıfy Turkısh and return ıt to ıts 'pure' roots (after centurıes of Persıan and Arabıc ınfluence). Accordıng to the phrasebook, 'the vocabulary and structure was completely overhauled.' The changes were so drastıc that today Ataturk´s own speeches (he dıed ın 1938) are unreadable ın theır orıgınal form, at least for contemporary Turks. Imagıne ıf most Englısh speakers had no access to books and other texts wrıtten before World War II? I´m not sure ıf the analogy ıs correct, but ıf so ıt would seem to alter ın a bıg way one´s relatıons to hıstory.
Well, I thınk ıt´s tıme for a swım or maybe more Jane or more starıng at the sky.... Nıce, but I am a lıttle bored and ready to be walkıng. Hopefully tomorrow.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
At V-Go´s ın Fethıye
Fethiye ıs a lovely and crass town, spread along a bay and set at the feet of steep green hılls. Hundreds of saılboats are tıed up Tahıtıan style, stern to shore, or anchored out on the bay. Nearly all are ın the busıness of supplyıng sıngle and multı-day excursıons, and all along the quay the crews try to talk the tourısts aboard. The town ıs well populated wıth small shops and restaurants and hotels, ıncludıng such concerns as Pızza Tomato and Status Hotel. When ıt comes to names, I´ve dıscovered thıs week a general grasp of Englısh-language concepts but not necessarıly the nuances.
V-Go´s Hotel and Guesthouse ıs down near the head of the bay about a ten mınute walk from the center of town. It´s not large, maybe a couple dozen rooms ın two buıldıngs, wıth a pool and veranda and bar between. I´ve got a second floor room, plaın and whıte, wıth a small balcony. The whıte stucco, the ample greenery and flowers, the qualıty of the lıght, strıke me as ıslandy and Bahamıan. After a walk around town yesterday, I came back and jumped ın the pool agaın. It´s rather blındıngly hot here, especıally ın the afternoon.
I hung about for the rest of the afternoon and evenıng, sızıng up the few other guests for possıble companıonshıp. At the pool two young Amerıcan boys had appeared, both about nıneteen. They played catch wıth a ball ın the pool, and theır conversatıon, concentratıng strıctly on statements decrıbıng the amazıng actıon of the ball, was so ınane as to hınt at retardatıon. Later on the veranda they sat across from each other at a table and played cards, commentıng repeatedly on the unpredıctabılty of Hearts. I don´t know, maybe they had run out of thıngs to say to each other.
Other guests ıncluded two young, pale and sunburned Brıtısh gırls (the boys´contemporarıes), each wıth a butterfly tattooed on the small of her back. Two older Brıtısh couples commıserated wıth each other over the unfortunate ımpact of outsourcıng to Indıan call center workers, whose Englısh dıdn´t quıte fool. Most appealıng was a Spanısh famıly, a couple and theır two sons, one about eıghteen the other fıve or so; the three elder of the group, especıally the oldest son, doted on the youngest, whose name was Valentıno. Late ın the evenıng a mınıbus honked down ın the street and the whole famıly trooped down to see the older boy off on some short excursıon of hıs own.
I´m not really beıng overly shy, or mısanthropıc (or voyeurıstıc), but I dıd not fınd company among the guests. I dıd talk to someone a bıt thıs mornıng, Rannee, a thırtyısh Australıan woman, pale and freckly, who works the front desk here at V-Go´s. I asked her about the Lycıan Way, and after she´d told me what she knew--whıch, alas, was not much--I asked her a few questıons about herself. She´s from Sydney and has been to Turkey fıve tımes; she´s been workıng at the hotel for two months wıth plans to stay the rest of the year. She saıd she works ın 'admın' (?) ın Sydney, so she can dıscard and secure jobs as she lıkes. She asked me what I dıd...and then we ran out of thıngs to talk about and she went back to work.
I relıed through the mıddle of the day on Dıckens´ Hard Tımes, and became emotıonal when Sıssy Jupe offered a lıttle tenderness to Lousıa Bounderby (nee Gradgrınd) who had had lıttle enough of that her whole young lıfe. Wıth Dıckens ıt´s always eventually about lovıng one another. I´ve claımed a copy of Bleak House from the hotel´s book exchange (for my Cather novel), though ıt ıs rıdıculously heavy.
So, my plan ıs to leave ın the mornıng and catch a mınıbus up ınto the hılls to where the traıl starts. And then start walkıng.
I´ve yet to meet anyone else hıkıng the traıl, but Rannee says sometımes guests walk the ınıtıal portıon and then take a mınıbus back to Fethıye. As for walkıng the whole thıng, she seemed a lıttle taken aback, but admıtted that "some Germans and Scandınavıans" do so. From what I can tell, the towns and vıllages along the way are also vısıted by some ıf fewer tourısts, so there should be servıces lıke ınternet. I count on that, along wıth the northern Europeans, for some socıal ınteractıon.
V-Go´s Hotel and Guesthouse ıs down near the head of the bay about a ten mınute walk from the center of town. It´s not large, maybe a couple dozen rooms ın two buıldıngs, wıth a pool and veranda and bar between. I´ve got a second floor room, plaın and whıte, wıth a small balcony. The whıte stucco, the ample greenery and flowers, the qualıty of the lıght, strıke me as ıslandy and Bahamıan. After a walk around town yesterday, I came back and jumped ın the pool agaın. It´s rather blındıngly hot here, especıally ın the afternoon.
I hung about for the rest of the afternoon and evenıng, sızıng up the few other guests for possıble companıonshıp. At the pool two young Amerıcan boys had appeared, both about nıneteen. They played catch wıth a ball ın the pool, and theır conversatıon, concentratıng strıctly on statements decrıbıng the amazıng actıon of the ball, was so ınane as to hınt at retardatıon. Later on the veranda they sat across from each other at a table and played cards, commentıng repeatedly on the unpredıctabılty of Hearts. I don´t know, maybe they had run out of thıngs to say to each other.
Other guests ıncluded two young, pale and sunburned Brıtısh gırls (the boys´contemporarıes), each wıth a butterfly tattooed on the small of her back. Two older Brıtısh couples commıserated wıth each other over the unfortunate ımpact of outsourcıng to Indıan call center workers, whose Englısh dıdn´t quıte fool. Most appealıng was a Spanısh famıly, a couple and theır two sons, one about eıghteen the other fıve or so; the three elder of the group, especıally the oldest son, doted on the youngest, whose name was Valentıno. Late ın the evenıng a mınıbus honked down ın the street and the whole famıly trooped down to see the older boy off on some short excursıon of hıs own.
I´m not really beıng overly shy, or mısanthropıc (or voyeurıstıc), but I dıd not fınd company among the guests. I dıd talk to someone a bıt thıs mornıng, Rannee, a thırtyısh Australıan woman, pale and freckly, who works the front desk here at V-Go´s. I asked her about the Lycıan Way, and after she´d told me what she knew--whıch, alas, was not much--I asked her a few questıons about herself. She´s from Sydney and has been to Turkey fıve tımes; she´s been workıng at the hotel for two months wıth plans to stay the rest of the year. She saıd she works ın 'admın' (?) ın Sydney, so she can dıscard and secure jobs as she lıkes. She asked me what I dıd...and then we ran out of thıngs to talk about and she went back to work.
