tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90380440658468526262024-03-14T03:44:26.329-07:00Everyday Treasures[the bits and pieces that make up the big picture]everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.comBlogger212125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-20027015010056465302017-06-23T08:25:00.000-07:002017-06-23T08:29:26.349-07:00Snow Days in Spring (Sabbatical Part 2)<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
It wasn’t more than a week after my arrival in Scotland that I spotted The First Snowdrops. </div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">They were huddled in a clump on the banks of the creek below where I was staying.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Now, for years I’ve wished I lived somewhere that snowdrops grew.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">They’ve long been a symbol of “defiant hope” to me - their delicate-yet-powerful white heads forcing their way up through the snow, refusing to let winter win and promising the advent of spring.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">There’s a town about two hours away, up in the mountains, that is famous for them, but down here on the Mediterranean coast, we don’t exactly get snow, let alone flowers that poke their heads up through it.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">So the prospect of spending February in a place where I could witness their awakening ought to have thrilled my heart.</span></div>
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Except it didn’t.</div>
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Snowdrops are all about defying winter. But I hadn’t come for spring’s “waking up” - I’d come for winter’s “hunkering down”. And suddenly my favourite little white flowers felt like a threat - an announcement that things were about to get all <i>alive</i> when all I craved was stillness. And the thing is, I know myself. I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist their message of hope. I’d want to be out there drinking it in, photographing it, reveling in it.... But I couldn’t see how that spirit could jive with the “dormancy” I’d come in search of. Winter was ending before it had even started, and it had my heart all jumbled.</div>
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The thing is, though, spring is kind of irresistible. It’s seriously hard to resent daffodils and tulips. Like them, we were <i>made</i> to come alive in the spring. And as those persistent snowdrops started to take over the glen, and every little walled garden on the way into town, I was won over in spite of myself. With the appearance of every new patch of flowers (and those crocuses come out <i>early</i> in Scotland!) something woke up inside of me: a longing to blossom and bloom.</div>
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And that’s when the Gardener reminded me why I’d come in search of winter in the first place. Dormancy was never an end in and of itself. Bare branches and slow sap flow and the relief of not having to sustain all those leaves was never the <i>goal</i>; it was only the means by which my tree would get the rest it needed in order to then be healthy and produce fruit. Winter was <i>as unto</i> spring. And that’s where the wild Scottish weather was the perfect companion for me - the appearance of flowers didn’t stop the freezing wind from blowing, and I still needed long johns under my jeans for those long walks on the beach. It was very clearly still winter. My days were still all about quiet and the work going on deep inside. I didn’t have to embrace the activities of spring just yet - but I desperately needed the hope it carried.</div>
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It was a relief not to have to close my heart to the snowdrops, fearing that they would steal my rest. They were the assurance that all that “ruthless stillness” had a purpose. Mine was not a season of rest marked by plain old depletedness. It was rest infused with the hope of rejuvenation. Sap would again flow through my veins. There would yet be blossoms and blooms on my branches.</div>
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But even as I was sinking blissfully into my season of hibernation, events were in motion within my closest circle of relationships back in Turkey that made it pretty clear that I’d need to head back sooner than hoped to be a part of some crucial transitions, endings, and new beginnings. No matter the state of your heart, some things just have to be walked through <i>together</i>. As I weighed the decision about my return, I struggled, knowing that I hadn’t had nearly enough winter and was so not ready for spring. Suddenly all those flowers weren’t feeling like friends. Cutting my still-fragile tree’s dormancy short sounded like being yanked out of the safety of my blanket of snow into the glaring sunlight of spring. I knew I’d need to participate with my whole heart, and that the season would require me to use the “fully formed fruit” of all the rest and clarity and healing that was still so very half-baked and in process. I knew it was “the right thing to do.” But it sounded like a recipe for disaster. And I was terrified.</div>
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I took my confusion to the Gardener. </div>
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I asked Him about my “wintering tree”. Everything I’d read told me it was dangerous to the life of a plant to force it out of dormancy too soon. Had winter done its full work? Would I be ready to bear fruit come spring if I hadn’t gotten all I needed out of the previous season? Wouldn’t this pre-mature re-entry into my usual world send me straight back to burnout, worse off than when I started?</div>
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His answer came on a walk into town. He drew my eyes to the purple crocuses and bright yellow daffodils scattered on hillsides and adorning every garden. He pointed out the budding branches, the pink and white blossoms appearing on every twig. “This is your heart,” He said. “You’re already in spring.” </div>
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This took me by surprise. I didn’t <i>feel</i> strong. I didn’t <i>feel</i> ready. But as He walked me back through my weeks there on the North Ayrshire coast, I saw that He was right. No, I hadn’t read “enough” novels, or done all the writing I wanted, or climbed every hill I’d wanted to explore. But what I <i>had</i> done was the hard work of letting my heart be transformed. I’d surrendered my heart to the Gardener’s shears, allowing Him to prune and bind up and heal. “Coming away into winter was right at the time,” He told me. “But it’s not time to fight to stay dormant any longer. See all those buds on your branches? It’s time to let them open up and bloom. They’re still tender, they’re not fully formed, but they’re buds nonetheless. Now is the time to ask Me to protect them so they can mature. To keep them safe from biting winds and late frosts that would snap them off or snuff out their life in their infant stage. To ask for favourable conditions so they can flower and flourish and bear much fruit.”</div>
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He promised that He wouldn’t abandon the work of His hands. That He was ready and able to shepherd my tree out of winter and into spring. He was fully aware that the work wasn’t done yet, but He asked me to trust Him with the care and nurturing of my branches - to believe Him when He said that He was going to accomplish in the context of community what I thought could only be accomplished in solitude. That what I thought could only happen on the rainy coast of Scotland was indeed going to come to fruition under the hot Mediterranean sun. </div>
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And then, in the middle of a brief but magical snowfall that tickled the daffodils and crocuses with white, He spoke the most reassuring promise: “I will still give you snow days in spring.” Those words dispelled the last of my anxiety about my return home. “Snow days” conjure up images of staying home from school in cozy pajamas, of hot chocolate and Hardy Boys books and card games and generally getting to hit pause on normal life, just for a bit. It was the assurance that I didn’t have to leave all my “winter’s work” behind in Scotland - that there would be time, even in the bright sunlight of the new season, to step out for an hour or a day and continue to let the stillness do its work. </div>
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I could trust the One who holds the seasons in His hands to bring mine to completion.</div>
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And you know what? He has been so true to His word. I came home to one of the most emotionally intense, relationally trying seasons of my life. But there’s been so much grace. And what I feared would happen - that my fragile little buds would crumple under the weight of so much upheaval and transition - hasn’t happened at all. Quite the opposite. In the midst of - and I dare say <i>because</i> of - new configurations in my closest community and the major transition of moving from my home of ten years in the village to a brand new world in the city, the work that was happening deep inside me was accelerated. It’s been complemented and completed, rather than stolen from or aborted. The intensity of this spring has solidified what began in the stillness of winter, and in rising to the occasion, I’ve been able to walk out into the newness of what’s happened inside of me. Those buds have become full-on flowers. </div>
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Now that the boxes are more or less unpacked in my new home and most of the relational puzzle pieces that were thrown up in the air a few months ago have settled snugly into their new configurations, I’ve been able to enjoy a few more “snow days” in recent weeks. I’ve spent time reading through journal entries from the past year, making paintings and photographs to immortalize the gems of the season, and trying to bring some closure to it all before I head home to Canada for the summer. But I’ve been finding that, more than “finishing up heart-work that still needed to be done”, these snow days have been times of recognizing and celebrating the incredible work that has come to completion without me even really realizing it. </div>
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He who holds the seasons in His hands truly knows how to bring out the fullness of each one, even when they overlap or seem to come out of order. I’m no longer looking longingly back at winter, wishing it could last just a little longer. I’ve run headlong into the “new life” of spring, and am ready to embrace all the joy that summer promises.</div>
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(Right on time, too, cuz it’s 32 degrees out and I’ve got friends coming to town for a birthday celebration next week. And I am so not wearing my winter coat to the beach!) ;)</div>
everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-15080052389174143432017-06-09T10:20:00.000-07:002017-06-09T10:20:31.683-07:00Winter's Work (Sabbatical Part 1)<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
There’s a famous story told around these parts involving me, a plant with pretty purple flowers, and a pair of scissors. One late summer’s day, many moons ago, my roommate told me it would be a good time to harvest the basil from the plant out on the balcony. So with visions of pesto and a well-sprinkled salad dancing in my head, I grabbed the scissors and went outside. A few minutes later, my roommate came into the kitchen and gasped in horror as she saw me rinsing a colander-full of leaves from the one plant the gardener hadn’t killed while we were gone over the summer. The basil, with its slightly lighter purple flowers (and, I now know, rather different-shaped leaves) was still sitting happily in one piece in its pot on the balcony. And all I wanted to know was, “Can I still use these leaves in the salad?”</div>
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My point? I am not a gardener. Not by any stretch of the imagination. </div>
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And yet, despite my uncanny ability - by overactive scissors or watering cans- to kill green things, pretty much alllll the revelations I’ve had in the last year have involved plants. Well, trees, mostly. Roots and leaves and rings and sap. Buds and blossoms, too. So I’ve taken to reading articles about pruning and photosynthesis and forest growth just to understand what’s being spoken to my own heart.</div>
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Last year was a rough year, to put it mildly. An extended summer at home due to wanting to be with my mom through a difficult season of health problems had allowed for a degree of rest, but as I prepared to return to Turkey in November, I felt like I was returning having only “come up to zero.” The thought of trying to jump back into life and somehow muster up vision and energy was a tiring one. I felt about like this pathetic little branch - desperately wanting to bear fruit, but lacking any sort of life in my empty hands.</div>
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It was then - through some conversations with some wise friends - that I started to sense a call to dormancy. To winter. To a season where this little tree could hunker down, cease all activity, and rest as unto coming back to life. </div>
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Dormancy, I learned, is when trees shed their leaves and use all the energy they would have spent “feeding them” for what’s happening inside and underground. “It’s similar to hibernation, since most animals who hibernate store food as fat, and then use it to run their essential systems during the winter, rather than grow any more. The tree’s metabolism also slows down during dormancy... Since it has to conserve the food it has stored, it’s best if the tree uses it up slowly, and only for essential functions.”</div>
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One article talked about the danger of forcing a plant to “skip its period of dormancy” by controlling the temperature and light in its environment. But this dramatically shortens its lifespan and is bad for the overall health of the plant. I realized that by not giving myself the chance to rest and refuel that I so desperately needed, I was doing something that might seem “productive” in the immediate future, but would seriously hinder my ability to make it over the long haul.</div>
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So I started to make plans for a sabbatical.</div>
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In the time between getting the “invitation” to come away for winter and actually leaving for my sabbatical in Scotland, I would notice bare, leafless trees whose branches had been cut back to stubs and think, “I can’t wait to be just like you.” While winter often sounds “bleak and depressing”, I craved its ruthless stillness.</div>
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In its portrayal of the seasons our souls go through, Mark Buchanan’s book “Spiritual Rhythm” perfectly captured what I was after:</div>
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<i>“Pruning is another winter’s work. A tree’s dormancy strips the thing to bony nakedness, fruitless, leafless, ugly. A tree in winter is useless and unsightly. But it has this one advantage: you can cut the wood deep, right back to its trunk if you must, and the tree will survive. If it’s done right, the tree will be better for it come springtime: stronger, shaplier, more vigorous. Above all, more fruitful.”</i></div>
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<i>“Pruning strengthens our core. It takes energy that is dissipated over a wide span, branching every which way, and distills it into the trunk and a few solid arms. That means spring will find you lean and strong, ready to bear much fruit.”</i></div>
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<i>“Winter is when you submit to the vinedresser’s pruning shears. Winter’s not for adding things, but for cutting things. It’s the best season - the safest one, actually - to look closely at all the tangled branches of your life - the travel, the committee work, the various projects, the hobbies that have become burdens or obsessions, the trivial pursuits, the diversions; or the ingrown snarl of things, the lists in your head of people and situations to worry about, the proliferation of responsibilities that aren’t really yours - and ask honestly if those are bearing fruit or just sapping energy. And then, without apology or even caution, cut to nothing all that gives nothing.”</i></div>
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That was my goal.</div>
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The end of January was the beginning of my “winter season.” It found me in Scotland, on the wind-whipped, rain-drenched, and occasionally (if only for five minutes) snow-graced Ayrshire coast. My spacious, bookshelf-lined room was the perfect introvert’s haven, and the bare trees in the glen just a few steps outside my door were the ideal backdrop to my season of being “cut back to nothing.” Things might have looked bleak on the surface...but I knew that a deep work was going on underground. <br />
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My winter was one of long, bundled-up tromps on the beach, pounding my questions out over miles of dark sand and receiving the peace that came with each wave that lapped at my Wellies. It was strolls through the glen, feeling a sense of kinship with the wintering trees, seeing my own heart in their stripped-bare branches. It was steaming mugs of coffee and rain streaming down window panes and page upon page of untwisting my heart and mind in my journal. It was a table covered in pencil shaving and eraser bits, brush pens and a watercolour palette as I explored new creative ways of expressing what was going on inside of me. It was times of going deep with people who were like assistant gardeners, aiding the Vinedresser as He chopped and pruned, extracting unhealthy thought patterns and beliefs, and getting rid of dead branches so the living ones had space to flourish. It was breathing deeply of fresh, clean air and feeling the tingle of sap flowing through my veins once again. </div>
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It was a long stretch of dormancy as unto coming back to life. </div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-91606581477534760292017-02-15T15:05:00.002-08:002017-02-17T00:49:17.546-08:00On Moxie and Marshmallows<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
West Kilbride, the town where I’m staying during my sabbatical, has branded itself as “Craft Town Scotland.” Apparently in the ‘90s the town centre was derelict, with storefronts boarded up and merchants suffering from the lack of foot traffic. But an initiative led by the townspeople to rebuild the town around the idea of being a “craft and design destination” really revived the community, breathed new life into the local economy, and gave the locals a sense of pride. </div>
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This wasn’t necessarily the reason I chose to spend this season here - that was more about being hosted by people who’d created an atmosphere of rest - but it became apparent to me as I prepared to come that West Kilbride’s creative spirit was going to be a key part of my time here. I arrived with hopes that some of the “boarded up storefronts” of my heart would have new life breathed into them through my interactions with local artists.</div>
