The suitcases came out of the closet today.
Four more sleeps til I’m on a plane to Canada for the summer, and I figure it’s high time I start acting like it. It’s not that it snuck up on me or that I’m not excited. It’s just that my life has been careening at such a breakneck pace for the last, oh, two months, and there are still a million things to do before I get on that plane, so I feel like my brain won’t really switch gears until my passport is stamped and my seatbelt is buckled.
I do know myself well enough by now, though, to know that an 18 hour plane trip isn’t enough for me to emotionally make the transition between this home and that home, so in an attempt to avoid a bad case of cultural jetlag (culture lag?) I need to start processing the switch now. In all my spare time. :)
My heart is in an interesting spot. On the one hand this is my first real summer home in Canada in like twelve years, and there are so many things that I am SO looking forward to - things that meant “summer” to me growing up. On the other hand, I’ve spent the last five summers here in Turkey, and there are a whole lot of things I am feeling wistful about missing out on by being gone. (40 degree days with sticky humidity not being one of them.) It helps to remember that it’ll still be deathly hot when I get home again in August, and we’ll still have a good month or more of “summer” left. But, having been too busy to really enjoy much of the beginning of the season (I just packed away my winter clothes today, if that tells you anything!) I’m just feeling a little like I’ve got seasonal whiplash.
So, because I like to make lists, and because I am too tired to write very many complete sentences right now, I’m gonna process a bit by making lists of all the things I’m excited to do at home this summer, and all the things I’m gonna miss about Turkish summers.
Things I’m looking forward to about being home:
-MY MOM IS THERE!!!
-the JOY of being with my best friend
-English Bay fireworks competition
-the Salmon Festival
-picnics and bonfires at Garry Point
-Pajo’s Fish n’ Chips
-family gatherings
-Timothy’s Frozen Yogurt
-Stanley Park
-being able to go running
-the Public Library
-a cousin camping trip (haven’t asked anyone, but wouldn’t it be fun?)
-Tennessee fireflies
-Bard on the Beach and Theatre Under the Stars
-the ice cream man
-wearing shorts
-driving
Things I’m gonna miss about summer here:
-long nights talking over tea on our best Turkish friends’ balcony (if I could bottle up "a summer night" and carry it around with me, that'd be it right there)
-wedding fireworks from the surrounding villages
-how it takes a long time to get home in the evening cuz on every front porch, people are out drinking tea and inviting you into the circle
-fig season!
-open-air cinema on the beach (I haven’t been, but I’ve been wanting to try it!)
-the smell of fresh bread baking wafting up from the bakery late at night
-loading up the picnic bag and heading to the Med
-walking to town for Magnum bars whenever we get an ice cream craving
-sleeping outside under the mosquito net
-grilling kebabs on the terrace
-the sound of the owls that live on our neighbours’ roof
-adventures at the waterfalls
-that feeling of community that comes from the way everyone lives outside on their balconies in the summer and you go to sleep listening to the sounds of tinkling teaspoons and laughter and life going on around you and feeling a part of it somehow
-the smell of the honeysuckle that wafts up from our garden
-hedgehogs in the yard
-the little clay lanterns with star-shaped holes in them that we light candles in at night on the balcony
I’m a citizen of two worlds, with my home in another one entirely. And I am trusting the One who watches over my coming and my going to help me be all there wherever I am this summer. Besides, I know that once I am wrapped up in a mom-sized hug at the airport, I won’t be thinking of teapots or mosquito nets at all....
The (only slightly contrived) moment: Canadian girl, appropriately decked out in a "True North Strong and Free" t-shirt dipping Dutch stroopwafel (purchased by an American friend at an Islamic fundamentalist-backed grocery store) into hometown Canadian coffee in a Jordan Starbucks mug (never been, but it's on the list) served on an Uzbek tea tray (again, never been, but well-travelled roommate = multicultural adornments) while reading a travel story about Vietnam to the tune of Cuban music** on her balcony in Turkey.