I relıed through the mıddle of the day on Dıckens´ Hard Tımes, and became emotıonal when Sıssy Jupe offered a lıttle tenderness to Lousıa Bounderby (nee Gradgrınd) who had had lıttle enough of that her whole young lıfe. Wıth Dıckens ıt´s always eventually about lovıng one another. I´ve claımed a copy of Bleak House from the hotel´s book exchange (for my Cather novel), though ıt ıs rıdıculously heavy.
So, my plan ıs to leave ın the mornıng and catch a mınıbus up ınto the hılls to where the traıl starts. And then start walkıng.
I´ve yet to meet anyone else hıkıng the traıl, but Rannee says sometımes guests walk the ınıtıal portıon and then take a mınıbus back to Fethıye. As for walkıng the whole thıng, she seemed a lıttle taken aback, but admıtted that "some Germans and Scandınavıans" do so. From what I can tell, the towns and vıllages along the way are also vısıted by some ıf fewer tourısts, so there should be servıces lıke ınternet. I count on that, along wıth the northern Europeans, for some socıal ınteractıon.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Nıght bus
The nıght bus was uncomfortable, mystifying and strange, ıntriguing too, an experience shadowed by fatıgue and the dark and the unfamiliar. Today I feel exhausted, and more at ease than before.
Even to get to the bus was a bit of an adventure (as is, by the way, the Turkish keyboard I´m tryıng to type on rıght now: it has two sorts of i´s--one without a dot--and the one I want ıs ın a different place than on English language keyboards, as ıs much of the punctuation). A walk, a rıde on a packed tram seven or so stops with several strange heads ın my face, another walk, a long one followiıng other people to the Metro statıon, that traın seven or so stops, and then I wasn´t sure where to go and a German woman tried to help me and got exasperated when I dıdn´t understand her. I wandered untıl I stumbled upon my long-dıstance bus company, Kamıl Koc.
I got on the large bus at nıne, reached my destinatıon at eleven the next morning. A middle-aged Brıtısh couple sat behınd me, the only other foreıgners; she named off all items along the road, her husband responded wıth mono-syllabic grunts. In front of me two Turkısh women ın headscarves held a six-year-old girl on their laps, while her father across the aisle constantly stood up to lean over the child and tend to her needs and then kiss her several tımes. Besıdes the bus driver, two other men worked on the bus, one older, who dıd nothiıng as far as I could tell, the other young and wearıng a white shırt and bow tie and chewıng gum. He was the attendant, loadıng and unloadıng baggage, and handıng out drınks and snacks in the bus. Twice, once near the start once near the end, he pushed a small fold up cart down the narrow aısle dıspensıng, wıth impressıve skill and aplomb, hot and cold drınks, as well as sweet and salty snacks which one reached over and selected for oneself.
We stopped numerous tımes, especıally early on, and by the third stop the bus was full. I had an aisle seat ın the second to last row, wıth nothıng to lean my lorn head upon. I thınk I slept some between three and fıve o´clock ın the mornıng. The rest of the time I wallowed in unrequited exhaustion. But the statıon stops offered some solace. Not that I knew what I was seeıng.... At one of the larger statıons a large crowd gathered around a bus and at the front a circle of men were throwıng a young man ınto the aır; he would flaıl hıs legs wıth pleasure each tıme he flew up ınto the nıght. When the bus set off several people lıt roman candles, and the dark and scarved heads of the crowd were lıt green and red. The people cheered; I saw thıs scene replayed at several statıons. At one I watched as the bus next to mıne a bald teenage boy waved to a group of women outsıde and they waved back and he wıped tears from hıs face.
At another stop two men played and danced wıth large drums whıle a thırd stood to the sıde playıng an accompanyıng flute. When a bus shoved through, the encırclıng crowd would compress, and afterwards spread agaın.
A lıttle after mıdnıght we paused for rest stop, at a large new building wıth a sıgn readıng Tuantan; everyone got out (the bus ıs rather new, but ıt does not have a bathroom; none do, as far as I could tell). We all headed for the WC; some then went on to the restaurant or the small store. But nearly everyone was soon standıng outsıde by the bus smokıng and talkıng or textıng on theır phones. An attendant pulled a long hose from a gas pump to re-fuel the bus. A number of passengers, as well as the bus drıver, stood besıde the pump smokıng. I eased back a lıttle and sat down on some steps. The nıght aır was cool and cıgaretty, clouded wıth smoke and gas fumes, and the people talked loudly to each other and to theır phones, and I kept an eye on my bus to be sure it wouldn´t leave without me....
A small screen was inset ınto the back of each bus seat. One could watch movies, lısten to music, play games. All the movıes were Amerıcan, all dubbed. I put on The Fantastıc Four: Return of the Sılver Surfer but dıdn´t pay it much attentıon. The man next to me, the one wıth the little gırl, laughed out loud at Nıght at the Museum.
We made a second stop just after dawn, at a rıckety gas statıon and restaurant and store. The people stumbled off the bus, befuddled by the long nıght. Driving on, we passed through graın and grasslands, wıth bare mountaıns rısıng on eıther sıde of the valley. Later we rose ınto pıney, rocky mountaıns, and patches of snow clung to the hıghest peaks. I felt excıted for the walk, hopıng the path would cover some of that sort of land. But we dropped down to lower mountaıns near the coast, drıer wıth fewer trees, and soon came to the fırst of dozens of stragglıng mıles of apartment buıldıngs and lıght ındustry....
Fethıye ıtself, a town of 48,000 on a bay of the Medıterranean, was nıcer, largely I suppose becuase ıt´s a hotspot for Brıtısh tourısts. Lots of bıg saılboats fılled the harbor, most on duty for short cruises along the coast and out to nearby ıslands.
When I got off the bus at eleven the sun was hıgh, not a cloud marked the sky, and the temperature was ın the 80s. A unıformed man dırected me to a mınıbus, and soon I was headed along the coast to the far edge of town, where the drıver dropped me off at V-Go´s Hotel and Guesthouse, a charmıng ramshackle affaır. I mentıoned to the Australıan woman at the front desk the scenes of people at bus statıons ın the mıddle of the nıght. She told me that was for young men goıng away to do theır mandatory mılıtary servıce, thus the cheerıng and weepıng and tossıng ın the aır....
After fıve mınutes ın my small room, I came back out and jumped ın the hotel´s small square pool and the water was cold cold and ıt washed away the nıght dust and fatıgue and afterwards I sat ın a chaır ın the warm shade, and I just sat there.
Even to get to the bus was a bit of an adventure (as is, by the way, the Turkish keyboard I´m tryıng to type on rıght now: it has two sorts of i´s--one without a dot--and the one I want ıs ın a different place than on English language keyboards, as ıs much of the punctuation). A walk, a rıde on a packed tram seven or so stops with several strange heads ın my face, another walk, a long one followiıng other people to the Metro statıon, that traın seven or so stops, and then I wasn´t sure where to go and a German woman tried to help me and got exasperated when I dıdn´t understand her. I wandered untıl I stumbled upon my long-dıstance bus company, Kamıl Koc.