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A little over a week ago, I went into the village to find out what’s what in the creative scene there. I felt bold on the outside, timid on the inside, as I often do in situations like that where I know I’ll need to declare out loud, “I am an artist” and sound like I mean it. Even though it’s the truth - I have a legit photography business, for goodness’ sake - I still often feel like I’m playing make-believe, acting out a role that I’d love to inhabit but that’s still a bit big on me. It’s the same way I feel when I wear the outfit I wore into town that day - a cute heather-gray shirt-dress and black leggings, with my classy new black peacoat, autumn-plaid blanket scarf and tall black boots with a bit of a heel: like a little girl playing dress-up and dearly hoping she doesn’t trip in the middle of the High Street.</div>
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Somehow just “cold-calling” at the different studios felt a bit overwhelming, so I decided to start small. I made my way up to the Barony Centre - this gorgeous old church-turned-gallery/cafe. They’ve got all sorts of art on exhibit there - paintings, pottery, jewelry, photography, glasswork. And all, as far I could tell, by local artists - or at least Scottish ones - with a distinct Ayrshire coast flavour. There were a bunch of hand-drawn and painted cards for sale and I bought one of a bare tree that really spoke to me as a symbol of this “pruning” season. </div>
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I told myself I was just there to observe. To get a feel for the town. To sit and have a coffee and take it all in. I didn’t have to ask a lot of questions just yet - I just had to get a feel for it. There are a whole February’s-worth of days left for questions. (Gosh, I would’ve sucked as a reporter!)</div>
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One of the things I’m working on while I’m here is continuing with my online travel writing class. I’d thought about how fun it would be to do a story about some aspect of “Craft Town” - to interview different artists and craftspeople who have studios along Main Street, or exhibits at the Barony, or work in the bookshops or galleries to find out what it’s like to be part of an “intentionally creative community”, to mark art for a living, and to get paid to do what they love, right there on the high street, for all the world to see. (I bet it’s highly motivating to “get down to the business of crafting” when any passerby can see if you’re zoning out on Instagram when you ought to be blowing glass!)</div>
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I sat and had my flat white in the Barony’s cafe, next to the window, watching the “lollipop man” get all the newly-liberated school children safely across the towns main street, his bright yellow vest and giant hand-held stop sign halting traffic so they could run safely over to the football pitch or down to Candy Man Craig’s (a.k.a La Dolce Vita) for a hot dog or an ice cream or both. Boys in shorts and girls in hiked-up plaid uniform skirts and knee socks paraded past the window - they sure make ‘em hardy around here! </div>
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A group of three not-quite-elderly ladies were having coffee and pastries in the corner next to me. I would’ve assumed they were all locals, but that just goes to show you how not-good I am at differentiating between British accents. One of them mentioned that she’d never heard of “toasted scones” until she came to Scotland. “Tea cakes, yes. But not scones.” So, an English transplant, I presumed. </div>
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Their conversation (which I had no choice but to be privy to) bounced around from one lady’s daughter who turned 29 today and had cried on the phone because she’s doomed to never get married (“She’s in Miami, you know, and she said it’s just dreadful there, with that new refugee law...sending all the people back from the airports. They won’t even let some flight crews off their planes! Causing all kinds of chaos...”) to the mice wreaking havoc in another one’s garden, to how much hypnotherapy had helped one during her first pregnancy, to a niece who once had a job tutoring the children of the King of Jordan. They commented on “how nicely” the South Asian barista spoke, passed on advice about switching their phone plans to Giffgaff, and discussed how it could be spitting out when the sky had been so clear just twenty minutes ago. (I thought only the meteorogically uninitiated asked things like that upon arriving on the North Ayrshire coast. Made me feel better about all the times I’ve thought, “Why did I bother bringing this scarf?” only to be pulling it tighter ten minutes later.)</div>
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The gaggle started putting their coats on right about the time I finished my coffee. So, with no one else’s conversation on which to “practice my observation skills”, I had a decision to make: tell myself “looking at the exhibits” and “getting a feel for the vibe of the place” were enough and that I could come back with my courage and my questions another day, or gather up my gumption and at least ask what sorts of event or classes might be on while I’m here. Deciding that the more I play the role of “the artist” while I’m here, the more it’ll start to feel true, I took a deep breath and went for Option B. </div>
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The volunteer at the gallery - a nice lady of about sixty wearing purple eyeshadow and a kind smile, whose only regret from her Alaskan cruise-Rocky Mountain - Vancouver retirement trip was that they didn’t allot more than a day for Vancouver Island - didn’t know much in terms of events at the Barony, but she took me back into the cafe so I could “ask Rose.” </div>
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Rose and a friend were seated at a table just inside the door. Rose, it seemed, was “the one who knew things.” </div>
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I’m not sure they knew what to make of me. Honestly, I’m not sure I knew what I was making of myself. I told them I was here on a bit of a “creative retreat” and was looking to get my juices flowing. I’m sure I sounded terribly vague, asking if they had any “groups or classes or anything”, but not specifying whether I painted or knitted or made things out of bottle caps.</div>
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I think I half-expected them to ooh and ahh over the foreigner who’d come all the way to wee little West Kilbride cuz she’d heard of its famed creative spirit and wanted a taste of the glory. Not so much.</div>
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Enrollment had already closed for any classes I might have been able to join in on, but they did point me in the direction of a few studios whose owners would be worth talking to - “the ones up at the corner at Happy Hills Studio” and Rosalyn who does the felt and fabric cards. Apparently Maiden Aunt’s Knitting and the glass blowing place also do classes, though I’m not sure baby booties or glass swans are too far up my alley. But I suppose it could help me tap into some deep creative well and “unlock the flow” and make me a better photographer and writer. :) You never know. </div>
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It was getting on towards dusk by the time I left (meaning it was all of 4PM - winter!) and I still needed to pop by the grocery store on the way home, so I decided to save the studio conversations for another day. But before eggs and milk, I had one other very important stop to make: Candy Man Craig’s.</div>
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Craig is precisely the sort of man you’d expect to run a shop that sells ice cream and gum drops and Scottish tablet and fancy chocolates and fizzy sticks. When I was here in November, I’d gotten accustomed to his red and white striped apron and politely jolly demeanor as he’d ask, “With whipped cream and marshmallows, then?” when I ordered my near-daily hot chocolates for the walk home through the glen. </div>
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At first I didn’t think he recognized me - so proper was he when taking my order. But once we’d established that I did indeed want marshmallows and cream, he asked (in his blessedly intelligible Scottish accent) “So, you’re back for a wee bit, are you then?”</div>
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Somehow I felt much more confident telling <i>him</i> about my ‘creative sabbatical.’ I suppose it’s hard not to feel good about yourself when surrounded by jars of candy. </div>
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I’d heard that he has a “studio” of his own - a little workshop where he makes chocolates to sell in La Dolce Vita. Now THAT is my kind of creating! I decided I definitely wanted to do a piece on him while I’m here. Something about the man whose creativity keeps the whole town licking their lips, or something like that. I’d sit down at the sole table by the window with my creamy hot chocolate and my notebook and take notes on his interactions with all the kids who come in after school and spend their allowance money getting their hot dog cards stamped and stuffing their faces with fudge.</div>
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And when I told him I was working on growing my travel journalism skills and asked if I could come again and do an interview with “the village chocolate artist”, he was happy to oblige. I have an appointment for tomorrow!</div>
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Turns out all it took to get my creative courage flowing was a couple of marshmallows and some cream...</div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-6244645596241207262017-02-07T14:36:00.001-08:002017-06-23T12:14:51.991-07:00Leave to Live: First Fruits of the Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>"It is a grand thing to get leave to live." </i></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>- Nan Shepherd, Scottish poet</div>
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These words - a message from heaven on a five-pound note - were my invitation into the season of sabbatical I'm in now. They carried with them a whiff of freedom, permission - no, a <i>charge</i> - to dream without boundaries, and a beckoning to come test the limits of "life more abundantly." </div>
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As I've settled into my temporary Scottish home (has it really been a week and a half already?), I've taken these words to heart. They've guided how I spend my hours and my days. There is a vastness in them, but also an urgency - the sense that this time is a gift and I need to really get down to the business of <i>living</i>. </div>
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They've led me on romps and rambles, up into the green hills and down the windswept coastal paths. They've taken me into the depths and dark places in my heart, where lies and hindrances to life are exposed and uprooted and I get to taste the glory of true freedom. And they've called me to create.</div>
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So much of this time is about re-connecting with (or discovering for the first time) who I am and how I was designed. Unearthing the “me” that comes to the surface when the weights of fear and over-responsibility are removed and the dust of heart-crushing lies blown off and I’m able to see - and delight in - the good that was deposited in me as I was knit together in my mother’s womb that I’m meant to share with the world. </div>
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And - surprise, surprise - so much of that has to do with <i>creating</i>. </div>
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One of the words I got before moving to Turkey was that I was going “for the display of His splendour.” That there is a unique facet of my Father’s personality, character and beauty that I’m meant to be showcasing and reflecting and shining a light on. That word still burns in my heart, but it hadn’t seen the light of day in a good while. It was high time I pull it out again and give it the place it deserves - in my heart and in my day planner. (Yes, I still use a day planner. Long live paper!) If m1n1stry is “the best of what He’s poured into me being poured out into other people”, I need to make cultivating that “best” a high priority. And for me, a big chunk of that means creating.</div>
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It’s always the things we were actually created to do - the ones that shine the best of Him through the best of us - that are so relentlessly and insidiously <i>opposed</i>. This season is about fighting back.</div>
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It’s a season where I’ve been given not just permission but a <i>mandate</i> to give space and weight and <i>honour </i>to my creative giftings and to develop them - not for the sake of producing anything, but for the sake of <i>joy</i>. For the sake of coming <i>alive</i>. It’s a time to run headlong after those things I always think I’ll do “when I have more time” - the ones that get relegated to the bottom of my never-ending to-do list because they don’t seem “urgent”, but are actually the ones that would infuse life into all the other parts of my life if I’d let them. The ones that allow me to uniquely display His splendour.</div>
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All that to say, I’ve been doing a whole lot of “creating” since I got here. I’ve vowed that I’ll create (at least) one thing every day. Taking photos and logging writing hours and getting down some of the stories that have been percolating inside me for months are an obvious part of that. But I really wanted to find something else I could do - something more tangible and immediate and hands-on - that I could pursue during this time to really get my creative juices flowing on a daily basis. </div>
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Half on a whim, I bought a book on creative lettering and had it shipped here so it was waiting when I arrived. I can’t draw worth squat. (Remember that grade 6 report card comment from my art teacher? “Great improvement from last year. She now draws her people with necks.”) But what I CAN do is doodle letters. And it turns out that’s a thing. Incidentally, a very marketable thing. But also just plain fun. It's something I'd love to get good at. But for now I'm just enjoying the freedom to play. And this book has turned out to be one of my favourite companions on this sabbatical journey.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8HXqnetoWDB0sjKdIQPoMk96fevwqXJwQlz5fg-KPBg_uqupBOg8GkonRlKFItLnYbk4F_t_asDWSZ-VVrPvEzA6A0e16nLCNiV0Qgk5TqMAslIIASnVNc7AAhMJRvktlTKz4bsJyk8PG/s1600/untitled-5083January+28%252C+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8HXqnetoWDB0sjKdIQPoMk96fevwqXJwQlz5fg-KPBg_uqupBOg8GkonRlKFItLnYbk4F_t_asDWSZ-VVrPvEzA6A0e16nLCNiV0Qgk5TqMAslIIASnVNc7AAhMJRvktlTKz4bsJyk8PG/s400/untitled-5083January+28%252C+2017.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There’s so much <i>pleasure</i> in hand-lettering for me. I’m loving playing with fonts and strokes and learning about things like “filigree” and “serif” and “drop caps.” It’s been a great way to document some of the words being deposited in my heart during this season, and to get them on the wall where I can see them and be shaped by them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So....here are some of the first fruits of this creative season...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCKVk-6_O1dV67fdgDbGejE2-7dKZ-uxBcUJa3bNHNazaYck8KtMvJr4znfdPH4E2J5_b2q3obLv1qwkL57jBfHe2ELsSt9O9-DsuYUqUcHBv79avQl88YKxrYczhyphenhyphenMhwO_yHM1kkVCX1/s1600/untitled-5097January+29%252C+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCKVk-6_O1dV67fdgDbGejE2-7dKZ-uxBcUJa3bNHNazaYck8KtMvJr4znfdPH4E2J5_b2q3obLv1qwkL57jBfHe2ELsSt9O9-DsuYUqUcHBv79avQl88YKxrYczhyphenhyphenMhwO_yHM1kkVCX1/s400/untitled-5097January+29%252C+2017.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZ489Hxu2Qpb0tm-Hl_u0YVDep6evR2jrbwKkmjwcd5FAnl9vUGG3oXN4bqKKT4Ce2jstLD976G0mpu1WipHVgJ-UG1zwRbBcIdY2jRr70UhjgllrtvMEVlh3eiyfk9OzNzs2JoniUKHT/s1600/untitled-5089January+28%252C+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZ489Hxu2Qpb0tm-Hl_u0YVDep6evR2jrbwKkmjwcd5FAnl9vUGG3oXN4bqKKT4Ce2jstLD976G0mpu1WipHVgJ-UG1zwRbBcIdY2jRr70UhjgllrtvMEVlh3eiyfk9OzNzs2JoniUKHT/s400/untitled-5089January+28%252C+2017.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMaZ1viV9__L-IfCWypN7avoeXr_7V25Bw4zeu9UCp4TYPavysgtS-vdVlCyuWyQ3IihfGUS9NTihVpAyKVl_55wSiSYkK6Mn52_e3vHeOKX-fBHKSPltMzY9eyvsqp_GJNwphIso95uw/s1600/untitled-5103January+29%252C+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMaZ1viV9__L-IfCWypN7avoeXr_7V25Bw4zeu9UCp4TYPavysgtS-vdVlCyuWyQ3IihfGUS9NTihVpAyKVl_55wSiSYkK6Mn52_e3vHeOKX-fBHKSPltMzY9eyvsqp_GJNwphIso95uw/s400/untitled-5103January+29%252C+2017.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">This one makes me laugh cuz it conjures up images of some </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">1970s orange juice container...but still, I kinda like it. :)</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtm5OBx3oDbavDGdunHVbD94o_mV3j1j2ePvcpiZtAm1SuUmc9kiByDVTV08DWJhyphenhyphenNnsx7DQJhrWOmWA3PuwnEp0jlh7Qrb5phuiSRnu9C8upNKPqZGeWH5Rn1laRspsDEkwBqcZRVHSoY/s1600/untitled-5202February+01%252C+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtm5OBx3oDbavDGdunHVbD94o_mV3j1j2ePvcpiZtAm1SuUmc9kiByDVTV08DWJhyphenhyphenNnsx7DQJhrWOmWA3PuwnEp0jlh7Qrb5phuiSRnu9C8upNKPqZGeWH5Rn1laRspsDEkwBqcZRVHSoY/s400/untitled-5202February+01%252C+2017.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
<br />everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-4675348119168642682016-09-02T22:46:00.000-07:002016-09-02T23:15:58.776-07:00Deep Breaths of Home<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“I don’t get to come up here all that often, but when I retire, we’ll fix this place up and this is where we’ll live.”</i></div>
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<i>Ömer Abi led us through the skeleton frame of the two-story house out onto the unfinished cement balcony. The orchard sloped away from the house in a tangle of unkempt grapevines and apricot, mulberry and walnut trees, the last of their leaves clinging to near barren branches. Fading traces of autumn’s glory graced the foothills of the mountains across the valley from us while their peaks had been newly dusted with the first snow of the harsh Eastern Turkish winter.</i></div>
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<i>“I’ve lived a lot of places in this country - they never station a policeman in his hometown. But for me, no place is as beautiful as here.” His eyes shone with pride. “You could be from the ugliest place in the world - the desert, or somewhere with nothing but dirt and rocks, but if that is what you grew up with, if that is what you are used to, then no matter where you go, you always long for that dirt and those rocks. That’s what’s beautiful to you, because it’s in you. It’s home.”</i></div>
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<i>~ ~ ~ ~ ~</i></div>
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There’s an actual word in Turkish for “someone who lives far away from home” - “<i>gurbetçi</i>.” It’s always pronounced with a bit of wistfulness in the voice, and the inevitable response to hearing that someone is a “<i>gurbetçi”</i> is a look of sympathy mixed with longing. </div>