**"Cuba, Mi Amor" was the only (mildly) manufactured detail intentionally introduced to the otherwise "as-is" scene for added international embellishment. And it's proving to be the fitting accompaniment to an afternoon of reading travel literature.
Mom bought me this journal at the Grand Bazaar when she was visiting in the fall. It was worth the ten lira purely for the fact that it was original - a tiny, unassuming work of art standing out amidst the cookie cutter mounds of shaker belts, mother of pearl Tavla sets, touristy t-shirts and jeweled letter openers that fill the over 4,000 shops of the Kapalı Çarşı. And thus, it is my hope that today, as I open this notebook and begin (officially, if only to myself) my career as a travel writer - that my words would paint a unique picture of the same locations that have been described time and again for centuries. I dream of giving a fresh melody to the old songs, planting new footprints on well-trodden paths, and capturing the flavour of now-cliché destinations and experiences so that those who have never lived them will be lining up in droves to purchase tickets to Over There, and those who have will be inspired to go live them again for the first time.
It feels fitting that on the cover of this notebook is a painting of an Istanbul ferry, seagulls and clouds dancing in the sky overhead. I've spent many a Bosphorus crossing scribbling away in a notebook (or, if I didn't have one on hand, repeating what I hoped were clever phrases over and over in my head until I could get my hands on a pen and a ferry schedule to jot them down on), trying to craft just the right words to describe the way the sound of the seagulls and the fog horns and the tinkle of teaspoons in tulip glasses rise to mingle with the sunset behind the minarets to form one of those iconic Istanbul moments. Much of my now-named passion for travel writing has been birthed out of my love affair with Istanbul and my insatiable quest to find a way to put its soul on paper - as if a city of 9,000 years of magnificence could be reduced to a few lines on a page. And yet I feel compelled to try.
As wise old Confucius once said, "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." And so I begin. After years of friends and family urging me to "write already!" and months of those shiny, fresh-from-Amazon travel writing books on my bedroom floor seeing little action apart from when I pick them up to vacuum, I've decided that today is the day.
I carved it in the stone of my Creative Journal, where I like to document monumental occasions of this sort: "I hereby declare myself a travel writer," along with today's date. I suppose a "travel writer" is essentially just "a traveller who writes" and "a writer who travels," in which case I've been one all of my adult life, with seeds of the dream planted long before that in Mr. Wiebe's poetry class and in crépe paper African huts in VBS. And while I've chosen, mostly, to limit my travels these days to the dirt roads leading back and forth to my neighbours' houses and to places I can ride to on my electric motorcycle, I do in fact buy my vegetables and hang my laundry and pour my çay in a town on the Mediterranean coast, in the Cradle of Civilization. The everyday doesn't get much more exotic than that. :) What's more, I've got a wealth of moments on Chinese trains and in Mayan villages, Syrian bazaars and Tibetan monestaries which, with some effort, I'm still young enough to remember, even if only as fodder for practicing my anecdotal skills.
The catalyst for this line in the sand was an email that appeared in my inbox on Thursday: "World Nomads 2011 Travel Writing Scholarship in Istanbul, Turkey." Hello! You have to write an essay on why you should be chosen, and the prize is a week shadowing a professional travel writer, gleaning from his input and experience, and doing research/revisions/reviews for the next edition of The Rough Guide to Istanbul. That assignment is followed by an "adventure tour" of hiking, horseback riding and sea kayaking through several gorgeous spots in Turkey - ironically, all of which I have been to and one of which I live in. It would be the chance to see the familiar-yet-fascinating through fresh eyes, all the while working on my writing skills and benefitting from constructive criticism. My mind has been consumed by this one thought for days: I HAVE TO WIN THIS THING!!!