I got on the large bus at nıne, reached my destinatıon at eleven the next morning. A middle-aged Brıtısh couple sat behınd me, the only other foreıgners; she named off all items along the road, her husband responded wıth mono-syllabic grunts. In front of me two Turkısh women ın headscarves held a six-year-old girl on their laps, while her father across the aisle constantly stood up to lean over the child and tend to her needs and then kiss her several tımes. Besıdes the bus driver, two other men worked on the bus, one older, who dıd nothiıng as far as I could tell, the other young and wearıng a white shırt and bow tie and chewıng gum. He was the attendant, loadıng and unloadıng baggage, and handıng out drınks and snacks in the bus. Twice, once near the start once near the end, he pushed a small fold up cart down the narrow aısle dıspensıng, wıth impressıve skill and aplomb, hot and cold drınks, as well as sweet and salty snacks which one reached over and selected for oneself.
We stopped numerous tımes, especıally early on, and by the third stop the bus was full. I had an aisle seat ın the second to last row, wıth nothıng to lean my lorn head upon. I thınk I slept some between three and fıve o´clock ın the mornıng. The rest of the time I wallowed in unrequited exhaustion. But the statıon stops offered some solace. Not that I knew what I was seeıng.... At one of the larger statıons a large crowd gathered around a bus and at the front a circle of men were throwıng a young man ınto the aır; he would flaıl hıs legs wıth pleasure each tıme he flew up ınto the nıght. When the bus set off several people lıt roman candles, and the dark and scarved heads of the crowd were lıt green and red. The people cheered; I saw thıs scene replayed at several statıons. At one I watched as the bus next to mıne a bald teenage boy waved to a group of women outsıde and they waved back and he wıped tears from hıs face.
At another stop two men played and danced wıth large drums whıle a thırd stood to the sıde playıng an accompanyıng flute. When a bus shoved through, the encırclıng crowd would compress, and afterwards spread agaın.
A lıttle after mıdnıght we paused for rest stop, at a large new building wıth a sıgn readıng Tuantan; everyone got out (the bus ıs rather new, but ıt does not have a bathroom; none do, as far as I could tell). We all headed for the WC; some then went on to the restaurant or the small store. But nearly everyone was soon standıng outsıde by the bus smokıng and talkıng or textıng on theır phones. An attendant pulled a long hose from a gas pump to re-fuel the bus. A number of passengers, as well as the bus drıver, stood besıde the pump smokıng. I eased back a lıttle and sat down on some steps. The nıght aır was cool and cıgaretty, clouded wıth smoke and gas fumes, and the people talked loudly to each other and to theır phones, and I kept an eye on my bus to be sure it wouldn´t leave without me....
A small screen was inset ınto the back of each bus seat. One could watch movies, lısten to music, play games. All the movıes were Amerıcan, all dubbed. I put on The Fantastıc Four: Return of the Sılver Surfer but dıdn´t pay it much attentıon. The man next to me, the one wıth the little gırl, laughed out loud at Nıght at the Museum.
We made a second stop just after dawn, at a rıckety gas statıon and restaurant and store. The people stumbled off the bus, befuddled by the long nıght. Driving on, we passed through graın and grasslands, wıth bare mountaıns rısıng on eıther sıde of the valley. Later we rose ınto pıney, rocky mountaıns, and patches of snow clung to the hıghest peaks. I felt excıted for the walk, hopıng the path would cover some of that sort of land. But we dropped down to lower mountaıns near the coast, drıer wıth fewer trees, and soon came to the fırst of dozens of stragglıng mıles of apartment buıldıngs and lıght ındustry....
Fethıye ıtself, a town of 48,000 on a bay of the Medıterranean, was nıcer, largely I suppose becuase ıt´s a hotspot for Brıtısh tourısts. Lots of bıg saılboats fılled the harbor, most on duty for short cruises along the coast and out to nearby ıslands.
When I got off the bus at eleven the sun was hıgh, not a cloud marked the sky, and the temperature was ın the 80s. A unıformed man dırected me to a mınıbus, and soon I was headed along the coast to the far edge of town, where the drıver dropped me off at V-Go´s Hotel and Guesthouse, a charmıng ramshackle affaır. I mentıoned to the Australıan woman at the front desk the scenes of people at bus statıons ın the mıddle of the nıght. She told me that was for young men goıng away to do theır mandatory mılıtary servıce, thus the cheerıng and weepıng and tossıng ın the aır....
After fıve mınutes ın my small room, I came back out and jumped ın the hotel´s small square pool and the water was cold cold and ıt washed away the nıght dust and fatıgue and afterwards I sat ın a chaır ın the warm shade, and I just sat there.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Cistern and seaside
At one of the cafes in the alley below my window, a large party of men shouted and chanted and sang drinking songs into the late late hours last night. I couldn't really begrudge such a rousing good time, but it did make it hard to sleep. Early this morning, a man passed in the alley below pushing an empty moving dolly before him and calling out his cartage services. He circles the block all day long everyday, returning at such short intervals that it seems he doesn't get much custom.
I watched television for a bit after breakfast, though I'm tiring of the news triumvirate of CNN (British), the BBC, and Euronews, each of whom loops the same few stories over and over. Yes, I know the oil leak (an unsatisfying term) in the Gulf of Mexico has not yet been capped, yes, I know the two Koreas are having words, yes, I get it, the World Cup is starting soon, the Brazilians and Australians have already arrived in South Africa, and the excitement is becoming nearly unbearable. The hotel cable does also offer two movie channels--True Movies and True Movies 2--but both show nothing but terrible 80s and 90s American tv movies, with stars like Craig T. Nelson, Tony Danza, and the Bionic Woman. Unwatchable, I'm afraid, and my tv standards when traveling are not high.
I set off midday after checking out and leaving my backpack at the front desk. Tourist crowds, mostly in large tour groups and mostly European, filled the streets and parks around Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, spilling into the Hippodrome, a long and thin and handsome park. I got in line nearby to see the Basilica Cistern, a great cool and wet underground cavern. The cistern was first built in 532 under the reign of Justinian; it has been lost and found again several times over the centuries, restored at least three times. A thousand years ago the locals didn't know about the big cistern, but they did know they could lower their buckets through holes in their basement floors and get water, and sometimes catch fish.
The cistern was most recently rebuilt in the 1980s, when fifty tons of mud was removed and walking platforms were installed. One pays 10 TL and descends slippery steps into the dark. The cistern is 65 meters wide and 143 meters long, its walls 5 meters thick; the brick, vaulted ceilings are supported by 336 marble columns arranged in 12 rows. Orangey lights have been installed near the base of some of the columns, near the surface of the shallow water, and in these eerily lit spots goldfish and carp congregate, hoping people will throw them snacks. On the far side of the cistern two columns are set on huge Medusa heads, one upside down, one on its side, both Roman art brought in from somewhere else, no one knows where. In another corner women can dress up in harem costumes and have their photograph taken for 10 TL (and many were partaking).
Back outside in the hot sun I walked through twisty lanes for sometime until I ended up down along the Sea of Marmara, on the other side of the peninsula from Galata Bridge. A park strip runs along the coast, the sparse grass glittery with thousands, maybe millions of thin strings of clear plastic wrap, the sort one pulls free when opening a pack of cigarettes. Here I ambled along for a mile or so, on a concrete walkway separated from the water only by a strip of big grey breakwater boulders. A few people sat sunning themselves on the rocks, gazing out over the sea where dozens of big freighters rode at anchor a few miles offshore. Close in, an unbroken line of trash bobbed in the rough, sparkling green water.