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Over the last couple of years, I’ve done dozens of interviews with <i>gurbetçiler </i>for my book project, tentatively titled “The Scent of Home.” <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Some people I interview have a hard time at first coming up with words to describe their hometowns.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the phrase “It’s just your average village in Anatolia.”</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But when we get to the “smell” questions, suddenly their memories are unlocked and their faces get animated.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“Whenever I smell bread baking, it’s like I’m five again, sitting beside my mom as she cooked </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">yufka</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> over the fire in our back garden.”</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“My grandpa always smelled like goats.”</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“There was this one brand of lemon-scented hand wipes my parents always used to wipe our faces...”</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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The idea for the title came from a conversation with my old language helper when she talked about visiting her “hometown” as an adult. She’d only actually lived there until she was three, but it was her father’s home and therefore hers, too. She got this sweet, little girl smile on her face as she talked about the smell of the dirt in her grandparents’ garden, and how as soon as she smelled it, it was familiar, like home. And she instinctively knew that was the soil she’d been formed from. That it was a part of her, and she of it.</div>
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Last month as I was “retreating” on Bowen Island, I made a discovery about myself. Well, actually, it was something I already knew, but it was confirmed deep in my heart. It hit me one morning that weekend, as I sat nestled into a groove in a fat log in a little cove on the south side of the island under a cloudy gray sky. I was watching the dark waves roll and tease the barnacle-clad shore. My revelation: I am British Columbian to the core. </div>
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I may have lived outside of Canada for going on half my life, but this place is home. It’s in my bones. </div>
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I’ve lived half an hour from the Mediterranean for the past nine years. And all that turquoise water is gorgeous - don’t get me wrong. But honestly? It doesn’t do much for my heart. But give me rocky shores crowded with pine and fir trees, seagull laughter and the tangy smell of kelp and seaweed tossed in the black waves, and even if - or maybe <i>especially</i> if - it’s sopping wet with rain, I’m the happiest of campers.</div>
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I can totally echo Ömer Abi’s sentiments - no matter where in the world I roam (and I’ve roamed a LOT), no place holds a candle to British Columbia. And I think anyone who’s been here would agree - it’s a whole lot more than a sentimental attachment to my own version of his “dirt and rocks”. This place is all kinds of gorgeous. </div>
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BC Day happened to fall while I was away on Bowen, and that day, my inner Vancouverite was spoiled rotten with more local beauty than my heart could handle. </div>
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I started the day with a run around lilypad-draped Killarney Lake on a trail that winds 4 km through wet, mossy forest. And it was the alive-est I’d felt in ages. I love my dirt-road route back in Turkey. (Nothing like a herd of sheep to cheer you on!) And the path in the park behind my elementary school where I usually run when I’m home in BC holds its own special memories. But that day, as my feet pounded the soft earth, as I burst through glistening spider webs and ducked under low-hanging pine branches and powered up hills stair-stepped with gnarly tree roots, I kept thinking, “I wasn’t built for dodging cracks in the cement and walkers on cell phones and tiny dogs in sweaters - I was made to run <i>here</i>!”</div>
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That afternoon, I tried something I’ve wanted to do for years and went paddle-boarding around Snug Cove and Dorman Point. (Super fun to be “standing up on the ocean”, though next time I think I’ll try someplace a little calmer - the waves from the passing speedboats and ferries had me on my knees more often than my feet!) Then I headed across the island to Tunstall Beach and, after a quick dip in the chilly water, I let the fading sun warm me dry, settling in to watch all the other brave British Columbians who haven’t had their skin un-toughened by that spoiler of a Mediterranean Sea swimming and paddling and wave-jumping until the sky turned dusky and the cool air sent me in search of some hot soup.</div>
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And then came the crowning moment of my already perfectly British Columbian BC Day. After supper, I climbed the hill behind the retreat centre to watch the last glow of sunset make its way across the North Shore Mountains. And as I sat and drank in the twilight beauty, from stage left appeared a deer. He (she? Perhaps I’m exaggerating my British Columbian-ness if I can't tell the difference!) wasn’t shy in the least and spent the next twenty minutes poking around in the bushes, not minding that he had a spectator as he enjoyed his dinner.</div>
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Since that day, I’ve been increasingly aware of those moments that make me think, “I am <i>from</i> here. This place is <i>in</i> me.” So often it’s smells. That oily railroad track-ish scent down at the wharf in Steveston. (And the accompanying foul odour of fish that have spent too long on the dock on a hot summer day...) Seashells that have been baking in the sun for awhile. The way the logs and the sand smell at my favourite spot on the dyke. And then there’s the warbled cry of a loon over the stillness of Glimpse Lake in the early morning. The sparkle of raindrops clinging to a fern and the soul-awakening scent of wet tree bark. The feel of my kayak paddle skimming the still water of the Fraser on a quiet evening. The quivering of a lakeshore alive with a million tiny frogs. The curious sight of those little “worm piles” in the tidal pools at Centennial Beach.</div>
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I adore my “second home” in Turkey. The “red and white” in my blood is a tumbled mix of maple leaf and crescent and star. (Or thick Turkish coffee and maple syrup. Except I’m not real big on syrup. So, maybe Turkish coffee and...poutine gravy?) <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But for this “</span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">gurbetçi</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">”-girl, there are no “rocks and dirt” like the rocks and dirt I came from.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> Especially </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">when those rocks and dirt are mussel-jeweled boulders and Pacific-kissed sand. And if there’s a seagull laughing overhead and the smell of seaweed cooking in the sun, well...that’s just about heaven.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><i>Nefesim memleket kokar</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><i>Nefes alırım, ciğerlerim memleket dolar.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><i>Rüzgar bir selam getirir diyarımdan</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><i>Sıla özleminden ciğerlerim ağlar.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">The air I breathe smells of my homeland,</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">I breathe in and my lungs fill with home.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">The wind brings a greeting from my land,</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">And my insides cry with homesick longing...</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">~ Şaban Daş, Turkish poet</span></div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-4266773250690930912016-08-26T12:51:00.004-07:002016-08-26T13:45:19.206-07:00All the Rings in My Trunk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">When I was a kid, I always half-looked forward to, half-dreaded the annual tromp through the forest behind the camp I went to each summer.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Those days smelled of wet earth, moss and pine mingled with sunscreen and bug spray.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">There would be upwards of sixty of us, laughing and singing campfire songs and generally trying to distract ourselves from our screaming calves as we ascended the seemingly never-ending “mountain”.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But by the time we’d reached our end goal - the Othello Railway Beds - all that dissipated in the excitement of cooling our feet in the icy Coquihalla and hunting for Sasquatch footprints and making our voices echo off the rocky ceilings of the abandoned train tunnels and scaring each other in their drippy, bat-infested darkness. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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When I grew up and became a counselor, the hike multiplied into a six-or-seven-times-a-summer event. In July, I’d happily volunteer to “bring up the rear” and “cheer on the stragglers.” Come August, my calves no longer complained and I looked forward to it every week. </div>
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Whether as a kid on those “mandatory marches” or a teenager looking for ways to keep the kids motivated on the trail, my favourite thing about the hike was always counting the rings on the trunks of fallen trees. (Once when my Mom and I were on that trail, we counted a trunk with over 400 rings!) I was amazed how the path changed from one week to the next - how a big storm would bring a mammoth trunk for the campers to scale, and the next week the forestry guys (or some invisible and very zealous lumberjack?) would have sawed said obstacle into a trailside monument. I was fascinated by the way the rings formed the tree’s autobiography - numbering the years of thriving and of want, laid out like a book for passersby to read.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">A few weeks ago, I went away for a retreat on Bowen Island - a little pine-and-fir-clad rock rising out of the Pacific just off of Vancouver’s North Shore.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">As I was out hiking, trail-running or sitting on the beach in the island’s various coves, I came across log after log that had been sliced crosswise to make way for a path or provide seating for sunset-watching.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And as I was examining one particularly mammoth tree’s life story, my Heavenly Daddy said to me, “I know every ring in your trunk.”</span></div>
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Well, didn’t that stop my heart in its tracks.</div>
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Over the course of the weekend, I let that word marinate in my soul. I stopped to ponder every cut-through tree trunk and every time He took the revelation deeper. He knows the story of each ring and the spaces that lie between them. He knows the years when I was well-watered under life-giving rains, and the years when I nearly shriveled under the scorching sun. He sees the ones when I grew a whole inch in one year and the ones when my “expansion” seemed imperceptible. He’s been there through the years when I’ve soaked up joy through my roots by the bucketful and the ones where my trunk was watered solely by my own tears. </div>
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He <i>knows</i>. </div>
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He knows how I long to be a tall, sturdy oak - to provide shade and refuge for others, to bear fruit that will nourish the nations. He’s invited me to sink my roots down deep into the soil of His heart, that His life would flow to the very tips of my branches. He calls me “...a planting of His own, for the display of His splendour.”</div>
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My rings are His story. <i> Our</i> story.</div>
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He <i>knows</i>.</div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-81721011327357997332016-03-05T09:38:00.002-08:002016-03-05T12:35:06.816-08:00Salt for the Soup<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
**It's been almost two years since my Turkish sister's wedding, so this is old news. But after posting a few weeks ago about the addition of Baby Girl to the family, I realized I'd never shared this piece I wrote about the night before the wedding for a writing course assignment. So, enjoy the prequel!</div>
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I plopped myself down on top of a large cardboard box on the street in front of my Turkish family’s apartment. The box was stuffed with a fraction of my “sister” Didem’s Marcosesque shoe collection. The mid-day August sun beat down on my back. “Last one!” I declared.</div>
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Didem’s fiancé Bülent glanced at the trunk of his Qashqai, stacked to the roof with the sum of his beloved’s earthly possessions. </div>
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“Are you going to let me pack that box or what?” he asked.</div>
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I grinned and stuck out my palm. “For a fee.”</div>
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Didem slipped her arm through Bülent’s and smiled sweetly up at him. </div>
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“She’s right. I may be an only child, but she's the closest thing to the sister of the bride. It’s tradition...” Bülent shook his head in defeat and grinned. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. All cards, no cash.</div>
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“Buy you coffee later?” he asked.</div>
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“Deal.” </div>
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Didem’s mom, Yüksel, came out and joined us on the street. Bülent crammed the box of shoes into the back seat, leaving just enough room for Yüksel and I to wedge ourselves in amongst the suitcases. Didem slid into the front seat and waved up at the apartment building. “So long, house!” She glanced in the rearview mirror as Bülent pulled away from the building. “Mom, no crying, okay? I’m still sleeping here tonight, remember.”</div>
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Yüksel smiled, wiping a tear from her cheek. </div>
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As we turned off their street, I thought of Didem’s henna party the night before. We had held candles and danced in a circle around her singing, “<i>Don’t let them carry me off to a faraway place in the high hills....I’ll miss my mother, my father and my village.</i>” The traditional song, meant to make the bride-to-be cry as she leaves her family, played over in my head as we made our way across the Bosphorus bridge. Didem wasn’t moving to another city, but she was moving to another continent. She’d grown up living in five different houses in the same Asian side neighbourbood, and now she, her clothes, a good twenty-five pounds of make-up and hair products, and the last of the wedding gifts were making the journey to her husband’s neighbourhood in the “high hills” of Avcılar, on Istanbul’s European side.</div>
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The trip took an hour and a half, and we spent it going over the to-do list for the day. “Bülent will drop us down at the shops to get the last few things we need for the house,” Didem said. He’ll go find out what time the couch is coming and then we’ll all head over and put everything away. We’ll have to do some cleaning, too, so it’s all ready for tomorrow night.” She laughed giddily. “Tomorrow night!” Bülent maneuvered expertly through the crush of cars, one hand on the wheel, one hand intertwined with Didem’s.</div>
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“What time are we going to Kuzguncuk tomorrow?” I asked. I’d be shooting their wedding portraits there.</div>
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“Bülent will pick us up from the hairdresser’s at two...ish. That’ll give us like two hours before his family comes to pick me up for the wedding.”</div>
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I bit my lip. “When I went to scout it out, there were three or four different brides there - I hope we won’t have to wait in line for the good spots.” </div>
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“It’ll be fine,” Didem said. </div>
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“Tonight I still wanna get online with you and get an idea of what you want.” I’d been hounding her about a shots list for a month.</div>
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“<i>Inshallah</i>,” she replied.</div>
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I checked my phone. Just after two. I’d come along on the assurance that we’d head back over to the Asian side by five or six. I wanted to be sure I had plenty of time to go over the shots list, check all my gear, and get enough sleep to get me through photo-documenting a bride and seven primping bridesmaids in a beauty salon, a photo shoot in my second language, and a wedding that was sure to last into the wee hours. We had taken off much later than planned and I hoped there wouldn’t be too much cleaning to do...</div>
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Bülent deposited us females in Avcılar’s shopping district and we entered a housewares shop.</div>
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“So, what do you still need?” I asked Didem.</div>
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“Well...laundry stuff. A bathroom garbage can. Bath mats, an ironing board.... I want to get a nice set of Turkish coffee cups. And we don’t have any tea cups yet....”</div>
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“I wanted to buy you something today,” I said. “How ‘bout if I get your tea cups?” Life in Turkey pretty much revolves around drinking tea, so I figured that would be a meaningful and useful gift.</div>
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“You don’t have to buy us anything...”</div>
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“I only have one sister!” I said, and I pulled out a saying I’d learned in a recent language lesson: “I want a little of my salt to be found in your soup, too.”</div>
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“Aw, my beautiful seester!” she said in English and kissed me on the cheek. </div>
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On the way to the teacup section, Didem got sidetracked by some little angel statuettes that she declared to be perfect for her living room. I could see this was not going to be a quick shopping trip. </div>
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“Do we really have to buy all this stuff today?” I whispered to Yüksel. “It’s already four...”</div>
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“Well, the wedding is tomorrow, so this is the last chance.”</div>
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“Oh.”</div>