And so, armed with "Globejotting" by Dave Fox and "Lonely Planet's Guide to Travel Writing," my notebook and I are going to spend the day on the terrace reading the work of those who have gone before me, starting to find out what editors and publishers are looking for, and scribbling away as fast and as long as my hand can stand it.
I'm done waiting for "a season when I have time to write" or "til I figure out where to send my work." Goodness knows what I need most is to develop my research skills, find my style and voice, become an observer who uses all her senses, and learn how to describe scenes without using clichés. (See, I've used that word twice in the last hour!) The time to grow is now.
I recently finished reading "The War of Art" - a book on overcoming Resistance as the enemy of creativity. (Colourful language and slightly New Agey tilt aside, I highly recommend it.) In the first half of the book, author Stephen Pressfield details the various forces and excuses that prevent us from rising up and creating.
"Procrastination is the most common manifestation of Resistance because it's the easiest to rationalize. We don't tell ourselves, 'I am never going to write my symphony." Instead we say, 'I am going to write my symphony; I'm just going to start tomorrow.'" (p.21)
I've let procrastination steal the life from my best creative flashes for years. Even today, in all my "I'm ready to write" zeal, I've been tempted to give in to its innocent sounding hooks. "I'll start writing...as soon as I fold this laundry. And I'll need a cup of coffee - it's good for inspiration, and besides, it's cold up there. Oh, but the terrace is probably dirty from all the rain last night - I should probably squeegee it." And on and on it goes. (My inner Turkish housewife is my inner writer's arch nemesis.)
But I was smart. I decided to trick Resistance and (temporarily) avoid the terrace altogether (how low of it to pit my sanctuary of choice against me!) and plunked down on my (yes, unmade) bed and I wrote. I took that first step. And now, my hand sufficiently cramped, I am feeling satisfied with my small-victory-of-a-beginning, and most deserving of that cup of coffee.
And then it's off to the dirty, un-squeegeed terrace. Off to the journey and the stories it will become.
Like the rest of the world, my eyes are glued to the scenes and images of upheaval and desperation coming out of Cairo. Several years and a hundred lifetimes ago, I traded in an Istanbul August for the scorching heat of the Egyptian desert in order to spend a (surprise) weekend with some precious photo school friends who were on assignment there. The burning buildings, overturned police vehicles and throngs of angry protesters we're seeing this week stand out in stark contrast to the happy (to this tourist, anyway) world of felucca rides on the Nile, sawdust-carpeted kosheri restaurants, and pictures of smiling friends "kissing the sphink-us." My interactions with Egyptians were set mostly against the backdrop of the "Magic Streets" - a tangled maze of creatively painted walls, impromptu neighbourhood dance parties and gap-toothed street urchins - one big photo waiting to be captured. I couldn't say anything beyond "Hello," "Thank you" and, "Can I take your picture?," but as with any other Muslim nation, a smile was enough to win a few moments on the inside of a family or a group of giggling schoolgirls. Three days, some good falafel and many glasses of mango juice were enough to earn Egypt a spot in my heart.
I don't have any brilliant journalistic comments or political statements to make here. I just wanted to share these photos in honour of the people of Egypt, the hopelessness of its otherwise colourful world and the lives being lived and lost on its streets.
I am the queen of procrastination. Not only that, I am a horrible succumber to the tyranny of the urgent, leaving those projects that I am truly passionate about until I "have time," which, of course, never happens.
A few months back, I read about a photo contest open only to foreigners. The subject was Istanbul. I thought, "Istanbul and photography - two of my most beloved things. This is for me!" I have thousands and thousands of photos of the city (and am always on a quest for more), so I thought surely I could come up with five photos to enter, and at least one would have a shot at winning. But, as happens, fall was crazy busy, and I kept putting it off.