The few other walkers and sunbathers about were outnumbered by the men hoping to sell them something, water or juice or jewelry; these men sat back in the shade of nearby small trees, looking less than hopeful. At one spot something more fun was for sale: target practice. Two rusty poles had been set twenty feet apart in the rocks, with a couple lines of balloons tied between. Resting on a box on the edge of the concrete walk were four pellet guns, two of them long guns, two of them handguns. On the rocks below and around the balloons, numerous empty liquor bottles and tall beer cans served as alternative targets. The rocks and crevices all around were littered with brightly colored balloon bits and shards of glass. I walked past without taking up a weapon, and soon after passed two more such opportunities.
Eventually I came to a fish market and the end of the concrete walk. I turned back into the city and climbed a long hill through the Kadirga neighborhood, then passed through the Grand Bazaar again. The men stood before their stalls waiting and I wondered that they didn't get bored.
Before returning to the hotel, I bought a couple of the sesame bread rings from a cart. A young man started to help me, but then an older man with grizzled beard elbowed him out of the way and put the two rings in a plastic bag. I asked the young man the price, and he charged me less than I'd been charged previously (and I've known I've been overcharged, it seems for nearly everything I've bought, unless there's a listed price which there usually isn't). I asked the young man the name of the bread, and it sounded like he said "sweet," but after a couple repetitions I think it's "si-meet" (simit).
I got the bread for my bus ride tonight, and then a few bananas from a produce stand, and then a large bottle of water from a heavy-set man at a tiny store I've patronized each day. Now I'm back in the lobby of the Erboy Hotel on one of their two computers; it probably won't often be this easy to use the internet, but I do still hope to post regularly.
I have a couple hours before I need to leave for the bus station, and as there are no parks nearby, I plan to sit in the bright lobby and read a bit of Dickens, or maybe Emma (I bought a copy of the latter at a bookstore yesterday, a Turkish edition though of course in English). Emma Woodhouse might annoy me with her misguided matchmaking attempts, but at least I know that in the end Mr. Knightley will bring her to heel.
I watched television for a bit after breakfast, though I'm tiring of the news triumvirate of CNN (British), the BBC, and Euronews, each of whom loops the same few stories over and over. Yes, I know the oil leak (an unsatisfying term) in the Gulf of Mexico has not yet been capped, yes, I know the two Koreas are having words, yes, I get it, the World Cup is starting soon, the Brazilians and Australians have already arrived in South Africa, and the excitement is becoming nearly unbearable. The hotel cable does also offer two movie channels--True Movies and True Movies 2--but both show nothing but terrible 80s and 90s American tv movies, with stars like Craig T. Nelson, Tony Danza, and the Bionic Woman. Unwatchable, I'm afraid, and my tv standards when traveling are not high.
I set off midday after checking out and leaving my backpack at the front desk. Tourist crowds, mostly in large tour groups and mostly European, filled the streets and parks around Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, spilling into the Hippodrome, a long and thin and handsome park. I got in line nearby to see the Basilica Cistern, a great cool and wet underground cavern. The cistern was first built in 532 under the reign of Justinian; it has been lost and found again several times over the centuries, restored at least three times. A thousand years ago the locals didn't know about the big cistern, but they did know they could lower their buckets through holes in their basement floors and get water, and sometimes catch fish.
The cistern was most recently rebuilt in the 1980s, when fifty tons of mud was removed and walking platforms were installed. One pays 10 TL and descends slippery steps into the dark. The cistern is 65 meters wide and 143 meters long, its walls 5 meters thick; the brick, vaulted ceilings are supported by 336 marble columns arranged in 12 rows. Orangey lights have been installed near the base of some of the columns, near the surface of the shallow water, and in these eerily lit spots goldfish and carp congregate, hoping people will throw them snacks. On the far side of the cistern two columns are set on huge Medusa heads, one upside down, one on its side, both Roman art brought in from somewhere else, no one knows where. In another corner women can dress up in harem costumes and have their photograph taken for 10 TL (and many were partaking).
Back outside in the hot sun I walked through twisty lanes for sometime until I ended up down along the Sea of Marmara, on the other side of the peninsula from Galata Bridge. A park strip runs along the coast, the sparse grass glittery with thousands, maybe millions of thin strings of clear plastic wrap, the sort one pulls free when opening a pack of cigarettes. Here I ambled along for a mile or so, on a concrete walkway separated from the water only by a strip of big grey breakwater boulders. A few people sat sunning themselves on the rocks, gazing out over the sea where dozens of big freighters rode at anchor a few miles offshore. Close in, an unbroken line of trash bobbed in the rough, sparkling green water.
The few other walkers and sunbathers about were outnumbered by the men hoping to sell them something, water or juice or jewelry; these men sat back in the shade of nearby small trees, looking less than hopeful. At one spot something more fun was for sale: target practice. Two rusty poles had been set twenty feet apart in the rocks, with a couple lines of balloons tied between. Resting on a box on the edge of the concrete walk were four pellet guns, two of them long guns, two of them handguns. On the rocks below and around the balloons, numerous empty liquor bottles and tall beer cans served as alternative targets. The rocks and crevices all around were littered with brightly colored balloon bits and shards of glass. I walked past without taking up a weapon, and soon after passed two more such opportunities.
Eventually I came to a fish market and the end of the concrete walk. I turned back into the city and climbed a long hill through the Kadirga neighborhood, then passed through the Grand Bazaar again. The men stood before their stalls waiting and I wondered that they didn't get bored.
Before returning to the hotel, I bought a couple of the sesame bread rings from a cart. A young man started to help me, but then an older man with grizzled beard elbowed him out of the way and put the two rings in a plastic bag. I asked the young man the price, and he charged me less than I'd been charged previously (and I've known I've been overcharged, it seems for nearly everything I've bought, unless there's a listed price which there usually isn't). I asked the young man the name of the bread, and it sounded like he said "sweet," but after a couple repetitions I think it's "si-meet" (simit).
I got the bread for my bus ride tonight, and then a few bananas from a produce stand, and then a large bottle of water from a heavy-set man at a tiny store I've patronized each day. Now I'm back in the lobby of the Erboy Hotel on one of their two computers; it probably won't often be this easy to use the internet, but I do still hope to post regularly.
I have a couple hours before I need to leave for the bus station, and as there are no parks nearby, I plan to sit in the bright lobby and read a bit of Dickens, or maybe Emma (I bought a copy of the latter at a bookstore yesterday, a Turkish edition though of course in English). Emma Woodhouse might annoy me with her misguided matchmaking attempts, but at least I know that in the end Mr. Knightley will bring her to heel.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Selling jamboree
The Grand Bazaar is a covered warren of narrow lanes housing over four thousand shops. And that doesn't include the thousands more in the twisty streets of the surrounding district, or those in the large Spice Bazaar a short distancedownhill towards the Golden Horn. Men stand before the stalls waiting for customers, sometimes guessing your language in a bid to draw you in ("Gud doy, mite"). The most persistent walk alongside passing foreigners for a stretch explaining why they should stop and look more closely at the merchandise ("Jeans for you, very nice, only twenty lira" (about $13)).
Types of shops tend to congregate, so fifty or so jewelry shops occupy one section of the Grand Bazaar, a similar number of leather jackets stalls another, women's hats yet another. Not that those sorts aren't also found scattered throughout, especially the tiny jewelry shops, in among stalls devoted to all genres of clothing, shoes (Converse individually wrapped in clear plastic), souvenirs, tea, candy, linens, hookahs, backgammon sets, juice and tea and food stands.... Outside the bazaars the same things can be found but mixed in with more prosaic items, such as plumbing supplies and guns.