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“In Canada don’t you go out and buy all the stuff the bride and groom need?” Yüksel asked. I explained online registries and how most couples didn’t open their gifts until after the honeymoon.</div>
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“So, I guess people don’t end up with three pressure cookers like Didem did, huh?” Yüksel asked.</div>
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“No,” I laughed. “But I guess it takes away all the surprise of people choosing things they think you’ll like, too.”</div>
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“For us the important thing is that both families get to help put the house together.” Yüksel said. “It might not be the colour the bride would have chosen, but it’s special because it came from her aunt or her sister. In the old days, Didem would have been working for years sewing lace on the edges of towels and crocheting doilies....” We both looked over at Didem, with her bleached-blond hair and her short, strappy sundress, and we burst out laughing. </div>
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“Good thing she didn’t live in the old days!” I said.</div>
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An hour, several hundred Lira and multiple warranties later, we were at the Japanese Bazaar - Turkey's version of the Dollar Store. Didem was outside on the phone with Bülent, who was at the furniture store. Yüksel and I were looking at shelving paper options when Didem stormed over, hand clenched around her iPhone, fuming.</div>
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“It’s not ready,” she said through pinched lips.</div>
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“The couch?” I asked.</div>
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“The couch.” She put her hands on her hips. “It should’ve been done by now!” Her voice rose a few decibels. “I’m getting married tomorrow! How can you get married without a couch?” Another customer turned to look. Didem stalked between rows of coat hangers and serving trays painted with pastel tea cups and cartoon cats. “We ordered it more than a month ago, remember?” </div>
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I remembered. Long hours of visiting store after store with two sets of inlaws-to-be, reclining, feeling fabrics, testing throw pillows. It had been the middle of Ramadan, all the store employees were grouchy from fasting and there was no water to be found. I felt dehydrated just thinking about it. </div>
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“When they delivered it, the L-shape was the wrong way, so we had it made again. Then they told us it would be ready after the Sugar Festival. Now they’re saying it’s not done yet ‘cause everyone was on vacation during the festival... Arghhhh!!!”</div>
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Yüksel patted Didem’s shoulder. </div>
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I smiled weakly and held up the two rolls of shelving paper in my hands. “Polka dots or the Taksim trolley?”</div>
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We pulled into Bülent and Didem’s apartment complex just after five. Bülent had collected us (and our armfuls of shopping bags) and taken us to the furniture store where, not surprisingly, Didem’s tearful appeal had failed to produce a couch. We lugged all the boxes and suitcases from the car up to the twelfth floor apartment. The furniture was already set up. There were small appliances waiting to be unpacked and several rugs rolled up in the corner of the living room, but beyond that it looked like the place just needed a good mopping.</div>
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The fridge was empty. My stomach had been complaining hungrily since the Japanese Bazaar and my low blood-sugar level warned me not to start climbing any stepladders anytime soon. We decided to wait for the food we’d ordered from the complex restaurant before tackling the job of organizing the house.</div>
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“Wanna see my cooking stuff?” Didem asked. I nodded.</div>
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“Here are the pots and pans.” She pulled open the bottom drawer and I was blinded by the gleam of stainless steel.</div>
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“Does this mean you’re going to learn how to cook?” I asked. </div>
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She stuck out her tongue. “Look at this egg thing.” She held up a frying pan with six individual grooves in it. “Bülent’s mom gave it to me. I have no idea how to use it, but it looks cool. Here’s my spice rack. I picked that out myself. And here’s the baking stuff you gave me when we got engaged...”</div>
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Bülent entered the kitchen, telephone in hand. “Change of plans,” he said. “My mom’s bringing over <i>Arnavut böreği </i>for supper.” The dull ache in my temples sharpened. I love Bahriye Hanım’s flaky meat-filled pastries, but they’re not exactly something that can be whipped up in a jiffy... Bülent called to cancel our food order and we all got to work. Yüksel started arranging the newly purchased coffee and tea cups in the kitchen cupboards. Bülent, now stripped down to his wife-beater, whistled as he installed the flat screen TV on the living room wall. I was assigned the task of putting shelving paper in the hutch. Didem flitted between the three of us, looking a little lost. The shelving paper turned out to be more than my hungry self could handle. After multiple attempts at smoothing, which only resulted in bubbles and crooked edges, I carried the remaining sheets into the kitchen in defeat. </div>
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“If you want a happy sister for the rest of this weekend, someone else has to do this.” I said.</div>
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Didem hugged me. “Forget it. You can hand Mom glasses instead.”</div>
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Yüksel was standing on the counter, trying to fit in more glasses than a person could use in a two-dinner-party weekend. “Are you hoping to only wash dishes once a week?” I asked Didem.</div>
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“No, we have a machine. I like choices.” </div>
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After the kitchen, I moved on to the entryway closets. They were still full of a bunch of Bülent’s brother Serdar’s stuff from when he had previously lived there. Running shoes. A couple of jackets. His niece’s water wings. I replaced them with Didem’s mountain of shoeboxes. </div>
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It was at this point that I started to ponder an escape. I wondered how rude would it be to bow out before Bahriye Hanım arrived with her <i>börek</i>? It was just after six. I could take the Metrobus and be back on the Asian side in just over an hour. I’d still have a few hours before bed to get my head in the game for pictures the next day...</div>
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No sooner had I begun to map out my betrayal than the doorbell rang. <i>Food!</i></div>
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Bülent opened the door and welcomed his mom and Serdar. “Where should I put these?” Bahriye Hanım asked, holding up two plastic shopping bags as she picked her way through the clutter in the foyer.</div>
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“<i>Straight into my mouth</i>,” I thought.</div>
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“Mom, why’d you go to all this trouble?” Bülent asked. </div>
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“Just a few things I thought you might need to get started. Some of my own salt for your soup.”</div>
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Yüksel winked at me.</div>
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Didem kissed her mother-in-law’s cheek and started pulling items out of the bag. Dry beans. Lentils. Sugar. Salt. Another dozen tea cups. Nothing that looked or smelled remotely like <i>börek</i>. </div>
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“We just came to drop these off and pick up the last of Serdar’s stuff. I’ll go make the börek now and bring it over when it’s done,” said Bahriye Hanım.</div>
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<i>“I am going to die</i>,” I thought.</div>
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They left and we got back to work. I assembled the new vacuum and started sucking up the fine dust from Bülent’s drilling, tossing IKEA plastic wrappers and stray cardboard into a garbage bag as I went. I found an ancient fruit snack at the bottom of my purse and it temporarily put some spring back into my step. </div>
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When I finished the living room, I joined Didem and Yüksel in the bedroom. “Honey, you’re the tallest of us,” Yüksel put her arm around my waist. “Can you pull down those sacks from on top of the wardrobe?” I climbed up on the bed and wrestled down two large cloth bags. Didem unzipped the first one. </div>
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“Hello my loves!” she said, pulling a pair of white bathrobes. “Feel how soft these are!” She rubbed one against my cheek. </div>
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I eyed the full suitcases in the corner and the empty wardrobe shelves. I surveyed the piles on towels and linens on the bed. My stomach grumbled. I was out of salt and this soup still had a long way to simmer.</div>
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“I was thinking,” I said. “By the time we eat and get home it’s going to be like ten or eleven. You have to be up early to go to the kuaför. You don’t want to be a puffy-eyed bride for pictures.... What if we just get everything to where it’s ‘good enough’ and then go home and get some sleep? You’re only going to be here one night and then you’ll be in Bodrum all week anyways.”</div>
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Didem plunked down on the bed beside me. “I’m coming home to this house tomorrow night as a <i>bride</i>. I don’t want boxes and dirt everywhere.”</div>
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“Yeah, but can’t we just make the bed and make sure you have somewhere to sit? When you get home from your honeymoon, you’ll have plenty of time to figure out where to hang your bathrobes.....”</div>
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“<i>Güzelim</i>,” said Yüksel. “My beauty<i>.</i>” She said it in that gentle tone that I’d grown so accustomed to over my eight years as her “Canadian daughter” - the tone that kindly said, <i>“I know this isn’t how you do it in your culture, but in Turkey...” </i></div>
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“It’s tradition,” she explained. “Everything has to be ready <i>before</i> the wedding. Of course we wanted to have it ready sooner, but Serdar took his time moving out....”</div>
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“He was supposed to be out before the end of Ramadan,” Didem said narrowing her eyes. “The couch was supposed to be here by then, too.... But, here we are, and we’re going to finish this!” She slapped both of our legs and then in her most commanding voice said, “Back to work!” </div>
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It would be dark soon, so there was no way they’d let me make the trek back across to the Asian side alone at this point anyway. Besides, if I left, while it might earn them a more alert photographer the next day, it would only make for a bride and groom who got to bed even later because they were down a pair of hands. I started folding towels and walking through the neighbourhood for the following day’s photo shoot in my mind. </div>
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A few minutes later, Bülent poked his head in. “Mom’s on her way - come get the table ready.” I practically danced down the hall to the silverware drawer. </div>
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Didem put tea on while Yüksel and I set the table. Bahriye Hanım and her famous <i>börek</i> arrived just as the tea finished brewing. She bid us “<i>Afiyet olsun</i>” - “bon appetit<i>”</i> - and headed home. </div>
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“We apparently have like twenty tea cups now, but no tea spoons,” Didem warned us. “So you’ll have to use the ends of your knives.” We laughed. Bülent tore open the foil <i>börek</i> package, the steamy aroma of meat and spices wafting out. Didem began to fill our tiny “thin waisted” glasses - one third strong tea, two thirds hot water. It was a motion I’d seen her do a hundred times before as she refilled our cups during the TV and sunflower seed nights that were our routine during the months I lived with them and on every visit for eight years since. </div>
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But this time she looked different. The teenager I used to know - the one who wanted to hurry up and refill our tea so she could get back to texting - had been replaced by a woman. A woman who in twenty-two hours would be a wife. I could feel the tears coming. </div>
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“Hang on,” I said. “We need to take a picture!” </div>
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“No, I’m a mess!” Didem protested. </div>
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“This is a historic moment,” I said. “It’s our first family meal in your house.” </div>
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As soon as she saw my wet eyes, hers filled up, too. “And my first pot of tea in my own house.”</div>
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Now Yüksel was sniffling, too.</div>
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“You girls!” Bülent scolded jokingly. “Quit crying and take the picture so we can eat!”</div>
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We devoured our dinner as the sun dipped below the horizon for the night and a sea breeze drifted through the open window. And as my hunger faded, so did all thoughts of Metrobus-escapes. I’d been totally focused on having my own stress-free wedding weekend instead of being the sister Didem needed me to be - not the organized, well-rested Canadian sister, but the down-to-the-wire, treasuring-tradition-over-sanity Turkish sister. I could live off of caffeine and prayers tomorrow. Tonight, I was going to polish that house until it was worthy of a bride.</div>
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By eleven-thirty, we’d found homes for the day’s purchases, arranged the linens, and merged two single suitcases into one married wardrobe. While Yüksel gave the kitchen floor one last good mop and Didem and Bülent closed up the windows, I snuck into the bedroom on a little errand of my own. On a sheet of notebook paper in the prettiest letters I could manage at that late hour, I wrote out a Turkish wedding blessing and placed it on the white lace coverlet. “<i>Bir yastıkta kocayın</i>,” it read. “May you grow old on the same pillow.”</div>
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A few minutes later, having finally declared the place fit for a bride and groom, we all made our way to the door and started putting our shoes on. Saying she’d forgotten something, Didem slipped back to the bedroom. </div>
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“Awwwww.....” She came out, showed Bülent the note, and threw her arms around my neck. “<i>İyi</i> <i>ki</i> <i>varsın</i>, my sister,” she said. “I’m so glad to have you in my life.”</div>
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“Me, too.” I hugged her back. </div>
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“<i>Darısı başına</i>,” she said with a wink. “May it be your turn next.”</div>
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“Amen!”</div>
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We piled into the car. As we left the apartment complex, Didem pulled up the Istanbul traffic website on her phone and then let out a long sigh. “All red all the way to the bridge.” </div>
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Bülent cursed. </div>
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“Bülent, seriously, you have to get up so early tomorrow. Decorating the car, going to the barber...” Didem looked at him sternly. “Just drop us at the Metrobus stop.”</div>
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“I didn’t just get that house ready for my bride only to have her get kidnapped on the way home by some crazy person in the middle of the night the day before we get married!” Bülent merged onto the highway. He turned on the radio and Didem rubbed his neck a bit and then curled up and went to sleep. </div>
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Two kilometres before the Bosphorus Bridge, we hit full on gridlock. At one o’clock in the morning. </div>
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“Accident?” I asked. </div>
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“Nope,” Bülent sighed. “Just Friday.”</div>
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It was after two by the time we limped up the three flights of stairs to my family’s apartment. </div>
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“Text me when you get home safe,” mumbled Didem as she hugged Bülent goodnight.</div>
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I flipped on the light in Didem’s room, plugged my camera battery into its charger and headed for the bathroom. Eyeing my tired face in the mirror, I thought, “<i>I’m gonna need a lot of makeup tomorrow.</i>”</div>
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Didem and I normally shared her room when I came to visit. It had been that way ever since the days of our first laboured, phrasebook conversations. Since I’d arrived, she found the sticky August nights unbearable in her windowless room, so she’d been sleeping on the couch. There was only a single bed in there now, so it was just as well. I was grateful for the privacy, and the lack of cigarette smoke. But tonight, I was going to miss her.</div>
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I tiptoed into the living room. She was already asleep on the couch. No sheets, still fully clothed. I bent over and planted a kiss on her sweaty forehead.</div>
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“<i>Tatlı rüyalar</i>,” I whispered. “Sweet dreams.” It was one of the first phrases she had taught me. She opened her eyes drowsily. </div>
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“Are you sure you don’t wanna sleep in your bed one last time?“ I asked. “I don’t mind the couch.”</div>
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Didem leaned up, kissed me on both cheeks and then settled back onto the cushions.</div>