On the first of November, I was up in Istanbul getting ready to see my mom off after her month here. I was going to have a few spare days in the city after that, and I thought, "Okay, I'll devote some time to this then, and I'll deliver my entry in plenty of time for the November 15th cutoff." That night, I just "happened" to look on the website for the contest, and I realized that all along I'd had the wrong deadline date in my head, and the contest, in fact, finished on November 1st - that day! It was, at this point, after 10 PM - too late to run down to the contest headquarters which was, ironically, just a 10 minute walk from where we were staying. I was kicking myself for being so careless and for procrastinating on something I'd been so excited about.
Still, I thought, if the contest were to close at midnight that night, maybe I could head over there first thing in the morning, CD in hand, smile sweetly and say in perfect Turkish, "It's still October 31st in my home time zone...." I'm pretty adept at talking myself in and out of things in Turkey, so it was worth a shot. So I scrounged my hard drive for five shots I was proud of, burnt them onto a CD (always carry extra blank CDs!) and set my alarm clock.
The next morning, I got up early, got the hotel reception guy to let me print off the entry form, deposited Mom at Starbucks (where we later played a killer last game of Speed Scrabble) and took off running down the road to the contest office. Googlemaps proved to be less helpful than I'd hoped, and it took me lots of wrong turns and parking attendants' shrugged shoulders before I finally located the building tucked away on a little back alley. Breathless, I ran up the stairs....only to find the office locked up tight. Blast.
I decided I'd come this far, I wasn't giving up now. I scribbled a polite note on the CD envelope asking them to please, pretty please forgive me for being "a few hours late" and accept my entry, wedged it under the door and hoped for the best.
For the next couple of weeks, I kept checking back on the site to see if they'd posted the winners, and then eventually just forgot about it. I figured that if I'd won, they would've emailed me. Sigh. But then, just after Christmas, I checked back again, and they'd posted the winning three shots! I was disappointed to see that none of mine were among them, but I figured that's what I get for not entering on time. But then, as I scrolled down a bit, I saw that they had chosen a number of runners up and were going to display their photos in an exhibition....and there was my name on the list! (That's mercy, I'm telling ya!)
I've yet to be able to learn which photos were chosen, but I do know that two of my five are going to be in an exhibition in the Taksim Metro Station (perhaps the busiest transport hub of the city) from March 1-20. I am so excited!!! I'm going to be up there for the opening on the 1st. If you're around, come check it out!
Here are my five entries:
Pigeon Chasers - Yeni Camii, Eminonu
Golden Train Station - Haydarpasa, Kadikoy
Next Door Neighbours - Kuzguncuk
Laundry Day - Beyoglu
Corner House - Balat
Check out the winners here.
Starbucks Turkey has recently made an addition to its repertoire that makes living in this country even tastier. Stroopwafels - delectable Dutch caramel waffle cookies, perfect when left to soften on the rim of your coffee cup before being dunked into your steaming drink. No more special orders to friends passing through the Amsterdam Airport - we've got access right downtown!
On Friday as I was out doing errands, I stopped in at a Starbucks other than my "usual" one to pick up a stack of the cookies for a gathering at our house that night. Tired from running around the city all afternoon, I sat down and paused for a cup of tea. (I'd already exceeded my limit for coffee for the day, but I'm always up for an excuse to sit down at Starbucks!) As I observed the other patrons, I had a "we're not in Kansas anymore" moment. The fact that I was in a more upper-class part of town was evidenced by the complete lack of headscarves and the abundance of tight pants, aviators, and miniature, sweater-clad dogs tied to chair legs. The scene looked like something straight out of a New York cafe - the model/mafia/movie star/millionaire set, dressed to the nines, flirting and negotiating over their lattes and iPhones. Feeling rather underdressed myself, I laughed as I realized that those imaginary people I see on the Istanbul soap operas aren't so exaggerated after all - in fact, they are real, and me and my Earl Grey were surrounded by them!