It's unclear to me how anyone makes a living with these shops, they are so numerous and so apparently uniform.
The stalls are a large portion of the city's commercial life, but no niche for selling is neglected. On the streets young men stand beside boxes full of bottled water or, as I saw repeatedly yesterday, offer small spirograph and colored pencil sets; older men sell the sesame-seeded bread rings (called simit) or cigarettes; I've seen a number of elderly, broken down men standing beside worn out bathroom scales--in order to have something to offer for a coin.
I walked the bazaars and streets mostly for the sights, but I did have an eye out for a watch; however, all were too large (apparently the fashion here) and too expensive. I was hoping for a cheap kid's watch, just something so I can keep track. This would seem an easy item to find, but no. It didn't help that when I saw a watch display I would keep moving, trying to examine the options on the fly and while avoiding eye contact or any other indication of interest.
Late in the afternoon the Spice Bazaar let me out down at the water, and I passed through a tunnel under the busy fringing roadway. Here were more stalls, and finally I found the children's watches section: almost every stall had a number on offer. I bought a small black and white watch with a soccer ball on the face and several more slightly raised balls on the plastic band. I asked something inane about battery life, but the small man just reached for a small plastic bag and said "no problem!" I paid him five lira.
With my shopping finally completed, I walked across the Galata Bridge, across the Golden Horn to the Beyoglu neighborhood. Underneath the bridge, close to the water, restaurants ran the length of the bridge on both sides. On the deck above, anglers spread across the bridge, their lines dangling down past the diners. I walked both above and below but never saw anyone hook a fish, nor saw evidence that any fish had been caught.
Ferries and tour boats ran up and down the waterway, and the rising city hills on both sides were dotted with mosques and minarets. The mosques are so close together that the amplified calls to prayers overlap.
On the far side, walking along the waterfront, I discovered the Historical Seas Tall Ships Regatta. Eight large sailing ships had come in earlier in the afternoon for the four day event, including ships from Germany, Indonesia, the UK, Russia, and Poland, and visitors were allowed to walk around on deck. The Polish ship, the Dar Mlodziezy, was my favorite: quite shipshape.
Back on the other side of the river I bought a fried fish sandwich from a boat. The frying and quick sandwich making (slap the filet on a opened french roll, toss on some raw onion and lettuce) was undertaken by young men on the heaving, ornate boat, who then handed the sandwich ashore to another man who took my four lira and handed it to me.
In two days I've seen little of Istanbul, really, yet I'm ready to move on. Partly I know I'll be back here at the end of the trip, but also I'm a little overwhelmed by the crowds and congestion.
Earlier in the day I'd booked, online, a hostel in Fethiye. Then I asked the front desk clerk at my hotel how I could reserve a bus seat. He tried to book for me online (the bus websites are in Turkish), but my credit card didn't work, so he tried over the phone; my card failed again. Later I found out that my credit card company had put a hold on my card, suspicious of the hotel booking I'd just made. I was at a loss, but then the desk clerk, a large, phlegmatic man named Sirnan, asked if I had the cash. "You pay me," he said, and then he got back on the phone and booked the ticket with his own credit card. I got the last seat on tomorrow night's nine o'clock bus.
So far I'm finding the Turkish a disconcerting mix of hard sell and helpful.
Types of shops tend to congregate, so fifty or so jewelry shops occupy one section of the Grand Bazaar, a similar number of leather jackets stalls another, women's hats yet another. Not that those sorts aren't also found scattered throughout, especially the tiny jewelry shops, in among stalls devoted to all genres of clothing, shoes (Converse individually wrapped in clear plastic), souvenirs, tea, candy, linens, hookahs, backgammon sets, juice and tea and food stands.... Outside the bazaars the same things can be found but mixed in with more prosaic items, such as plumbing supplies and guns.
It's unclear to me how anyone makes a living with these shops, they are so numerous and so apparently uniform.
The stalls are a large portion of the city's commercial life, but no niche for selling is neglected. On the streets young men stand beside boxes full of bottled water or, as I saw repeatedly yesterday, offer small spirograph and colored pencil sets; older men sell the sesame-seeded bread rings (called simit) or cigarettes; I've seen a number of elderly, broken down men standing beside worn out bathroom scales--in order to have something to offer for a coin.
I walked the bazaars and streets mostly for the sights, but I did have an eye out for a watch; however, all were too large (apparently the fashion here) and too expensive. I was hoping for a cheap kid's watch, just something so I can keep track. This would seem an easy item to find, but no. It didn't help that when I saw a watch display I would keep moving, trying to examine the options on the fly and while avoiding eye contact or any other indication of interest.
Late in the afternoon the Spice Bazaar let me out down at the water, and I passed through a tunnel under the busy fringing roadway. Here were more stalls, and finally I found the children's watches section: almost every stall had a number on offer. I bought a small black and white watch with a soccer ball on the face and several more slightly raised balls on the plastic band. I asked something inane about battery life, but the small man just reached for a small plastic bag and said "no problem!" I paid him five lira.
With my shopping finally completed, I walked across the Galata Bridge, across the Golden Horn to the Beyoglu neighborhood. Underneath the bridge, close to the water, restaurants ran the length of the bridge on both sides. On the deck above, anglers spread across the bridge, their lines dangling down past the diners. I walked both above and below but never saw anyone hook a fish, nor saw evidence that any fish had been caught.
Ferries and tour boats ran up and down the waterway, and the rising city hills on both sides were dotted with mosques and minarets. The mosques are so close together that the amplified calls to prayers overlap.
On the far side, walking along the waterfront, I discovered the Historical Seas Tall Ships Regatta. Eight large sailing ships had come in earlier in the afternoon for the four day event, including ships from Germany, Indonesia, the UK, Russia, and Poland, and visitors were allowed to walk around on deck. The Polish ship, the Dar Mlodziezy, was my favorite: quite shipshape.
Back on the other side of the river I bought a fried fish sandwich from a boat. The frying and quick sandwich making (slap the filet on a opened french roll, toss on some raw onion and lettuce) was undertaken by young men on the heaving, ornate boat, who then handed the sandwich ashore to another man who took my four lira and handed it to me.
In two days I've seen little of Istanbul, really, yet I'm ready to move on. Partly I know I'll be back here at the end of the trip, but also I'm a little overwhelmed by the crowds and congestion.
Earlier in the day I'd booked, online, a hostel in Fethiye. Then I asked the front desk clerk at my hotel how I could reserve a bus seat. He tried to book for me online (the bus websites are in Turkish), but my credit card didn't work, so he tried over the phone; my card failed again. Later I found out that my credit card company had put a hold on my card, suspicious of the hotel booking I'd just made. I was at a loss, but then the desk clerk, a large, phlegmatic man named Sirnan, asked if I had the cash. "You pay me," he said, and then he got back on the phone and booked the ticket with his own credit card. I got the last seat on tomorrow night's nine o'clock bus.