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“It’s your room now,” she whispered, and then closed her eyes and fell back asleep.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Ik94Ja0KmnfsSlWmFe3_mJmR2SFPFyAFi5y0MvBqGmOqjwjLe5Q7dEd1cRuW0gXsI6Q7-1vLdqRdBCxCpViGMrqGR4lTY9L9wIcG71QHQfJJ7A8-i5TACfbviKmjdeZyJim2jJ5cAN9v/s1600/day_before_wedding-2544August+15%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Ik94Ja0KmnfsSlWmFe3_mJmR2SFPFyAFi5y0MvBqGmOqjwjLe5Q7dEd1cRuW0gXsI6Q7-1vLdqRdBCxCpViGMrqGR4lTY9L9wIcG71QHQfJJ7A8-i5TACfbviKmjdeZyJim2jJ5cAN9v/s320/day_before_wedding-2544August+15%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-82280082831629604262016-02-18T14:25:00.001-08:002016-02-19T11:10:27.111-08:00It Takes a Village, Not a Bookstore<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjSq1rpXt9IeLcQclm5jBeOAnId6k-vW9ex4mZz6CZKTIxlc_gDif2XcxAqmnKV00xB2Z5pb4v_LDU1E9sPK-pE4jqBPhHye8RZistC1kXlR8ZEVJtgtF_pBZbfLGAu_mPxF-0BH49mVA/s1600/nil_eliz-9950January+10%252C+2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjSq1rpXt9IeLcQclm5jBeOAnId6k-vW9ex4mZz6CZKTIxlc_gDif2XcxAqmnKV00xB2Z5pb4v_LDU1E9sPK-pE4jqBPhHye8RZistC1kXlR8ZEVJtgtF_pBZbfLGAu_mPxF-0BH49mVA/s320/nil_eliz-9950January+10%252C+2016.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The best thing about a delayed flight is that it means more time in the airport bookstore.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Last month, on my way up to Istanbul to meet my newborn niece, I spent almost four hours waiting for what would be just over an hour-long flight. And so, naturally, off to D&R I went. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’d already made a gift for Baby Nil - a pair of tiny onesies on which I’d doodled her name and “Cutest girl in Istanbul.” And I couldn’t resist a few extras I’d found at the pazar: “My auntie loves me” and “My mom is super, but my auntie is something else!” (It’s convenient that my “Turkish sister”, Didem, is an only child like me - I have no other auntie-competition!”) I’d also been thinking about getting Didem a book - something along the lines of “What to Expect the First Year”, so I headed up to the cashier and, guessing at the translation of the title, asked if they had anything along those lines. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bookshop Girl quickly located the one I was looking for, but one glance at its 800+ pages told me this wasn’t a book Didem would have the patience for. I paused, wondering if it was silly to even be looking for a book for her - she’s much more the “ask Uncle Google” type anyway. But no, I decided, she has grown up and is a mom now and wants to do the best job possible. Surely a resource like this would be helpful. Maybe just one with more pictures and less pages... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We pulled a couple of others off the shelf - less daunting, more visual ones along the same lines as “What to Expect”, as well as a couple of those “Baby’s First Year” journals and photo books. But would Didem actually sit and write about the day they brought Nil home from the hospital, what Aunt Dilek bought for a baby gift, and about their first attempt at solid food? Doubtful. Pretty sure this kid’s life is going to be more of a Facebook documentary. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I finally settled on a visual-but-informative hardcover book called “Motherhood and Baby Care.” It had all the standard fare of baby food recipes, sleeping positions and what to do with diaper rashes. Same price as “What to Expect” but less daunting and, equally important, way less bulk to have to squeeze into my backpack. I paid for the book (and maybe one more for myself....) and had it gift-wrapped, satisfied with my contribution to my little niece’s upbringing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was after two in the morning when I finally arrived at Didem and Bülent’s. “It’s okay,” my sweet sister whispered as I kissed her hello. “These days, we’re always up at this hour anyway.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I tiptoed into the living room where a perfect little three-week-old peanut lay swaddled in a hammock, eyes glazed but still awake. I planted an awestruck kiss on her forehead and then sat and just stared at her while Didem spread sheets and a pillow on the couch for me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I hope your ear is plugged up tonight,” Didem whispered. “She doesn’t stay this cute all night long.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Between exhaustion from the journey and the earplugs I’d been wise to pack, I slept straight through til ten. When I woke up, I could hear female voices coming from the bedroom. Groggy and contact-less, I padded down the hall to see who the visitor was, and smiled when I made out the kind face and silvery-blond hair of Bahriye Abla, Didem’s mother-in-law. The two of them were bent over Nil, changing her diaper together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I’ll just wash my face and then I’ll come kiss you,” I whispered. She smiled. I’ve always liked her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I emerged, Bahriye Abla was at the kitchen window with a cigarette. I chatted with her while she finished it and then we joined Didem in the living room where she had Nil laid out on a receiving blanket on the couch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Can you show me again how to swaddle her?” Didem asked with a pout. “When you do it, she stays in there, but when I do it, half an hour later, her arms are all over the place.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I’ll tell you, but you’re going to do it yourself,” said the older woman quietly, smiling down at her grand-daughter. “Put her a little further to the right, and then grab that corner and pull it across her.” Didem did as she was told, pinning the baby’s left arm against her body. “Good, now roll her up a bit and tuck it under. Yes, like that.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nil scrunched up her face and made a fist with her free hand, clearly not happy about all the rolling and pinning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Following Bahriye Abla’s instructions, Didem grabbed the bottom of the blanket and folded it upwards, then took the left side and tucked Nil’s other arm down along her side, and then brought the blanket across her body, tucking it under her left side. And voila! A snug little bundle. With her white cap on her tiny head, she reminded me of the Glow Worm I had as a kid - the one that lit up when you squeezed it but was actually not cuddly at all, thanks to the battery pack in its belly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“See how calm she is now?” said Bahriye Abla. “Think about how she was in your womb - all tightly curled up in there, feeling you on every side. Now she’s out and doesn’t know what to do with all the freedom, with her arms flailing everywhere. You need to make her feel safe, like she was inside.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Didem looked up at Bahriye Abla with a half-smile. “Well, we’ll see if I can do it again when you’re not here every day...”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“You can and you will,” she said reassuringly. I was enjoying watching the exchange between these two. It was so unlike so many “my daughter-in-law will never be as good as me at _______ (making lentil soup, washing windows, loving my son) ” scenarios I’ve seen here in Turkey. The more I got to know her, the more Bahriye Abla was proving to be an unusual treasure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Now she’s all set for you to put her to sleep. Get the pillow.” Bahriye Abla picked up the little glow worm while Didem got situated on the couch. She arranged the pillows behind her back (those patterned pillows on that blue-grey L-shaped couch that we - along with both sets of parents - spent a million hours picking out in the furniture store before the wedding two years ago), stretched out her legs and put a little blue flowered pillow just above her feet. Bahriye Able carefully set Nil down in the crook between Didem’s legs, the pillow cushioning the upper half of her body. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Your feet are a little too open - put them together a bit.” Didem obeyed. “Okay, now you can rock her.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I glanced around the living room. The baby hammock sat in one corner, a little foam anti-reflux incline bed laid across it. Behind the couch, a musical baby swing was stashed. But here, with a motion I’ve seen in a hundred living rooms all over Turkey, Didem started rocking her feet back and forth, Nil’s head snug in the pillow, her body swaying gently from side to side. Village or city, conservative or secular, the foolproof tradition passed down through generations prevailed over modern contraptions, it would seem.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I thought back a few months to the time I was on a plane that sat queued on the tarmac for a good half hour, a young mom in the back trying hopelessly to get her baby boy to stop wailing. The flight attendants took turns bouncing him up and down the aisle and blankets and toys were passed back from other passengers with kids, but the infant kept screaming. The mom was amazingly calm, considering her child was the unmutable soundtrack for a whole plane full of people. I was trying to read, distracted by the baby’s crying, praying for peace for him - and the rest of us - from ten rows up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then all of a sudden, as if someone had flipped the “off” switch, he stopped crying. Wondering what had finally been the magic trick that calmed him, I turned around in my seat and looked up the aisle. And laughed in wonder. There was the mom, sitting on the floor in the back of the plane, rocking her baby on her outstretched legs. Just like that, no more crying. Wanting to make sure he was out for good, she began to sing a lullaby, and her voice, like an angel’s, mesmerized the entire plane into a hush. The flight attendants let her stay down there as we started to taxi, right up until the moment she had to put her seatbelt on for takeoff. But the Magic Turkish Leg Cradle had done the trick, and we didn’t hear a whimper for the rest of the flight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nil wasn’t quite as easily pacified and started to fuss a bit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Remember,” Bahriye Abla whispered, “she has to feel safe. Put your hand on her belly if she starts to cry - it will calm her down.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Didem did as she was told, and within a few minutes, Nil went from fussy to drowsy to conked out. She slowed her rocking down, letting the baby fall into a deep sleep. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Great ab workout, huh?” I said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“It really is,” she agreed. “I’ll lose this baby weight in no time!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When Nil had been transferred to her hammock, I grabbed my phone and snapped a couple of pictures of her angel face. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Just don’t put them on Facebook or anything,” Didem said. “We’re waiting until her fortieth day. You know, the evil eye...”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I nodded. And then stifled a laugh when she asked me to iMessage her the pictures so she could Whatsapp them to her mom, her aunts and her best friend. Apparently the media ban only applied to those who hadn’t already seen Nil in person.**</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The rest of the afternoon passed in a stream of conversation between mother and daughter-in-law about everything from how to use the little snot-sucking gizmo to clean Nil’s stuffy nose to rubbing salt water on her eyes to clean out the goop in the corners to why cotton balls in water are better than baby wipes. And I marveled as my normally headstrong, independent little sister took in all the wisdom she could, making a few notes on her phone, with a strong peppering of “I’m so glad you live so close” and “I couldn’t do this without you’s” mixed in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That night at supper, I glanced up and noticed a book on the bookshelf: “Pregnancy and Motherhood.” I thought of the neatly gift-wrapped book in my suitcase.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Hey, did you read that book?” I asked Didem, pointing to the shelf. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I read most of it,” she said. “But it wasn’t super helpful. You could tell it was a foreign book translated into Turkish, but it didn’t fit with our culture at all. What Turk is going to follow a feeding chart?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She had a point.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Once Bülent was home, I pulled a package wrapped in Winnie the Pooh paper out of my suitcase and presented it to my sister and brother-in-law. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Winnie the Pooh was my favourite as a kid!” Didem giggled. “I loved Piglet the most. And sometimes I call Nil ‘Piglet' for fun.” She held the paper up closer and squinted at it. “What kind of an animal is Piglet, anyway?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I told her. And watched her chocolate-brown Muslim eyes grow wide. She dissolved into embarrassed laughter as Bülent glared at her in mock disapproval. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Shall we?” She held up the package, changing the subject.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Together they tore into the present. After the appropriate oohing and aahing over Nil’s personalized onesies, Didem immediately set about snapping a photo collage and posting it on Facebook.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The other present stayed in my suitcase the whole weekend. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cousin Filiz came over the next night and, upon declaring that the house felt like a <i>hamam</i>, told the new parents that they should turn the radiators down because, contrary to popular Turkish belief, you really can overheat a baby. The next hour was spent discussing how she’d gotten little Atakan to finally sleep through the night, and showing Didem how to tear off Nil’s tiny fingernails without having to use the clippers. The night after that, Aunt Nazlı and her daughter Özlem arrived, cookies and presents in tow, and expounded on the secret to preventing baby acne - washing the baby’s face in her mother’s milk - and listing the things Didem needed to arrange in preparation for Nil’s fortieth day Qu’ran reading.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now I was even more certain I’d made the right choice about the book. Turns out, a</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">round here, even if you live in a fancy apartment with a doorman and order take-out on the internet and Facetime your best friend to show her how much your daughter has already grown in three weeks, it still takes a village. Not a bookstore. Not even Uncle Google.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was grateful for the D&R gift receipt tucked away in my wallet. And I bet that mommy book would be right around the same price as the new Orhan Pamuk novel they just translated into English....</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyphenhyphenqeT5xLz2bzdK-eIilm6sGQdWjb_vmP17kK_eYFdi1so2PX6I3GoLBam5HrZncLLqK5aGOw22sEjy17_CvSwnVexHPxvNRZ-N9hvb8N-6SGObcKr2m47Q6gR_y8bywC-_GxW-3K5uIxE/s1600/IMG_2403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyphenhyphenqeT5xLz2bzdK-eIilm6sGQdWjb_vmP17kK_eYFdi1so2PX6I3GoLBam5HrZncLLqK5aGOw22sEjy17_CvSwnVexHPxvNRZ-N9hvb8N-6SGObcKr2m47Q6gR_y8bywC-_GxW-3K5uIxE/s320/IMG_2403.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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**Nil is now two months old and the online photo frenzy is well underway! Just in case you thought I was breaking the rules... :)</div>
everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-79631040434347986352015-11-15T12:10:00.001-08:002016-09-02T23:24:04.507-07:00Istanbul: Row by Row<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For a country in which a post office "line" is more of a "blob" and driving the wrong way down the road doesn't cause anyone (except perhaps the odd traffic cop having a slow day) to bat an eye, Turkey actually has a surprising amount of order. You just have to know where to look for it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Take the weekly </span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">pazar, </i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">for example.</span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> </i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I love to get there first thing in the morning and watch the painstaking precision of the guys arranging their apples in perfect, shiny rows, or piling their figs in little purple pyramids. I always hate to be the first one to marr their masterpieces by pulling a kilo or two from the artistic arrangement. :)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On a recent trip to Istanbul, I had the chance to show some first-time visitors some of my favourite haunts. My eye was drawn, as usual, to the patterns that emerge in the midst of an otherwise rather chaotic city. From the Grand Bazaar to the textile district to the Spice Market, my lens got its fill of lines, rows and perfectly-piled stacks. A camera could never be bored in that city...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(And, apparently, in honour of my love of nicely arranged lines, the formatting of this post has gone awry and refused to be anything but centred. Long live symmetry, I guess!)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLSVaXMXwdBOVCvxrurf5JrrfouvS-fZ6DmAIxxBGmITVRFf4gLPlB6-wWVUY8MAHMsL63G2SsFmdK1diiYOYQekmHAGv5_N2M4zjrw6bulR8Ven-sOqlP7Pk80I5R8-tDt4VvTd78zaZQ/s1600/Saturday-9955October+31%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLSVaXMXwdBOVCvxrurf5JrrfouvS-fZ6DmAIxxBGmITVRFf4gLPlB6-wWVUY8MAHMsL63G2SsFmdK1diiYOYQekmHAGv5_N2M4zjrw6bulR8Ven-sOqlP7Pk80I5R8-tDt4VvTd78zaZQ/s400/Saturday-9955October+31%252C+2015.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">They may have been banned by the Hat Law of 1925, but fezzes are still in high demand <br />at the Grand Bazaar. At least among people wearing "I Heart Istanbul" t-shirts. :)</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQo7IP8o80Ih8xszJYmcceM27X8oEDF-EwNzDKtOFVfuXvKRINOh99JOiCAOOyA_hzrF-aO3KlweN4a1TeyB4THU1lslndVRQY4-XbCv8AUfaRg2guyithQlDggBLaqI86fLn2beobaT5/s1600/Saturday-10023October+31%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQo7IP8o80Ih8xszJYmcceM27X8oEDF-EwNzDKtOFVfuXvKRINOh99JOiCAOOyA_hzrF-aO3KlweN4a1TeyB4THU1lslndVRQY4-XbCv8AUfaRg2guyithQlDggBLaqI86fLn2beobaT5/s400/Saturday-10023October+31%252C+2015.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">We hit the Bazaar just after Republic Day. Atatürk, Atatürk everywhere....</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Boxes and boxes of "apple tea" and its relatives. None of which <br />you will find in any real Turkish cupboard. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">I can never resist a stop at the Button Man!</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8BAZfoquYVUIjb-1dxxwL92KL_IcI28dOOIu8yfq6Wu1BQwiqnpNR06Z_msIu08sNxzTDXDBnGASUL7lOdQ67BAHdWLvDAPcUjM5Wpe4Nu8RdMv2B_Q_ve0yIbwzYkFUcSWi1S14jlA6/s1600/Saturday-10031October+31%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8BAZfoquYVUIjb-1dxxwL92KL_IcI28dOOIu8yfq6Wu1BQwiqnpNR06Z_msIu08sNxzTDXDBnGASUL7lOdQ67BAHdWLvDAPcUjM5Wpe4Nu8RdMv2B_Q_ve0yIbwzYkFUcSWi1S14jlA6/s400/Saturday-10031October+31%252C+2015.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_k4xxQHGNMjYwFz-K7OraI0YjxkeHhGcrMXKcyoUMtQI2Z-EGyAqIcJmzX33KpwF31Mhbgo0nyhCAnO4Q9YjOEzff8awDTIjQ-3nN2LKHUw_jilZDkUoRe_-ddSBtOb3PhXxrb0_Xdw_/s1600/Wednesday_20151028_00011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_k4xxQHGNMjYwFz-K7OraI0YjxkeHhGcrMXKcyoUMtQI2Z-EGyAqIcJmzX33KpwF31Mhbgo0nyhCAnO4Q9YjOEzff8awDTIjQ-3nN2LKHUw_jilZDkUoRe_-ddSBtOb3PhXxrb0_Xdw_/s400/Wednesday_20151028_00011.