Leaving the jumble of BMWs and Mercedes in the parking lot, I crossed the street and caught my bus home. As the kilometres clicked by, condos gave way to farm land, and miniskirts to village pants. When I got home, I headed straight up to the terrace with a book - a habit I am trying to create room for at the end of each day. But just as I was settling in, voices out in the olive grove behind our complex caught my attention. Squinting through the trees, I spotted a couple of crouching ladies and the flicker of a fire. Right about that time, the delicious smell of woodsmoke reached my nose and made my stomach growl. I grabbed my camera and headed out back to check out the action, thinking that this could be the opportunity for both interesting photos and an excuse not to have to make dinner.
Turns out I was right on both counts. I was greeted by the sight of four of my neighbour ladies, our gardener, and a crackling fire. The women formed an efficient assembly line, three of them mixing and kneading dough while the fourth cooked the flatbread over the fire. These particular women are the jokers of the complex, and they quickly had me laughing as they recounted their day of bread making. I was more interested in getting photos before the light faded, and they were more interested in feeding me. In the end, they won out and had me running into the house for more eggs and oil for them to make me some gozleme - flatbread filled with potatoes or cheese. When it got too dark to shoot, I took on the duty of keeping everyone's tea glasses filled while they loaded me up a plate full of gozleme to take home.
As I looked around at these ladies I love - ladies I live happily among, ladies I share my everyday life with - I tried to imagine them in the middle of the Starbucks crew of two hours prior. These two social groups likely originated from the very same Anatolian hometowns, but the juxtaposition of village pants and leather jackets was too much for even my imagination. They live an hour's drive and a world apart.
And me, in my jeans and a hoodie - I can sip a Caramel Macchiato at three o'clock and a cup of tea cooked over the fire at four. I not from either crowd, but I move - albeit awkwardly - amongst them both. I'm from a bus stop somewhere in between.
Really interesting article on the custom of "berdel," common in southeastern Turkey. Precise rules and conditions govern over a bride-swap between two families. (re-poseted from bnet.com)
It is a bright Sunday in the tiny Arab village of Lower Arbit in southeastern Turkey. Cheerful melodies issue from a cassette player powered by a tractor battery. I watch as Nuri and Turkan, brother and sister, join the snaking line of the halay dance in front of their house, over which flies a Turkish flag. Meanwhile, a few miles away, in the village of Mengalan, a similar scene must be unfolding for Mehmet and Feride, who are also brother and sister. All four are to be wed today: Nuri to Feride, and Mehmet to Turkan. ... Read more....
I once watched a murder mystery where this guy would set up his camera on a tripod outside his shop every morning and take a picture of the small town's main street at precisely nine o'clock. He also took a picture every evening of what he was having for dinner - a slightly redundant habit, given that he ate the exact same thing every single day. (I suppose the plate changed....) Anyhow, in the end, they were able to solve the murder based on clues in the daily street shots, based on whose car was and wasn't parked where, I think.
I don't have any grand crime solving ambitions, but I've decided to take up a similar habit, at least for this year. I'm going to take a picture every day and post it as that day's photo, both on Facebook and in a continually progressing Shutterfly photo book that I'll be able to print at the end of the year. Being both a passionate chronicler and a firm believer in the fact that the grand beauty of our lives is made up of the million mundane moments of each day, this project is right up my alley. Plus, as a photographer, I think it will be a really good discipline cuz it will force me to carry my camera more often, to really see what's going on around me, and to be more intentional about planning shots. (Otherwise we'll end up with a whole lot of photos taken in my bedroom at 11 PM when I realize I haven't shot anything that day, and that could get old really fast!)
"They" always say that, when travelling or moving somewhere new, you should take lots of pictures in the first few days, otherwise you get used to your surroundings and things don't jump out at you as unique or interesting after awhile. What was originally fascinating becomes commonplace. I can definitely testify to this - I live in a city oozing with history, a destination tourists flock to in droves, and yet the Roman walls, the waters of the Mediterranean and the colourful bazaars have, in many ways, all blended into one image I flippantly call "home." My hope is that this project will force me to really notice what's around me and see it with fresh eyes.