So far I'm finding the Turkish a disconcerting mix of hard sell and helpful.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Two really big mosques
In the afternoon I was standing on a street corner waiting to cross when I was greeted by an attractive young man--dark wavy hair, stubble and soul patch, Italian shirt, fashionable jeans. He wanted to know where I was from, and when I said the US he asked where. Minnesota surprised him. "I am meeting people from California and Texas and New York," he said, "but not Minnesota." He asked for the major city, but Minneapolis was of no help. Nuri, as he introduced himself, was not simply friendly but trolling for foreigners like myself. He suggested we step down the street to the travel agency where he worked. I didn't see this as necessarily worth his time or mine, but it was easier to say yes rather than no, and so I did.
But after we had walked fifty yards I stopped and said, well, maybe not. Nuri was patient. "It's ok. You are new to this country, yes? We Turkish, we take our time, there's no rush, just come and talk." I hesitated. "It's right there," he said, pointing to a sign.
In the travel agency I sat down at a desk with Nuri and Nuri's boss, a man named Mustafa, who took charge of the conversation. He wanted to know how long I planned to be in Turkey, and I told him four weeks (so he'd have less time to work with), but when he started in about tours I told him of my walking plans. Neither man was familiar with the Lycian Way. Mustafa dismissed it: "so that's a week or so, but you will want to see other places when you are done." I laughed and said I didn't think I could walk 500 kilometers in a week. But he didn't back down. "You never know," he said. "You are strong." I told him that for the moment I was only interested in a bus ticket to Fethiye for Friday. He looked disappointed but said he could arrange that for 75 Turkish Lira (TL). I said I'd keep it in mind.
Over the course of an afternoon's walk I was approached many more times, by travel agency personnel again but mostly by rug merchants trying to get me to their shops. All ensuing offers I politely declined.
I didn't get out into the city until three. I had gotten up for the breakfast in the basement restaurant at my hotel. But back in my room afterwards I dozed til one, to the soothing accompaniment of street noise and British CNN. Then I read for a couple hours, still sleepy and still reluctant to leave the sanctuary of my room....
I'd met Nuri soon after I left the hotel. After our chat I visited the Blue Mosque then Hagia Sophia. At the entrance of the Blue Mosque shoes must be removed; you are given a plastic bag for the shoes, which you carry inside with you, I suppose to avoid theft. Women with tank tops or shorts are given pale blue wraps to cover themselves with; the same for men in shorts. The mosque is massive and domed and smells musty, maybe because of the vast wall to wall carpet. Four huge "elephant feet" pillars support the structure from the inside. The mosque was built in the 17th century by a sultan who supposedly wanted one to rival the Hagia Sophia. He fell short.
Hagia Sophia, originally Christian, was completed in 653 and for nine centuries was supposedly the greatest church in Christendom. But after "the Conquest" of 1653 it was converted to mosque. Since 1935, though, when Atatuark (the Turkish George Washington, and a secularist) made the change, it's been a "museum." So one can wear shoes and bare shoulders inside. The big big space, the dome high overhead, the echoey acoustics, the ancient mosaics (of Jesus, the Virgin Mary)--all these make it impressive but not, for me, sublime. I can't see that all the effort was worthwhile.... But then I often find myself left a little cold by antiquities--or maybe it's the efforts to keep them up (much scaffolding inside, many young headscarved women picking away at the crumbling walls). Isn't the time of the Hagia Sophia long gone? I was briefly intrigued by the roped off square on the floor where the kings of Byzantium were crowned.... But the place seemed lifeless, and the tourists all holding their digital cameras aloft were as interesting as anything else. I suppose I've come to the wrong place if I'm going to dismiss old stuff right off. I might have to give this some more thought....
I walked along full, busy streets for several hours, quickly through the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Bazaar (where the shops were closing up and where I plan to return), through narrow, hilly lanes lined with shops and littered with the day's trash, past more mosques, each flanked by tall, thin minarets ringed with loud speakers for the call to prayers. Late I ended down at the Bosphorus, standing on a foot bridge over a congested street (where at any given moment approximately 25% of drivers were using their horns), watching an auto ferry arrive and load and unload, watching the ships passing on the tossing water.
I stopped at a nearby kebap stand, Neslihan Bufe, and pointed to a picture of a burrito-like object: yavik tonuk doner. A man with a cigarette in his mouth sliced pieces from the slow cooking pillar of meat (what sort I don't know) and let them fall into the tray at the bottom. He opened the metal lid of a small oven and pulled out a warm, thick tortilla, then scooped up the meat pieces and tossed them on; using tongs, he grabbed the other ingredients from nearby trays: french fries and tomatoes and greens and I don't what else. Finally, he folded over the tortilla and wrapped a piece of white paper around three-quarters of the kebap with one end sticking out. I put it in my waistpack and set off for the nearby hotel, stopping only once more at a tiny market for a large bottle of water.
In my room I sat on the bed and ate and watched tv and wondered at the strangeness of the last two days.
I'd like to stay a week at the Erboy, huddling in my comfy room, venturing out for walks about the city, taking in not only the famous sites but bookstores where I could buy more novels (I've already almost finished One of Ours by Willa Cather; I think it's going to end badly). But it's expensive, and I do want to get south and start walking.... I'm still adjusting to being away.
But after we had walked fifty yards I stopped and said, well, maybe not. Nuri was patient. "It's ok. You are new to this country, yes? We Turkish, we take our time, there's no rush, just come and talk." I hesitated. "It's right there," he said, pointing to a sign.
In the travel agency I sat down at a desk with Nuri and Nuri's boss, a man named Mustafa, who took charge of the conversation. He wanted to know how long I planned to be in Turkey, and I told him four weeks (so he'd have less time to work with), but when he started in about tours I told him of my walking plans. Neither man was familiar with the Lycian Way. Mustafa dismissed it: "so that's a week or so, but you will want to see other places when you are done." I laughed and said I didn't think I could walk 500 kilometers in a week. But he didn't back down. "You never know," he said. "You are strong." I told him that for the moment I was only interested in a bus ticket to Fethiye for Friday. He looked disappointed but said he could arrange that for 75 Turkish Lira (TL). I said I'd keep it in mind.
Over the course of an afternoon's walk I was approached many more times, by travel agency personnel again but mostly by rug merchants trying to get me to their shops. All ensuing offers I politely declined.
I didn't get out into the city until three. I had gotten up for the breakfast in the basement restaurant at my hotel. But back in my room afterwards I dozed til one, to the soothing accompaniment of street noise and British CNN. Then I read for a couple hours, still sleepy and still reluctant to leave the sanctuary of my room....
I'd met Nuri soon after I left the hotel. After our chat I visited the Blue Mosque then Hagia Sophia. At the entrance of the Blue Mosque shoes must be removed; you are given a plastic bag for the shoes, which you carry inside with you, I suppose to avoid theft. Women with tank tops or shorts are given pale blue wraps to cover themselves with; the same for men in shorts. The mosque is massive and domed and smells musty, maybe because of the vast wall to wall carpet. Four huge "elephant feet" pillars support the structure from the inside. The mosque was built in the 17th century by a sultan who supposedly wanted one to rival the Hagia Sophia. He fell short.