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Scarves a'plenty</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVjHdfmaUEETR2JpP-Q0oaIPwaQlb-GNHmTU1oc1A_DdaN1mUrnD3h5emMTSBu0WBXNul7z4T49JR1Bk8W8J1MiMyI_VAtHQ8mBOl5lj1IwnTrqCJZNq8XyGcCHzILgtUJni14HSwsPnCK/s1600/Wednesday_20151028_00012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVjHdfmaUEETR2JpP-Q0oaIPwaQlb-GNHmTU1oc1A_DdaN1mUrnD3h5emMTSBu0WBXNul7z4T49JR1Bk8W8J1MiMyI_VAtHQ8mBOl5lj1IwnTrqCJZNq8XyGcCHzILgtUJni14HSwsPnCK/s400/Wednesday_20151028_00012.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2a-X7cB0B38kXa6dIeT9HFkMQojpQNkIvSNq6cD8oUf9vm9QJ-SEiZbF0BuNfUJpOUbAiXUNS81wyQzCCGmZiqo8WMN1n-GkGeYMJJn74kJXmmOAjAX8_KcXEIUVGuHKFvg9EYMV3BwrU/s1600/Wednesday_20151028_00132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2a-X7cB0B38kXa6dIeT9HFkMQojpQNkIvSNq6cD8oUf9vm9QJ-SEiZbF0BuNfUJpOUbAiXUNS81wyQzCCGmZiqo8WMN1n-GkGeYMJJn74kJXmmOAjAX8_KcXEIUVGuHKFvg9EYMV3BwrU/s400/Wednesday_20151028_00132.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kN5cn6qTLvLAA7ljEp4VT_MpRqG0Yrd5X2xQiB683jiwkOhVOv1YoJGVkhv41x3bRVrnJm9djIRiA-qp9jPNzbKf0TVki52EAAsGB39k4cTgHLp1DQqFz7hWMWHhXJyuOyI1Vg70DU9Q/s1600/Thursday_20151028_00001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kN5cn6qTLvLAA7ljEp4VT_MpRqG0Yrd5X2xQiB683jiwkOhVOv1YoJGVkhv41x3bRVrnJm9djIRiA-qp9jPNzbKf0TVki52EAAsGB39k4cTgHLp1DQqFz7hWMWHhXJyuOyI1Vg70DU9Q/s320/Thursday_20151028_00001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_EZ3k1pgkMBX4t9AEpO7unXVAjLKqibkqJrLVi5mXBe2IJaJjzEbqRH4-imfDk9oMvBim9WeBa_4FdiXzpKJwt5j0OavEHR75wrRvQeCSfodK9je-r4Rvh8Q8TpAd4Cb1FBT2kYoimdA/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_EZ3k1pgkMBX4t9AEpO7unXVAjLKqibkqJrLVi5mXBe2IJaJjzEbqRH4-imfDk9oMvBim9WeBa_4FdiXzpKJwt5j0OavEHR75wrRvQeCSfodK9je-r4Rvh8Q8TpAd4Cb1FBT2kYoimdA/s400/Thursday_20151029_00030.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV96h0CqiSRN8nfFkZQJtlNbX7Y7Fu_XhJo3kd8sHJF29NnHdBEEGlbhtXPSJNZYy_2sxio9GVmqnH52lE2k2YJzhlcMxNy_IRGA_GMQlxG83VsK1XEkK9UTP8tYTkyjSrFR9PvdQVQLN8/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV96h0CqiSRN8nfFkZQJtlNbX7Y7Fu_XhJo3kd8sHJF29NnHdBEEGlbhtXPSJNZYy_2sxio9GVmqnH52lE2k2YJzhlcMxNy_IRGA_GMQlxG83VsK1XEkK9UTP8tYTkyjSrFR9PvdQVQLN8/s400/Thursday_20151029_00031.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Prayer beads</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjah3i6nJLYKZVexK_a9cRaok4OGpN2g-v5ReSAHO1Ikcpb4MNC_P5oZRZiSMG7lIPmCXCoTibSfGzFNu-HLfsN_IK0BKz3C38mstGnnzpgVI1afM00jUT4HpAYA0cgv0GlIT27wLXhvLQx/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjah3i6nJLYKZVexK_a9cRaok4OGpN2g-v5ReSAHO1Ikcpb4MNC_P5oZRZiSMG7lIPmCXCoTibSfGzFNu-HLfsN_IK0BKz3C38mstGnnzpgVI1afM00jUT4HpAYA0cgv0GlIT27wLXhvLQx/s400/Thursday_20151029_00336.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">A weapon when wielded by an over-excited tourist, <br />selfie sticks still make for a pretty nice "row of colour."</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-U23HYvBcCVk8YP9XvwYddDpHASVt4q8DTGUz19-D5w-J09p9AN0lhJIDhfsq06vl_SWSX9hNb9G5n29WJkSbzE-pVkVEzzWWKINPO9NZ45JmJbT8cHnBWHeVPyzMm0IAUUJ4qsjFfO_/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-U23HYvBcCVk8YP9XvwYddDpHASVt4q8DTGUz19-D5w-J09p9AN0lhJIDhfsq06vl_SWSX9hNb9G5n29WJkSbzE-pVkVEzzWWKINPO9NZ45JmJbT8cHnBWHeVPyzMm0IAUUJ4qsjFfO_/s400/Thursday_20151029_00054.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Feed the birds, tuppins a bag...</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaBYx0BQkw4wP_Lj5nzPDa_WY1IRDRqlzUv6KxsEq3JZQOGJs89n6xXPYU273qfdwf2H_95oeQbKLp8Fzyy7xd4j7-ior4Htc304ymkCwjMzvShNG5y5fIb16bbIKswcAjxu6fYwAoFsQI/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaBYx0BQkw4wP_Lj5nzPDa_WY1IRDRqlzUv6KxsEq3JZQOGJs89n6xXPYU273qfdwf2H_95oeQbKLp8Fzyy7xd4j7-ior4Htc304ymkCwjMzvShNG5y5fIb16bbIKswcAjxu6fYwAoFsQI/s400/Thursday_20151029_00115.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Pickle juice!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1ia652PHPNu_QXoF7nG6vzXkg2zAqJT6TYUjErrCXiSe3jtYTsfz4bWpgeK_gyXjEWWSujZBebeZaTVVInx6J0E0b0YWDe0SLn0LVO-PuCRsvAI7xy_c44_de6QpIMHfZpxKm-m2rB17/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1ia652PHPNu_QXoF7nG6vzXkg2zAqJT6TYUjErrCXiSe3jtYTsfz4bWpgeK_gyXjEWWSujZBebeZaTVVInx6J0E0b0YWDe0SLn0LVO-PuCRsvAI7xy_c44_de6QpIMHfZpxKm-m2rB17/s400/Thursday_20151029_00164.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Fresh bait</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGQZYqWTBU-FgCW7VtpuBhXtq_7u8WoJN8_7T4VLO07__GJ37V4kIYgtaQb8bqfOVrdywb6CzIJ9JRAh-WBJqWnACBSwDLNlTsYonL1NsWEqauAHKyWWk_rI_zpD2EF-_iP7grwIt5IdW/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00186.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGQZYqWTBU-FgCW7VtpuBhXtq_7u8WoJN8_7T4VLO07__GJ37V4kIYgtaQb8bqfOVrdywb6CzIJ9JRAh-WBJqWnACBSwDLNlTsYonL1NsWEqauAHKyWWk_rI_zpD2EF-_iP7grwIt5IdW/s400/Thursday_20151029_00186.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Fishing rods off the Galata Bridge</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6eO9TMzM-HCFeS5qnpAH6WMCL0EBcRE5HPQzkI7tV-wgfPXiZIz0kHuSdOIB3yT01QEGhDulXh7sxzoMWh1c3rJjzTv-6Gs0WcNFxdsh7lYkQqN_U9_KVJX1nl3_SqUqAT2r4QuMFcNiK/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00271.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6eO9TMzM-HCFeS5qnpAH6WMCL0EBcRE5HPQzkI7tV-wgfPXiZIz0kHuSdOIB3yT01QEGhDulXh7sxzoMWh1c3rJjzTv-6Gs0WcNFxdsh7lYkQqN_U9_KVJX1nl3_SqUqAT2r4QuMFcNiK/s400/Thursday_20151029_00271.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVk0S0cjvqBFx61sVaAqbC_0eDc57q1ttmXn-K6_BvqTAoucPh2S2STxTp-1uzsan71gU_mYiEi5RlLl3KlMNbjVcO0oXtCYqXHPEMQfAdVW0SSCbFVuhckJAY42uiogF9rNMJnBsEMkyw/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVk0S0cjvqBFx61sVaAqbC_0eDc57q1ttmXn-K6_BvqTAoucPh2S2STxTp-1uzsan71gU_mYiEi5RlLl3KlMNbjVcO0oXtCYqXHPEMQfAdVW0SSCbFVuhckJAY42uiogF9rNMJnBsEMkyw/s400/Thursday_20151029_00313.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIq5fYw32LNNXcNpyu0tZWomQrQhgd1REbXDgl0W9ThAUyrzW4IeEnLNkVmA0dSdIVH7g4I-zUVmM02xBXrmvdUK5ZrFoNl5hJUJQsa0iWrBm_l8cSf_o1kfFaUviPSoFPhX060KiQumzI/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIq5fYw32LNNXcNpyu0tZWomQrQhgd1REbXDgl0W9ThAUyrzW4IeEnLNkVmA0dSdIVH7g4I-zUVmM02xBXrmvdUK5ZrFoNl5hJUJQsa0iWrBm_l8cSf_o1kfFaUviPSoFPhX060KiQumzI/s400/Thursday_20151029_00315.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSb59Psu2kZsRtyOUPkqhXcj-hAGq_wri83-gDtTNUO9qy0-UdWgfqyExJB5qhW9JPf90JfiT15F7eeCkYe7km_Cp0DRc5TXtQxK8T-yHCixNOue64E7-XyTAldhovoEJ-NWULSISMlF_P/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSb59Psu2kZsRtyOUPkqhXcj-hAGq_wri83-gDtTNUO9qy0-UdWgfqyExJB5qhW9JPf90JfiT15F7eeCkYe7km_Cp0DRc5TXtQxK8T-yHCixNOue64E7-XyTAldhovoEJ-NWULSISMlF_P/s400/Thursday_20151029_00326.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Freshly packaged Turkish coffee, piled high in a shop <br />window. Those guys were skilled - they were running <br />about one bag every ten seconds!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77v7rsMp9E5_UwQ7vpm48Op-q-9HWorfFcHAHMc5X7lbyzRwcaRL_efDp48fBoOJGn3sucolCPbRi0Af_hNg9mZ7TP_rrEU3Gs0c3kwoVYHDWbH4p-4OPycYsDTCZtLk7CjI3HlthVLLF/s1600/Thursday_20151029_00335.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77v7rsMp9E5_UwQ7vpm48Op-q-9HWorfFcHAHMc5X7lbyzRwcaRL_efDp48fBoOJGn3sucolCPbRi0Af_hNg9mZ7TP_rrEU3Gs0c3kwoVYHDWbH4p-4OPycYsDTCZtLk7CjI3HlthVLLF/s400/Thursday_20151029_00335.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Ottoman-style coffee sets</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzr-bvWidSqCJeHVxsnycLm_hhoNq9WCwVGKwBRespguoCKZmd-UOnKIMjToYW0vXpXMe7p01OuyJtSsRghfcwd18H7T-HX4S5f-D4Dd0nsdjL29L7Z979oviVTKg2rsDucXrU2fNlO-SI/s1600/Wednesday_20151028_00155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzr-bvWidSqCJeHVxsnycLm_hhoNq9WCwVGKwBRespguoCKZmd-UOnKIMjToYW0vXpXMe7p01OuyJtSsRghfcwd18H7T-HX4S5f-D4Dd0nsdjL29L7Z979oviVTKg2rsDucXrU2fNlO-SI/s400/Wednesday_20151028_00155.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">The interior of the Aya Sofya </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVXzuBHZdAsOoXpxEEvmcTggOz15B_OupjGeIWmQ2x_yAi2KFnyrHN4TQnrI70vXN1iuy7_OlYGy3_QwNd8F50cX6w7RJLX7l_TQlOe6kq-sskWGxm-tPJ-z9zRC9Wrv20ZE8Iifu5KZij/s1600/Wednesday_20151028_00264.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVXzuBHZdAsOoXpxEEvmcTggOz15B_OupjGeIWmQ2x_yAi2KFnyrHN4TQnrI70vXN1iuy7_OlYGy3_QwNd8F50cX6w7RJLX7l_TQlOe6kq-sskWGxm-tPJ-z9zRC9Wrv20ZE8Iifu5KZij/s400/Wednesday_20151028_00264.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Okay, not exactly an organized row. But since the corn made the cut,<br /> I didn't want the pretty chestnuts to be jealous!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Rolled up Turkish carpets</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3pcO1D4_hBC4se5rtsiXD9F7LzP8fEV-BBe9tomwB2Ov-fH1LPy-JWLJMyCG4Ra1NRHUnrHh_nKApIyPKIjT2Itc2RKXQpT_qSrblSzQJAlUwgUIRsTHG3hid_FiZrJ0yBY8gBwtXwChP/s1600/Wednesday_20151028_00270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3pcO1D4_hBC4se5rtsiXD9F7LzP8fEV-BBe9tomwB2Ov-fH1LPy-JWLJMyCG4Ra1NRHUnrHh_nKApIyPKIjT2Itc2RKXQpT_qSrblSzQJAlUwgUIRsTHG3hid_FiZrJ0yBY8gBwtXwChP/s400/Wednesday_20151028_00270.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58mdjyxEcPZltAbl-3AU-EhgREp1mxa5NH-no_M4xHUEzSqtgtHJZdSlw7AvgTCKzTslBiYVa-toJfDS-JyWHX_dSPBnjKO3mGCUNm8zF42dEBG229kvspdwbeYr7ur_Qy-sHd1mbeyHT/s1600/Wednesday_20151028_00276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58mdjyxEcPZltAbl-3AU-EhgREp1mxa5NH-no_M4xHUEzSqtgtHJZdSlw7AvgTCKzTslBiYVa-toJfDS-JyWHX_dSPBnjKO3mGCUNm8zF42dEBG229kvspdwbeYr7ur_Qy-sHd1mbeyHT/s400/Wednesday_20151028_00276.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">I am always in absolute awe at the talent of the women who weave these carpets!</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1aSJfe74Lo3dmCn8cqcGjiE0daKkiei7EFh3pi903meYzU_sxgBH_Gucgn7CsC9SWSG_r9Iv_TzHbpGEVxdpFy_54HC_sjPqXU2yEvyv-ExCYoq6RSUPyuw8TfOE9u1uh5gdodRWBGX9/s1600/Wednesday_20151028_00279.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1aSJfe74Lo3dmCn8cqcGjiE0daKkiei7EFh3pi903meYzU_sxgBH_Gucgn7CsC9SWSG_r9Iv_TzHbpGEVxdpFy_54HC_sjPqXU2yEvyv-ExCYoq6RSUPyuw8TfOE9u1uh5gdodRWBGX9/s400/Wednesday_20151028_00279.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-89295592036113657832015-11-08T09:46:00.002-08:002016-08-29T22:27:33.373-07:00How the Grinch Stole Autumn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmNhtSIFwPJreIzH7aBbJZFYk042z5RY1qdqafAixjfAY7qRqSq6b1iJdVeB4aKHDA838j3byRlkcfNt3WVHIJI5606y751ya7xTrsBWx8SII-FLWBVgAiFRShOqJpW_EJajpNQRUut_u/s1600/iphone-9932October+24%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmNhtSIFwPJreIzH7aBbJZFYk042z5RY1qdqafAixjfAY7qRqSq6b1iJdVeB4aKHDA838j3byRlkcfNt3WVHIJI5606y751ya7xTrsBWx8SII-FLWBVgAiFRShOqJpW_EJajpNQRUut_u/s320/iphone-9932October+24%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>(Disclaimer: Looking back over past blog posts, I can see that I write this same post every year. But only because every year it’s true!)</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If the severity of a winter can be predicted by the number of autumn days in which one can comfortably sit out on the balcony in bare feet and a t-shirt, as I am now, I’d say we’re in for a treat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It’s 4:10 PM and the sun’s going to set in half an hour, or so I’m told. This whole darkness-before-five thing makes it feel like winter’s come all of a sudden, even though it hasn’t come at all. We were spoiled with an extra few weeks of an extra golden hour when our government decided, for some mystifying reason, to delay Daylight Savings Time by two weeks in order to “not cause confusion” on Election Day last Sunday. (With the confusion inflicted on smartphone users and airport goers nationwide, I’m not sure they achieved their goal. To quote my Turkish dad’s Facebook post the day his phone automatically flipped over along with the rest of Europe: “For the love of God, can someone please tell me what time it is in Turkey?!?”)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In my previous life as a west coast Canadian, this would be the perfect summer evening. It was a 25 degree day of the windows-wide-open, brunch on the balcony, laundry-dries-in-two-hours variety. I’ve been outside enjoying the last bit of sunlight, my impending move inside prompted not by the need for a hoodie so much as the fact that smoke from my neighbour’s barbecue is wafting my direction and I’m starting to smell like grilled fish. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Living in southern Turkey, where summer pretty much lasts until winter, this autumn-lover has had to enforce my own seasonal boundaries based on the calendar and not the thermometer. It may still be sunburn weather outside, but come December I’ll be wanting to put up my Christmas tree, so if I don’t carve out my own fall haven in November - crisp, chilly air or not - I’ll just plain miss my favourite season altogether. And that would be a crying shame.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’ve written before about my habit of “summoning autumn” by starting to wear jeans in September, even though it’s still hotter than a <i>hamam</i> outside. And how I take my cues from my internal cultural calendar and my online world instead of the world outside my window. (Pumpkin patch pictures on Facebook? Caramel apple everything on the food blogs? I’m in.) Before the last figs and peaches have faded from the pazar, my fall mug is out, my Caramel Pumpkin Latte candle is burning, and I’m well onto my second or third apple crisp. You’ve got to seize the season (and at least pretend it exists) or those sneaky gingerbread men will appear before the leaves have even turned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This year I’ve paid extra close attention to all the little “season-markers” as we’ve moved from sweltering summer to this pretender of a Mediterranean autumn. The first week of October saw me making my first oatmeal, despite the fact that a cold smoothie would have been far more appropriate. The week after that, I started sleeping with my windows closed, and a few days later, with socks on. But only at night. Socks for reals didn’t come for a good two more weeks, and then only because I was going to Istanbul (where they have an actual autumn) and needed something to wear with all the closed-toed shoes I pulled out of storage. In preparation for that same trip, I dragged out my “winter clothes suitcase”, did my annual “short sleeves for long sleeves” closet switch, and packed a few sweaters for Istanbul, even though the thought of actually wearing one made me sweat. The weekend of October 23rd, we had three house guests and, wouldn’t you know it, it poured down (delicious) rain for days, meaning we had to turn on the little doohickey that heats our water for showers cuz the solar panels weren’t going to do the trick. (We haven’t turned it on again since.) That was the same weekend I finally put an actual blanket on my bed cuz sheets weren’t enough anymore. And today (again, more because “we had the time to do it” and less out of necessity, the plastic house slippers got washed and put away, and now the fuzzy winter ones are in the basket. (But don’t think that doesn’t mean I’m still wearing flip-flops when I pop up to the store!)</span></div>
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Istanbul the last week of October warmed my chilly-weather loving heart. The wind off the Bosphorus was enough to make me want to sit inside on the ferry, and to drink hot tea out of necessity instead of just stubborn nostalgia. I got to wear my fall jacket and my scarves (which haven’t come down from their hooks again - it’s been back up in the high 20s ever since I got home) and collect chestnuts and crunch leaves and hum ‘İstanbul’da Sonbahar’ (‘Autumn in Istanbul’) everywhere I went. Pure happiness.</div>
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Starting when I got home from Istanbul, I have two and a half whole weeks stretching ahead of me where I won’t be traveling or hosting guests or working like a maniac on projects with deadlines. So, naturally, I’ve gone into crazy cooking mode. You know I’ve been busy and stressed when the freezer is empty and we’re eating quesadillas for lunch and breakfast burritos for dinner. Time in the kitchen makes me feel settled, normal, like I have my sanity again. I bought kilos and kilos of pumpkin from the pazar on Thursday and got to work chopping, roasting, pureeing, freezing. I started stocking ZipLocs full of soup for the coming months. Every guest was an excuse for an apple crisp. </div>
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This is the time of year when pomegranates hang like jewels from every roadside tree, so I’ve been looking for every excuse to use them while they’re in their prime. They’re going on my granola every morning and on top of every bowl of <i>aşure</i> a neighbour brings to the door. (‘Tis the season for passing out “Noah’s pudding”...) I made dark chocolate pomegranate clusters for when our friends came to play cards last night, and they kindly brought a whole crate of big, bright pomegranates as a present from their garden. So, naturally, I made pomegranate pumpkin pancakes for brunch this morning. And then pumpkin mac n’ cheese for lunch. And pumpkin spice creamer for my afternoon coffee.... (I’m just so grateful to have the time to actually make my autumn edibles, cuz come the end of November, the schedule fills up and it’s going to be breakfast burritos again all the way until Christmas dinner...)</div>
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So, I’d been going along in my merry little week, celebrating autumn as if my life were a Gilmore Girls episode. And then came Friday. A friend and I met for coffee at the mall - a happy reunion after two months apart. We went upstairs to Starbucks and she ordered her coffee. Then the barista asked what I wanted, and I told him I’d have a Pumpkin Spice Latte. “Sorry,” he said, pointing at the artsy pumpkin drawing on the blackboard behind him, the word “<i>tükenmiştir</i>” written in cruel white letters across it. “We’re all out.”</div>
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“What?!?” I responded, super disappointed. “But it’s barely even autumn!”</div>
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“Maybe not here,” he said, “but over there (I took “there” to mean “in your country where Christmas starts the day after Halloween”) it’s almost time for the Red Cups. But look on the bright side - you can have a Gingerbread Latte soon!”</div>
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Those words were <i>not</i> the music to my ears I think he intended them to be.</div>
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I settled (not TOO sulkily, I am proud to say) for a regular filter coffee, and my friend and I had a nice chat. After an hour or so, she had to leave for class. As we headed for the door, we passed Bath and Body Works, and she decided she had time to pop in “just for a sniff.” Preparing myself for an olfactory feast of Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin and Warm Harvest Apple, and maybe a squirt of Cozy Autumn Vanilla lotion to go, I walked in and was greeted with a huge display sporting Twisted Peppermint, Winter Candy Apple, and Vanilla Bean Noel. Now, sure, Vanilla Bean Noel is pretty much my all time favourite scent. <i>In December</i>. </div>
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It’s the first week of November, people! In Turkey, no less! For a country that doesn’t even celebrate Christmas, we sure do market it well. I thought that when I moved here, the “no Christmas music before American Thanksgiving” rule would be a non-issue. Now it looks like we’re well on our way to “candy canes coming out alongside the (non-existent...for now) Halloween candy.” </div>