I'm ashamed to say, I've already done the "11:00 in my bedroom" thing twice already, and it's only the end of the first week of the year! But today, knowing I needed something more interesting to show for this 24 hours than another shot of my desk, I shook off my need to never look like a tourist, reminded myself that I am a photographer, and took my camera with me to the pazar when I went to get my fruits and veggies. It reminded me how alive I feel when I'm shooting and interacting with those on the other side of the camera. Here's a couple of shots from the morning.
Here's to 2011 - 365 ordinary snapshots that will no doubt make up one unforgettable year.
A few days ago, we got wind that a close friend was sick. Enter the custom of the "geçmiş olsun" visit. This phrase literally means, "May it pass quickly," and is said to someone who is ill. (I have ALWAYS wanted to say it to someone with a kidney stone! Though they probably wouldn't find it as funny as I would.)
Shutting off our North American instinct that tells us a person just wants to rest when they're sick, we grabbed a bunch of lemons from off our tree (her favourite, and perfect for mint-lemon-thyme tea - the classic Turkish cold-treatment) and headed over to the house. When we arrived, the sick friend in question was at the hospital getting a shot, but her husband, two of her kids, her aunt and uncle, her next-door neighbour and her two kids were all there waiting for her to get back, so we cozied up by the woodstove and joined in on the wait. After awhile, our friend arrived, accompanied by her two oldest kids and her grandson. That makes - count 'em - fourteen people in the living room. She promptly curled up on the couch, covered her head with a blanket, and tried to go to sleep. We all then proceeded to eat fruit and drink tea and have a grand old time, while she lay there in the midst of the noisy crowd feeling crummy.
This is one part of this culture I don't think I'll ever get used to. They say that when someone is sick, they mustn't be alone - they need other people around to be cheerful for them. Man, when I'm sick, all I want is my pillow, a cup of tea, a stack of movies and some peace and quiet. Leave your lemons at the door and be cheerful via email, please! Unless of course you come bearing chicken soup and Dr. Seuss. Then I might make an exception. :)
Ever stop to think about what Noah fed his family once they disembarked from the ark? It's not as though he'd had a chance to plant and harvest crops, and his kitchen cupboards weren't exactly stocked, or even standing. As the legend goes, for their first dry-land meal, they gathered up all the leftover nuts, grains and bits of fruit still in the galley pantry and cooked them up into a sort of pudding, and that's how they kept from starving.
Here in the land of Ararat, every year in the month following the Sacrifice Festival, it's traditional for each family to make up a big pot of aşure ("Noah's Pudding") and then take bowls of it around to share with friends and neighbours. Every housewife has her own recipe that she swears by - a varying combination of grains, wheat, beans, nuts, dried fruit and sugar.
Once "aşure making week" rolls around, the pots start boiling and the doorbell starts ringing, and soon an entire shelf in the fridge is full of bowls of the stuff. Each bowl has its own personality - as distinct as the cooks themselves. Emine's is soupy - mostly wheat and chickpeas, while Aydan Abla's has lots of crunchy bits, and yummy pomegranate seeds sprinkled generously on top. I've never made my own, but if I did, it would probably involve less wheat and more chocolate chips, not keeping very close to the story of "what they had on the ark." :)
I suppose if one wanted to amuse oneself, one could set up a booth in the complex parking lot and do taste tests to see whose is the most well-loved...but that might not be the best thing for neighbourhood relations, being that these recipes are well-honed masterpieces of great pride. There are strong opinions about these things, you know.
All in all, aşure is yummy...to a point....but it's also pretty....texture-y. I can only handle one bowlful per year, and I'm done. Thankfully my roommate likes to warm it up and eat it for breakfast, sorta like a porridge. It's a good thing, too, cuz just when the bowls were empty and she thought she'd finished her aşure-duty for the year, yesterday the doorbell rang....
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