Hagia Sophia, originally Christian, was completed in 653 and for nine centuries was supposedly the greatest church in Christendom. But after "the Conquest" of 1653 it was converted to mosque. Since 1935, though, when Atatuark (the Turkish George Washington, and a secularist) made the change, it's been a "museum." So one can wear shoes and bare shoulders inside. The big big space, the dome high overhead, the echoey acoustics, the ancient mosaics (of Jesus, the Virgin Mary)--all these make it impressive but not, for me, sublime. I can't see that all the effort was worthwhile.... But then I often find myself left a little cold by antiquities--or maybe it's the efforts to keep them up (much scaffolding inside, many young headscarved women picking away at the crumbling walls). Isn't the time of the Hagia Sophia long gone? I was briefly intrigued by the roped off square on the floor where the kings of Byzantium were crowned.... But the place seemed lifeless, and the tourists all holding their digital cameras aloft were as interesting as anything else. I suppose I've come to the wrong place if I'm going to dismiss old stuff right off. I might have to give this some more thought....
I walked along full, busy streets for several hours, quickly through the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Bazaar (where the shops were closing up and where I plan to return), through narrow, hilly lanes lined with shops and littered with the day's trash, past more mosques, each flanked by tall, thin minarets ringed with loud speakers for the call to prayers. Late I ended down at the Bosphorus, standing on a foot bridge over a congested street (where at any given moment approximately 25% of drivers were using their horns), watching an auto ferry arrive and load and unload, watching the ships passing on the tossing water.
I stopped at a nearby kebap stand, Neslihan Bufe, and pointed to a picture of a burrito-like object: yavik tonuk doner. A man with a cigarette in his mouth sliced pieces from the slow cooking pillar of meat (what sort I don't know) and let them fall into the tray at the bottom. He opened the metal lid of a small oven and pulled out a warm, thick tortilla, then scooped up the meat pieces and tossed them on; using tongs, he grabbed the other ingredients from nearby trays: french fries and tomatoes and greens and I don't what else. Finally, he folded over the tortilla and wrapped a piece of white paper around three-quarters of the kebap with one end sticking out. I put it in my waistpack and set off for the nearby hotel, stopping only once more at a tiny market for a large bottle of water.
In my room I sat on the bed and ate and watched tv and wondered at the strangeness of the last two days.
I'd like to stay a week at the Erboy, huddling in my comfy room, venturing out for walks about the city, taking in not only the famous sites but bookstores where I could buy more novels (I've already almost finished One of Ours by Willa Cather; I think it's going to end badly). But it's expensive, and I do want to get south and start walking.... I'm still adjusting to being away.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Flight companions and ground transport challenges
When I found myself seated between a large man and a small boy I couldn't help but worry about the eight hours to come. Though I'd signed up for a window seat when I booked the flight, somehow over the ensuing weeks my place had migrated to the middle of the plane. Also, I had developed diabetes, as the flight attendants insisted I accept a diabetic dinner and breakfast, though I assured them I had not asked for such special treatment.
I need not have been concerned about my seat mates, as they proved polite and companionable; the large man took our shared armrest, but I didn't mind, seeing as how the small boy wasn't large enough to contest for the other one. He was about four and did not show the least impatience over the course of the flight. During the night he slept leaned against his mother, occasionally stretching and pushing a socked foot against my leg, which I found reassuring.
Two other young boys, seated four rows ahead, proved less charming. They took turns crying for much of the flight, both in a particularly unpleasant manner: a petulant screaming that would go on for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, pause briefly, and then commence again. I'm sure they were tired, but I also felt they were being selfish. I dozed through their screams, not really too bothered since after all nothing whatsoever could be done. A few of the other passengers, though, could not contain themselves. Several times someone emitted a loud, frustrated "shhhhh!" and once some one said, "SHUT up!" These remonstrances were mixed in with the parents' own, but none seemed to have the least effect.
I arrived in Amsterdam at eleven in the morning and walking towards customs found myself behind the couple with the two crying children. The boys stopped walking and clung to their mother's legs, and dropped to their knees and indulged in yet another set of tantrums. I thought they would've been worn out. The father said, "stop crying! stop crying!" But they did not relent as I passed them and happily passed out of their lives forever.
I had a window seat on the second flight, three hours to Istanbul, and a six-year-old behind me kicked and pushed his feet against the back of my seat at regular intervals. His Turkish parents seemed to consider this behavior reasonable. The mother held a younger boy on her lap, and whenever he was thwarted (which was often) he would let out a scream that was shockingly painful for anyone in the vicinity.
Two airports serve Istanbul, and I flew into the distant, secondary one. I had been worried about how to get from the airport to my hotel in Istanbul (the guidebooks hadn't offered sufficient details). I could've simply taken a taxi, but that seemed giving in right at the start. Outside the terminal were a number of different sorts of buses, but no signs. I walked up and down forlornly, hoping, but when that didn't work I asked one of the bus drivers, "Sultanahmet?" (the part of the city I needed to get to). "No," he said, "no Sultanahment." But he pointed to another bus and said, "Taksim." As close as I could get from the airport; I got on.
A man collected the fare after we startd (13 Turkish lira, about $8). The traffic was heavy on the way into the heart of the surprisingly hilly city. Where the cars and buses slowed to a stop-and-go pace people stood on the shoulder trying to sell bottled water and bouquets of flowers. Men offering small bread rings, piled on a single stick, stood between the lanes.
Dark had fallen by the time I reached Taksim Square, a busy hive of shops and people, cars and buses. And no signs. I wandered about for some time before finding a ticket booth beside a jumble of buses. I asked the unshaven man behind the glass, "Sultanahmet?" and he said, ""61B." I had to ask him to repeat it a couple times, but I was glad he spoke enough English to accommodate me.
It took some looking, but I found the bus and got on. Soon we crossed the Golden Horn, just east of the Bosphorus; lit up freighters and ferries filled the waterways. The bus driver was friendly and helpful, and at a stoplight I showed him my map and asked where I should get off. The map confused him, but eventually he decided I should stay on until the end of his line. When I got off he gestured down the street, rather apologetically, as if he wished he could give me better directions.
I was getting close but was still anxious. Signage difficulty was becoming a theme; sometimes, I found, Istanbul streets are marked by signs, but often they are not. I wandered in what I thought was the correct direction (also, the streets aren't straight). A man at a food stand must've recognized my confusion because he asked in English and unbidden if I needed help. His directions did help, but soon I found myself on a dark and empty street, heading down a long hill. "Shit," I said out loud.
But the lights and people soon reappeared, and I came to what I thought was Ebbussud, the single street I'd been looking for (no sign), and it was, and after a few more minutes I stepped into through the glass doors of the Erboy Hotel. Three stars, plush red chairs spread around small glass tables in the tiled lobby. A man at the desk checked me in. I was exhausted, but I listened politely while he showed me a city map and described in detail some of the main tourist sites as well as the pleasures of various day tours.
My room was small, on the second floor, with a balcony door, a wrought iron balcony grate, but no balcony. The doorway overlooked a narrow alley filled with restaurants where people were still dining; the sound of voices, of cutlery on plates, and of Turkish music wafted into the room. The television had channels not only in Turkish but English, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian, and a few others I think. I discovered nothing about the room, though, until I got the lights on, which seems like it should have been easy enough but wasn't. At first I thought they were faulty, as none of the switches worked. But eventually, when on the verge of returning to the front desk, I discovered a card slot on the wall by the door: put in the door card and lights come on. But one must leave the card in; if removed, the lights go off after a few minutes, as I soon found out. This short episode struck me as just about right: I didn't yet even know how to turn the lights on in Turkey.
Finally I lay down on the wide bed, twenty full hours after leaving home. Amazing that I could come so far in so little time, but it hardly seemed little while I was on the way.