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Turns out the Grinch found his way across the pond and stole autumn, too.</div>
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(But, just to spite him, I think I'll go make myself a cup of pumpkin spice tea...) :)</div>
everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-19765363731383263532015-09-26T05:58:00.000-07:002015-09-26T07:49:57.404-07:00Bristles and Dirt<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica;">
<b><i>“The artist must be obedient to the work... Each work of art, whether it is a work of great genius or something very small, comes to the artist and says, ‘Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me.’ And the artist either says, ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord,’ and willingly becomes the bearer of the work, or refuses.”</i></b></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><i>- Madeline L’Engel</i></b></span></div>
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This summer, I went through a workbook entitled “The Creative Call: An Artist’s Response to the Way of the Spirit.” It challenged me to see the making of art as a holy calling - to attend to the work of writing an article or crafting a photograph or preparing a lavish meal with the same zeal and sense of purpose as the craftsmen who were “filled with the Spirit” to produce articles of gold and stonework and beautifully designed curtains and carvings for the tabernacle. It pushed me to recognize the lies and the distractions that suck the creative life out of me and keep me from rising up and stewarding the creative gifts I’ve been given. And it spoke to me of connecting with the Creator Himself and allowing Him to inspire me and live His life through me as I bring to form the things I see in my mind’s eye.</div>
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During the course of my season of going through this book (which I highly recommend, by the way) I had the chance to get glimpses into the creative lives of two artists who are also good friends of mine: Mike, who is a painter, and Brooke, who is a potter. My time with each of them sparked a whole host of things in my heart as I watched them pursue their individual crafts. Both are courageously prioritizing their art in the midst of busy work and family lives. Both came alive as they talked of their current projects - the ones they’ve been commissioned to do as well as the ones they are working on for the pure joy of putting brush to canvas and fingers to clay. And both spoke of that incomparable feeling of co-operating with their Creator as He created something beautiful through them. With them. In them.</div>
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Mike is my best friend’s husband, and I’ve loved seeing the way his talent adds colour to his world, be it purposeful paint “splatters” on the tablecloths at their wedding or the fantastic sketches he’s done of their baby girl. I’ve seen plenty of his professional airbrush work (it used to form a border three canvases deep around their living room...) and have watched his eyes light up as he flips through pictures on his phone of sculptures and murals he’s been doing for water parks and climbing gyms. (The guy can take you all the way to the bottom of a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee explaining the nuances of shading and palette brush definition. He’s passionate about his stuff!) This summer, I got to see him in action at the Painters’ Circle in Stanley Park as well as at the Grand Prix of Art in Ladner and was amazed at the way he can bring a scene to life with a brush. </div>
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Brooke and his wife Dana are friends from my days as a Tennesseean, and when I made the rounds down South this summer, I had the pleasure of sharing a meal with their family in their dining-room-cum-pottery-studio. On Facebook during the previous months, I’d been watching their pottery business come back to life after a long hiatus, and it had stirred something in my heart. Here was a man with six kids and a whole lot of work responsibilities making time and space in his life to do what he loved: create. Over supper, Brooke (and his faithful firer/glazer Dana) talked about their passion for making something out of nothing, and the communion they experience with their own Potter in the process. They’re rearranging their lives to incorporate an art form that will be a source of income but also, and more importantly, a source of life. They’ve got a workshop in the dining room and a kiln in the backyard and a “Gehman Pottery Works” sign out back to make it official. And I respect them so much for it.</div>
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After the meal, Brooke sat there at the table and spun a lump of clay that soon took shape as a deep dish. I watched him coax it from nothing into something, and then painstakingly add two tiny holes on one side and a little groove on the other - a resting place for a pair of chopsticks. The perfect noodle bowl. And I marveled at this reflection of the One who dreamed up humans and then made us out of dirt. That feeling of breathing life into something that, just an hour before, only existed in your imagination - an incomparable taste of what it means to partake of the Divine nature alive inside of us, to co-create with our Creator.</div>
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I bought a mug from the Gehmans that night, carefully selected from the dozens of earthen masterpieces on their dining room rack. Brown and teal with the faintest streak of glitter. I wanted to take home a piece of the magic, I guess. To hold something in my hands that says, “Art is worth your time. Don’t neglect the gifts within you. Make space for them, take time for them, fight for them.” To have something to remind me my creative pursuits - whether for profit or for play - are about so much more than making money or entertaining myself or even bringing joy to others. They’re about connecting with the One in whom creativity itself originated. </div>
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Check out these talented guys and their work online:</div>
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Mike the Painter:<br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/MichaelMoserArt?fref=ts" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Michael Moser Art</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/mosercreative?fref=ts" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Moser Creative </span></a><br />
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Brooke the Potter:<br />
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<a href="http://gehmanpottery.com/"><span style="color: blue;">gehmanpottery.com</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/GehmanPotteryWorks" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Gehman Pottery Works Etsy Shop</span></a></div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-56669807507537461582015-09-14T13:48:00.002-07:002016-09-02T23:27:52.406-07:00That Same Sea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Chicken Caesar wraps and watermelon.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Families on picnic blankets and vendors plying the beach with thermoses full of tea and Nescafe.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Kids in water wings and a parasailer floating overhead.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The sun setting over the mountains.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">A cool dip in the Mediterranean to wash away the 38 degree day.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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My friends had convinced me that, on my first day back in Turkey, the best cure for jetlag would be an evening trip to the beach. They were right - the swim woke me up and the catch-up conversation kept me awake until my 9:00 goal. But as I bobbed in the waves and let them tumble me against the pebbles, I couldn’t stop thinking about another beach - a beach 450 km away where just over a week ago a limp little body in a red t-shirt was tossed to shore by that same sea.</div>
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I knew that, in just a few hours, as soon as darkness fell, that same sea would be lapping against the sides of flimsy dinghies crammed with dozens of people willing to place their lives and those of their children in the hands of uncaring smugglers who would shove them from the shore into the merciless waves. Their hopes for new lives free from war and terror would carry them to Greece, then up on to the Balkans where they would begin the long trek to Austria or Germany on foot...if their inflatable rafts made it across at all.<br />
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Three days before my return, my mom and I went to the memorial for Aylan, Galib and Rehanna Kurdi. We wept with the boys’ aunt, their community, and a hundred or so strangers who, like us, couldn’t let these deaths go unmarked. That same day, we cheered as the news showed Austrians handing refugees bags of water and food along the road and Germans welcoming migrants at the Munich train station with open arms. And we rejoiced as, seemingly all at once, the world “woke up” to the refugee crisis and asked a collective, “What are we going to do about this?”</div>
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But an “awakened world” has not changed the number of boats departing the Turkish coast every hour. Two days ago, the coast guard rescued 153 migrants from the sea, and yesterday another thirty-four drowned a few miles from our shore. <span style="color: #323333; font-kerning: none;">Among them, four babies, six boys, five girls. Eleven little Aylans and Galibs. A heartbreaking headline that has become all too commonplace. </span></div>
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Tonight I was reading a <span style="color: #021eaa;"><a href="http://edition.cnn.com/2015/09/10/europe/refugee-crisis-questions-no-answers/index.html" target="_blank">piece by CNN’s Arwa Damon</a></span> about how she connected with several refugees as she documented their journey through Hungary on their way to Germany. And I couldn’t stop crying. Migrants fleeing through cornfields as police chase them like criminals. A grown man sleeping on a train’s luggage rack. A mother saying she wished her family had been killed by ISIS instead of living out this slow, shameful death. </div>
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This week I travelled halfway around the world in a mere 22 hours. I sat in a passably comfy seat that (except on my middle flight) tilted back when I wanted to sleep. There was a TV loaded with dozens of movies and TV shows and a map that showed precisely how far until our destination. Someone brought me a blanket when I was cold, food before I even had the chance to get hungry, and seconds of coffee if I wanted it. The fact that my original itinerary was cancelled due to a pilots strike was no big deal - there was a free hotel room and meal vouchers to make sure I lived through the inconvenience in comfort.</div>
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Sure, I had to deal with jetlag. The neighbours’ rooster did nothing to aid me in my plight. On my first trip to the market, one side mirror fell off my bike because it had melted in the summer sun. The grapevine has taken over my balcony and it may require the jaws of life to reclaim the chair it ate, meaning I can’t sit in my favourite spot just yet. And some freak error with the phone company has rendered my cell temporarily useless.</div>
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But I had a home to come home to. And a bed and a bike and a balcony and a phone. I have a blender, an air conditioner, photo albums, a pillow, a box full of every letter and Christmas card I’ve received in the past nine years. I was greeted with a welcome note from my roommate and food in the fridge from some thoughtful friends. </div>
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My journey here didn’t involve a desperate flight from a terror-stricken country. There was no panicked sea-crossing with an inner-tube for a life-preserver in case the boat sunk. I didn’t have to walk for a good part of a 2000 km trek (Athens to Munich) that Google Maps says should take two hours and twenty minutes by plane, or nineteen hours and forty-four minutes by car. There were no police dogs, no barbed wire fences, no hard train station floors. No wondering whether my apartment building was still standing or if the rest of my family would make it out alive.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Instead, I got to end the trip sitting with my toes in the Mediterranean, thinking about how I have everything.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Everything except the one thing I’d give anything to have right now:</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">a way to stop people from having to cross that same sea.</span></div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-8447582586944600982015-08-19T23:58:00.000-07:002015-08-19T23:58:15.666-07:00Follow the Voice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes the Spirit tells you to go straight instead of turning right, like you were going to. But you think to yourself, I'll go down that way another day, and you turn right anyway. Cuz that's the way home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then He says, "No, really, you wanted to go straight." And you realize that whenever you ignore Him, you only ever miss out. So you pull into someone's driveway, turn around, and go back the way He told you to. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And you see all kinds of cool stuff. Like a boat that shares a name with your Grandma and a bicycle on a roof and a lanky heron on a fishing mission. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And you think, "Yeah. I should always follow the Voice."</span></div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-66661466613315838732015-08-02T22:55:00.002-07:002015-08-02T22:57:54.908-07:00This Whole Creativity Business<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I was in Grade 6, Mrs. Bandstra wrote on my report card that I had “improved greatly in art class” because I now “drew people with necks.” </div>
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Suffice it to say, drawing was never my forté. Even now, my (mostly stick-figure) people, while they have evolved so far as to have not just necks but eyebrows and ears as well, still look like a seven-year-old drew them. But “crafting” - making something with fun materials and my own two hands - now, that was much more up my alley. </div>
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My favourite birthday gifts were always things like Gimp to make friendship bracelets, smelly felts, or puff paint and a t-shirt to decorate. And the presents I gave were (and still are) pretty much always handmade. On Christmas Eve, I was forever putting up my “Santa’s workshop” sign and disappearing into my room to make “just one more gift.” Those little plaster ornaments from Dundee Hobby Craft - shaped like Santa or a dog in a stocking and covered with glitter paint - made the rounds several years in a row. And I distinctly recall a last-minute yogurt container lid decorated with a Plasticine face that I was sure Mom would absolutely love. (She did, of course. Knowing her, it’s still in storage somewhere...) My cousins and I would look forward all summer to the week we’d spend at Auntie Robin’s house playing Monopoly and “getting crafty.” This always involved some sort of creation that ended up in the oven - Fimo and Friendly Plastics jewelry or Shrinkydink keychains. And then, when I was a bit older, my favourite part of babysitting was the fact that it was an excuse to get into the Play-Doh and crayons. </div>
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In high school, most of my creative energy was expressed through writing. In Grade 9, Mr. Wiebe had us make poetry books - binders filled with our own original work. Even though I hit the minimum requirement, I just kept on writing - churning out page after page of “inspired rhyme”, right up until the day before I needed to turn it in. In Grade 10, the “journalling” portion of Humanities class was a happy excuse to keep up on my diary. (Bless Mrs. Semke for letting us write “Do not read” at the top of any page we wanted to keep private, or she would’ve had a backstage pass to all the class drama...) And then there was the development of my writing talent that came in the form of doodled-on notes passed back and forth between friends under the clever (and, I’m sure, undetected) guise of “borrowing a calculator.” (We got so good at folding notes so tightly that we could even fit one inside the empty barrel of a ballpoint pen!)</div>
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In high school, my best friend and I talked about how fun it would be to start a greeting card company. She’d do the artwork (for obvious, neckless reasons) and I’d come up with the words. While we never actually launched this dream together, I did get to see it fulfilled myself a few years later.</div>
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It started when I discovered there was a market for thank you cards amongst the expats at my language school in Guadalajara, Mexico back in 2001. My tools were a grand total of two ink pads in shades of blue and a box full of stamps. The cards mostly involved a stamped pattern around the edges (or sometimes a painstakingly doodles flower border) and a carefully written out quote or verse in the centre. Each one took a good half hour to make, and I think I sold them for a dollar.</div>
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I wanted to feel professional, so I came up with my own logo - a coffee cup and the name “Cafecito” - Spanish for “a little cup of coffee” - and I etched this on the back of each card by hand. Later, I got a rubber stamp made of my logo so I could save time in branding them - way less hand cramps and way more consistent results that way! The next development in my little business was the acquisition of an “embossing tool” - a blowdryer-ish thing that melted fine glitter powder spread over stamped ink to give it a raised look and some shine. (Friends were always volunteering to help me “make cards” purely for the power-rush of using that thing!)</div>
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Shortly before I went to photo school in 2006, I heard a teaching on “What do you have in your hand?” The story of David and Goliath and the idea that my camera was the “five smooth stones” I had in my slingshot with which to slay the giant led me to change my brand from Cafecito to Five Smooth Stones. And when I made the move to Turkey, I also made the switch from stamped cards to photo ones. This may have been partially motivated by the fact that stamps are heavy and we no longer get 70 pound luggage allowances, but I think it also had a lot to do with the fact that I had grown up. Stamps and doodles felt young and amateur. I was launching a photo business and there wasn’t really room for glitter powder and that embossing-blowdryer - in my suitcase or my portfolio. </div>