I need not have been concerned about my seat mates, as they proved polite and companionable; the large man took our shared armrest, but I didn't mind, seeing as how the small boy wasn't large enough to contest for the other one. He was about four and did not show the least impatience over the course of the flight. During the night he slept leaned against his mother, occasionally stretching and pushing a socked foot against my leg, which I found reassuring.
Two other young boys, seated four rows ahead, proved less charming. They took turns crying for much of the flight, both in a particularly unpleasant manner: a petulant screaming that would go on for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, pause briefly, and then commence again. I'm sure they were tired, but I also felt they were being selfish. I dozed through their screams, not really too bothered since after all nothing whatsoever could be done. A few of the other passengers, though, could not contain themselves. Several times someone emitted a loud, frustrated "shhhhh!" and once some one said, "SHUT up!" These remonstrances were mixed in with the parents' own, but none seemed to have the least effect.
I arrived in Amsterdam at eleven in the morning and walking towards customs found myself behind the couple with the two crying children. The boys stopped walking and clung to their mother's legs, and dropped to their knees and indulged in yet another set of tantrums. I thought they would've been worn out. The father said, "stop crying! stop crying!" But they did not relent as I passed them and happily passed out of their lives forever.
I had a window seat on the second flight, three hours to Istanbul, and a six-year-old behind me kicked and pushed his feet against the back of my seat at regular intervals. His Turkish parents seemed to consider this behavior reasonable. The mother held a younger boy on her lap, and whenever he was thwarted (which was often) he would let out a scream that was shockingly painful for anyone in the vicinity.
Two airports serve Istanbul, and I flew into the distant, secondary one. I had been worried about how to get from the airport to my hotel in Istanbul (the guidebooks hadn't offered sufficient details). I could've simply taken a taxi, but that seemed giving in right at the start. Outside the terminal were a number of different sorts of buses, but no signs. I walked up and down forlornly, hoping, but when that didn't work I asked one of the bus drivers, "Sultanahmet?" (the part of the city I needed to get to). "No," he said, "no Sultanahment." But he pointed to another bus and said, "Taksim." As close as I could get from the airport; I got on.
A man collected the fare after we startd (13 Turkish lira, about $8). The traffic was heavy on the way into the heart of the surprisingly hilly city. Where the cars and buses slowed to a stop-and-go pace people stood on the shoulder trying to sell bottled water and bouquets of flowers. Men offering small bread rings, piled on a single stick, stood between the lanes.
Dark had fallen by the time I reached Taksim Square, a busy hive of shops and people, cars and buses. And no signs. I wandered about for some time before finding a ticket booth beside a jumble of buses. I asked the unshaven man behind the glass, "Sultanahmet?" and he said, ""61B." I had to ask him to repeat it a couple times, but I was glad he spoke enough English to accommodate me.
It took some looking, but I found the bus and got on. Soon we crossed the Golden Horn, just east of the Bosphorus; lit up freighters and ferries filled the waterways. The bus driver was friendly and helpful, and at a stoplight I showed him my map and asked where I should get off. The map confused him, but eventually he decided I should stay on until the end of his line. When I got off he gestured down the street, rather apologetically, as if he wished he could give me better directions.
I was getting close but was still anxious. Signage difficulty was becoming a theme; sometimes, I found, Istanbul streets are marked by signs, but often they are not. I wandered in what I thought was the correct direction (also, the streets aren't straight). A man at a food stand must've recognized my confusion because he asked in English and unbidden if I needed help. His directions did help, but soon I found myself on a dark and empty street, heading down a long hill. "Shit," I said out loud.
But the lights and people soon reappeared, and I came to what I thought was Ebbussud, the single street I'd been looking for (no sign), and it was, and after a few more minutes I stepped into through the glass doors of the Erboy Hotel. Three stars, plush red chairs spread around small glass tables in the tiled lobby. A man at the desk checked me in. I was exhausted, but I listened politely while he showed me a city map and described in detail some of the main tourist sites as well as the pleasures of various day tours.
My room was small, on the second floor, with a balcony door, a wrought iron balcony grate, but no balcony. The doorway overlooked a narrow alley filled with restaurants where people were still dining; the sound of voices, of cutlery on plates, and of Turkish music wafted into the room. The television had channels not only in Turkish but English, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian, and a few others I think. I discovered nothing about the room, though, until I got the lights on, which seems like it should have been easy enough but wasn't. At first I thought they were faulty, as none of the switches worked. But eventually, when on the verge of returning to the front desk, I discovered a card slot on the wall by the door: put in the door card and lights come on. But one must leave the card in; if removed, the lights go off after a few minutes, as I soon found out. This short episode struck me as just about right: I didn't yet even know how to turn the lights on in Turkey.
Finally I lay down on the wide bed, twenty full hours after leaving home. Amazing that I could come so far in so little time, but it hardly seemed little while I was on the way.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Off to Istanbul
This evening at 7:40 I fly to Istanbul. After a stop in Amsterdam, I will arrive sixteen hours later and eight time zones eastward of Minnesota. Then I’ll have to figure out how to do stuff in Turkey, which will no doubt take some time. I have six weeks and a Turkish phrase book, though so far the only word I know is “merhaba,” or hello.
All winter I’d planned to go abroad once the semester ended, but I couldn’t decide where…. I did know that I wanted to go for a longish walk. I considered Nepal, but summer is monsoon season. The Camino again in Spain? Well, I preferred something new. I finally settled on Turkey, just a month ago, because of the Lycian Way, a walking path in the southwest of the country, through mountains and along the Mediterranean coast, 500 kilometers from Fethiye to Antalya. My plan is to poke about Istanbul for a few days, then take a bus down to Fethiye and start the walk.
But as usual when on the verge of a trip I’m a little reluctant to go. The couple weeks since the end of school have been lovely, and I am sad to leave behind my people and my bicycle. Wherever I am next Friday I will be wistful.
But the point is to get out in the world and look around. My home is most comfortable, my family and friends my favorites, and I might wonder early on, so what am I doing here? But I expect to get some answers eventually.
I also assume that the internet is widely available in Turkey, like most places in the world. Ideally I’d post every day (writing is especially essential for solo travel), but that’s unlikely, especially on the walk. If you read along, write me short notes back, and then imagine me at some internet café on the other side of the world getting a little choked up when I see your name.
All winter I’d planned to go abroad once the semester ended, but I couldn’t decide where…. I did know that I wanted to go for a longish walk. I considered Nepal, but summer is monsoon season. The Camino again in Spain? Well, I preferred something new. I finally settled on Turkey, just a month ago, because of the Lycian Way, a walking path in the southwest of the country, through mountains and along the Mediterranean coast, 500 kilometers from Fethiye to Antalya. My plan is to poke about Istanbul for a few days, then take a bus down to Fethiye and start the walk.
But as usual when on the verge of a trip I’m a little reluctant to go. The couple weeks since the end of school have been lovely, and I am sad to leave behind my people and my bicycle. Wherever I am next Friday I will be wistful.
But the point is to get out in the world and look around. My home is most comfortable, my family and friends my favorites, and I might wonder early on, so what am I doing here? But I expect to get some answers eventually.
I also assume that the internet is widely available in Turkey, like most places in the world. Ideally I’d post every day (writing is especially essential for solo travel), but that’s unlikely, especially on the walk. If you read along, write me short notes back, and then imagine me at some internet café on the other side of the world getting a little choked up when I see your name.
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