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Lest you think I’d abandoned the “handmade process” altogether, here’s a glimpse into the process of the original Five Smooth Stones photo cards. I learned the Turkish for “I’d like 10 prints of this, please” and found myself a trustworthy photo shop in Istanbul. I’d print pictures and then cut off a centimetre-wide strip from the edge so it would fit on the paper I had. Then I’d take a piece of black cardstock and fold it in half, lick the crease back and forth, run my thumbnail along the crease to really make the cut clean, and then tear the paper in half. (I could still do this motion in my sleep...) Folded in half again, that would make the bases for two cards. The same process would be repeated with a piece of cream-coloured cardstock, except I’d tear it into quarters and those would be for the inserts. I’d use a gluestick (and later, when I was really in the big leagues, double-sided tape) to affix the cream insert into the black card and then use black photo corners to stick the photo to the front. And voila, a card! </div>
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Oh, except for the label on the back. That came from a sheet of sticker paper with my “Five Smooth Stones” label on it and my contact info. I had to cut along the lines and then pry that stubborn sticker off by trying to slide my fingernail under the corner to get it to release. (What a blessed day it was when I discovered the wonder of Avery address labels!) My incredibly self-sacrificing roommates would chip in when I had a big order and help me with the tearing and sticking - though I did all the photo trimming myself cuz I was kinda anal about that. :) We’d sit and watch episodes of Everwood or Avrupa Yakası and tear and stick til our tongues and fingernails had turned black and we had papercuts under our thumbnails and a pile of the torn edges and photo corner backs lying in the middle of the floor.</div>
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Those were the days.</div>
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It was right around that time that I discovered the wonderful world of Shutterfly and moved my cards from handmade-ish to professionally printed. The ease of it was amazing - just upload and order! No tearing, cutting, peeling or sticking. (Except for the label on the back.) Soon after that, I started selling cards online through my Etsy site. I can still remember the thrill the first time someone favourited one of my products...and then how exciting it was to have people I’d never met ordering my stuff! I moved into doing calendars and photo coasters, and eventually started paying extra to have Shutterfly print my own logo (instead of theirs) on the back of my cards. I was the real deal now!</div>
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The cards look so crisp and professional - no rough edges, no crooked labels, no inserts falling out when the Mediterranean heat melts the glue and renders it useless. But honestly, as proud as I am to be selling great looking products that people love, sometimes I really miss the good ol’ days of tearing paper and trying to cut the photos straight. I loved the fact that I was involved in every bit of making that card, save for the actual developing of the photo. (I didn’t inherit my dad’s darkroom, unfortunately...) I got to feel the paper in my hands and really interact with it like a piece of art. There’s a pleasure in working with my hands that just can’t be replaced by the satisfaction of a professionally produced product. (See, Mr. Wiebe? I haven’t lost my knack for alliteration!) And while I know it’s a smart business practice to think like a consumer and make images I know people would buy on a card, it’s way more fun to just shoot what I like and then consider it a bonus if someone buys it. I love to make things I’m proud of, not just things that sell.</div>
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Even though I love my photo cards, the ones I really adore are the ones I made with my own two hands - the patterned paper coffee cups and making sticker-lettered Christmas cards. The ones that I didn’t just “find and shoot” but actually “imagined and made.” I come alive when I am able to get hands-on in my creative pursuits - making placecards for Thanksgiving dinners, decorating personalized gift bags, doing crafts for friends’ weddings or making my own wrapping paper. </div>
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And every once in awhile, when my brain is cluttered with “adult responsibilities” or my creative juices are, well, constipated, or I have a day off and just need some “creative release”, the very best thing for me - the thing that makes me feel alive and happy - is to pull out all my pretty papers and cut and tear and paste and make a piece of artwork - maybe a card, or maybe something useless just for fun, just for me. It takes me back to the days when art was play - for pleasure and nothing else. When finger painting was “a good use of my time” and jewelry no one would ever wear was a magnificent work of art simply because I made it. </div>
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All that to say... it’s fun to see the way I’ve “matured” in my creative pursuits. It’s such a rare privilege to be able to make a business out of something you’re passionate about, and the fact that I’ve been able to make some extra money by creating things that bring beauty into others’ lives makes me super happy. But I hope I never lose the “childlike” side of creating - the side connected to torn paper and photo corners and my imaginary friend Boovoofoo and the cotton ball Santa Claus Mom hangs on the cabinet door every Christmas. </div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">May we never be too old for crayons.</span></div>
everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-25259733315174544212015-07-26T17:52:00.002-07:002016-09-02T23:35:45.639-07:00Casa de “Son of the One With the Big Moustache” <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A friend and I have a longstanding habit of texting each other amusing last names we come across when we’re out and about. </div>
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Last names in Turkey are a fairly recent affair - after the founding of the Republic in 1923, Atatürk declared that everyone must choose one by a specified date. So “Mehmet who lives behind the mosque” might have become Mehmet Yılmaz (Yılmaz means “Doesn’t Fear”) or Mehmet Şimşek (Şimşek means “Lightning.”) Many people’s names reflected their occupation, like Kahveci (“The Coffee Seller”) or that of their father, like Yağcıoğlu (“Son of the Guy Who Sells Oil.”) Others, like that of our Prime Minister, Davutoğlu, are the Turkish equivalent of “Johnson” or “Anderson.” (His means “Son of David.”) Still others chose names that reflected a characteristic for which they wanted to be known, such as Eşsiz (“Without Equal”) or Altınyürek (“Heart of Gold”).</div>
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Then there are the ones that sound a little...odd. The ones that make you wonder if someone’s ancestor actually chose that name for himself or if he was out of town when they came by to register names and his neighbour decided to play a joke on him. Those are the textworthy ones. Some of our funnier finds are Parmaksız (“Fingerless”), Kocabıyıkoğlu (“Son of the One With the Big Moustache”) and - this one is my doctor’s name - Özkarakaş, which means “Essence of the Dark Eyebrow.”</div>
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Rambling through Istanbul’s older neighbourhoods is a great way to discover some good last names. Many of the old apartment buildings were originally inhabited by a single family, with mom and dad on one floor and, as they got married, various kids and grandkids on the others. Buildings were generally named after the family that owned them, or sometimes the city they originally came from. I love the fun “fonts” of the various hand-painted signs over the entryways, and have decided to start a collection of my favourite finds. Goodness knows it won’t be long before they’re torn down and replaced with thirty-storey “office-residence” buildings and shopping malls. Gotta capture them before they’re gone, and a whole era of <i>İstanbullu</i> life with them.</div>
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This set are from the Moda and Yeldeğirmeni neighbourhoods in Kadıköy on İstanbul’s Asian side. Note the evil eye on the first one and the stickers for water company subscription numbers and a locksmith's phone number so helpfully plastered on a few of the doors! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMfME6pECLA7SYSB4BhwKGOMnnQrcy4h0Xk6jIU2slFvLkt_LbR8dsvVZ5k3yq9Z6rMnSusVLcCNQq8trzc377Uzjteo4jZiwxyYsWxw7-2e6wkBD_4cqgujQiYFGVEgarfLQ_Et2_NlR/s1600/gezzing_day-5035April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMfME6pECLA7SYSB4BhwKGOMnnQrcy4h0Xk6jIU2slFvLkt_LbR8dsvVZ5k3yq9Z6rMnSusVLcCNQq8trzc377Uzjteo4jZiwxyYsWxw7-2e6wkBD_4cqgujQiYFGVEgarfLQ_Et2_NlR/s320/gezzing_day-5035April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Good Day"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWt31okJX1Y0iSv5uTOefMT7Wvd028IOTPBXXOCL9_BlWdu0hRpOPaAAF27yDEf3naptPwt_-Pa0FLt07fnXbZh0KmoJ5_u5qprgiRQV5_LG5zaIrdhShP53Y5cCu7EKeVevXvAUdfs8gu/s1600/gezzing_day-5006April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWt31okJX1Y0iSv5uTOefMT7Wvd028IOTPBXXOCL9_BlWdu0hRpOPaAAF27yDEf3naptPwt_-Pa0FLt07fnXbZh0KmoJ5_u5qprgiRQV5_LG5zaIrdhShP53Y5cCu7EKeVevXvAUdfs8gu/s320/gezzing_day-5006April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Happy"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQo5SXTDHO52Qt3LodUzXtvsNIAh-CBRw2C2wLr2X5atcaY2uDpcMll1G7PONftJT5O-V7KaTPXNvjN3qYHQ4odqhnZgRwaaccnccgX7GJxQv-GIoqB6qJl1XniKGPpWmNo6gr3U5l1FiT/s1600/gezzing_day-5007April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQo5SXTDHO52Qt3LodUzXtvsNIAh-CBRw2C2wLr2X5atcaY2uDpcMll1G7PONftJT5O-V7KaTPXNvjN3qYHQ4odqhnZgRwaaccnccgX7GJxQv-GIoqB6qJl1XniKGPpWmNo6gr3U5l1FiT/s320/gezzing_day-5007April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Mr. Nazmi"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9_FCbqrfiN89YCniy2KVPZ6YJ3eaCvEJyuICYYo9lZfttCQL0NG95a-BCNm0e-VYYXWBCxk-AZ6gw4ICYPwjzztQfvOB6I_rZzTUNy9Ilt-1tVlALefsloTlOqP4HCvraUj0fZaqDQrO/s1600/gezzing_day-5010April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9_FCbqrfiN89YCniy2KVPZ6YJ3eaCvEJyuICYYo9lZfttCQL0NG95a-BCNm0e-VYYXWBCxk-AZ6gw4ICYPwjzztQfvOB6I_rZzTUNy9Ilt-1tVlALefsloTlOqP4HCvraUj0fZaqDQrO/s320/gezzing_day-5010April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Be Lucky"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAUqGDc2ls5z3sM-4XJwNrpIkIeStUUUio1X9Jc9uYtdCVGmKOkARR90V2ncnglC1rA0uegynL7ukamYfJPKypS6zJXL5mf7PCyvMAm_zf7KDzGApchVKDk6PTpbXA7ysyACgleprSodF/s1600/gezzing_day-5013April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAUqGDc2ls5z3sM-4XJwNrpIkIeStUUUio1X9Jc9uYtdCVGmKOkARR90V2ncnglC1rA0uegynL7ukamYfJPKypS6zJXL5mf7PCyvMAm_zf7KDzGApchVKDk6PTpbXA7ysyACgleprSodF/s320/gezzing_day-5013April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Life"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc-PLsDhkStSiCdKbLHBVVXSFIpT-o6-CKdpZY0-5dR9zLwuydOjr4nIBHzVHUGz6AExFM4UjIQqDikcalY35qNhZXkpynkCihftpW7mWKUoWgzUcV2_KOxeoeu15VIFEBwQV77tJEJN7/s1600/gezzing_day-5019April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc-PLsDhkStSiCdKbLHBVVXSFIpT-o6-CKdpZY0-5dR9zLwuydOjr4nIBHzVHUGz6AExFM4UjIQqDikcalY35qNhZXkpynkCihftpW7mWKUoWgzUcV2_KOxeoeu15VIFEBwQV77tJEJN7/s320/gezzing_day-5019April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Amber-worker". This one is spelled the old Ottoman way and <br />pre-dates the Republic and, therefore, the surname law.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzRtX7FPIlGqMrlX2AnoxDF5HfsEljboBV7xmtSm8fqfjGVH68kqrZendEtZeUL68oY18puPR8F8JmiB6OZNBiBAq7coc6vm8d4G6hpjiDiD9wyn0u89ibPo8u36gTbtTBjTPATHh1tts/s1600/gezzing_day-5020April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzRtX7FPIlGqMrlX2AnoxDF5HfsEljboBV7xmtSm8fqfjGVH68kqrZendEtZeUL68oY18puPR8F8JmiB6OZNBiBAq7coc6vm8d4G6hpjiDiD9wyn0u89ibPo8u36gTbtTBjTPATHh1tts/s320/gezzing_day-5020April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Aydın" means "bright" or "enlightened/educated."</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5JqHKOFyCyCXY0UEX_Rhg7RC3t0_KmEVfoGaINppszew86YTMAfbtuLZ2zd6-OXOGyT5YZuLAMxkMgx-uUR8N9dSAvL386RZ_8RamFocZh7PPMkx5i6s7wdZsMx-urN3YK08q4MG4t_l/s1600/gezzing_day-5027April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5JqHKOFyCyCXY0UEX_Rhg7RC3t0_KmEVfoGaINppszew86YTMAfbtuLZ2zd6-OXOGyT5YZuLAMxkMgx-uUR8N9dSAvL386RZ_8RamFocZh7PPMkx5i6s7wdZsMx-urN3YK08q4MG4t_l/s320/gezzing_day-5027April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Son of the Captain/Lieutenant"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIQVsOI9AexBtOOkCooKS4iECOYX2pooBrnNQyKICo0Bb_SkbGL7aN95BpPLi52tSBQoYy71U-i-N3EChCaYhPv6gkH4-zqxqDZtfmPmq6jMv7YNGv96zU5HbGi90ZPuzjzAkhUBpl59M/s1600/gezzing_day-5028April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIQVsOI9AexBtOOkCooKS4iECOYX2pooBrnNQyKICo0Bb_SkbGL7aN95BpPLi52tSBQoYy71U-i-N3EChCaYhPv6gkH4-zqxqDZtfmPmq6jMv7YNGv96zU5HbGi90ZPuzjzAkhUBpl59M/s320/gezzing_day-5028April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"The Men"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0P_oCHB1EqWBu4W3u9I_ZI0X2CHkq_vMOmKZPcpfXJU8Z6YyzLI6DbBP-MUVdZ9OEu1MYU2o7YcYMR4OJENNYjxx_74yKkPwCjdyxs-cUnyY2Zo6tnlb8BLdTZSHSwi7RIbU9Y0YNe0l9/s1600/gezzing_day-5029April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0P_oCHB1EqWBu4W3u9I_ZI0X2CHkq_vMOmKZPcpfXJU8Z6YyzLI6DbBP-MUVdZ9OEu1MYU2o7YcYMR4OJENNYjxx_74yKkPwCjdyxs-cUnyY2Zo6tnlb8BLdTZSHSwi7RIbU9Y0YNe0l9/s320/gezzing_day-5029April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Flower"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTSxiE_BunqU9RxfxFG03Mmuq7dAG7RejwPcnJWZQJ3atnQEt4QHHMh9xtUhqZkClUEMXngfeFulaAQ0rx3YU9spRDScbCUe3GLvEDCsSHJ2DXoKbZW-oPBgAgjpNN26gsbOnANxnKpsh/s1600/gezzing_day-5031April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTSxiE_BunqU9RxfxFG03Mmuq7dAG7RejwPcnJWZQJ3atnQEt4QHHMh9xtUhqZkClUEMXngfeFulaAQ0rx3YU9spRDScbCUe3GLvEDCsSHJ2DXoKbZW-oPBgAgjpNN26gsbOnANxnKpsh/s320/gezzing_day-5031April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Full Moon"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-hF1QQeNUN2Aa9HUmw38Y4xIWrbB3dedV6Sp8U6WdbTuFUtvP95z_AzgnQxMuLVWWud7zSiAc514zcdSMqHekSgx5BpBYkuT4YEu2fYZ2YpMt4mdfd9GiJn1IpYtUJ8symkQE427Lhra/s1600/gezzing_day-5032April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-hF1QQeNUN2Aa9HUmw38Y4xIWrbB3dedV6Sp8U6WdbTuFUtvP95z_AzgnQxMuLVWWud7zSiAc514zcdSMqHekSgx5BpBYkuT4YEu2fYZ2YpMt4mdfd9GiJn1IpYtUJ8symkQE427Lhra/s320/gezzing_day-5032April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Çankaya" literally means "Bell Rock", but it usually refers to the district of<br />Ankara (the capital) where the Presidential palace and all the embassies are.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9uWz9HZgj6RDKDzWl-cpqKyye21yG8MwO_QeFrTGcTtzGLCg6ssoHqaRGw-bouWLttsAqH8GA5-sl2Qxyojku-lTtXLQ7wXDP7UbuYF8zXD8cEgKsehlGzDZb0Lol05CeIhbH-Wxs5DF/s1600/gezzing_day-5030April+27%252C+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9uWz9HZgj6RDKDzWl-cpqKyye21yG8MwO_QeFrTGcTtzGLCg6ssoHqaRGw-bouWLttsAqH8GA5-sl2Qxyojku-lTtXLQ7wXDP7UbuYF8zXD8cEgKsehlGzDZb0Lol05CeIhbH-Wxs5DF/s320/gezzing_day-5030April+27%252C+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Um...hard to translate. I just like the script. :)</span></td></tr>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-78366093413311495152015-07-18T19:00:00.000-07:002015-07-18T22:00:52.248-07:00Unstuck in Steveston<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Last week, Shutterfly had a sale. The big kind, with 50% off your whole order and free shipping to Canada. The kind that lets me actually make a decent profit from my photo card sales...or at least make up what I’m losing on all the stock sitting in shoeboxes in my mom’s living room drawers. </div>
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These trips home for the summer are my big chance to shoot the kind of “North American market friendly” images that make for cards people will actually buy from my website. (Not everyone on this side of the ocean thinks Turkish carpets and Roman ruins are perfect on the front of a thank you note.) It was my big chance to refresh my stock at a great price. </div>
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The only trouble was, my creative flow was feeling a little...constipated. I had zero inspiration, no fresh ideas. Just a looming “end of the sale” deadline and one big blank absence of creativity. </div>
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Thankfully, I’ve learned something over the years: whenever I’m feeling “stopped up” or uninspired, the best thing I can do is get out there and do the very thing I have no vision for. If I can’t think of anything to write, the fix is to sit down with my notebook and just start moving my pen. If my Turkish is sounding pitiful or my grace for the culture is waning, the way to get out of my funk is to go join a bunch of neighbour ladies for tea and conversation. And if I have a dearth of desire to make pretty pictures, the cure is to pick up my camera and walk out the door.</div>
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So that’s exactly what I did. I had no ideas in my head, so I went out and let the ideas find me.</div>
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Steveston, the old fishing village turned quaint coastal neighbourhood just down the road from me, is always good for an infusion of life into my heart and my creative reservoir. And this time was no exception. Poking around the second hand stores and gift shops and looking at the work of other local artists always get the inspiration flowing. A trip to Village Books gets my imagination whirring. Wandering the familiar grounds of London Farm and the Britannia Shipyards yields surprises in places I thought I knew by heart. A few minutes of salty air and driftwood and seagulls on the Dyke revives my heart. And an artistically crafted latte at Rococino and a couple of those wonderful mini-donuts make up for anything that is still lacking. </div>
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I came home at the end of the day feeling alive and unstuck. Seeing beauty around me seems to deposit beauty into my own heart, and suddenly the ideas were flowing. Two days later, I had churned out a number of images that I both love and am excited to sell. (Sneak peeks of those to be posted soon!)</div>
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Sometimes all it takes is being willing to walk out the front door. </div>
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Here are some of my favourite images from the day:</div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-38874659148218541762015-06-06T06:12:00.000-07:002015-06-07T00:57:17.192-07:00The Flower Girls: Middle-Aged Meets the Digital Age<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“Scoot your chair in, you’re getting wet there.” Reyhan Abla fussed.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I pulled my chair further under the awning.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“I’m from a rainy place,” I smiled.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I don’t mind.”. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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“You and the flowers,” she said, gesturing towards the rainbow of blooms surrounding the patio where we sat. “They’ve been waiting for this.” </div>
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“So, what do you think of our garden?” asked Nergiz Abla.</div>
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I glanced around at the hanging baskets, potted plants, and flower beds. Red-painted tires and faded photos of Istanbul hung on the fence surrounding the small patch of soil. “It’s beautiful. You’ve made the perfect place for sitting.”</div>
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“Oh, it’s not mine. It’s Perihan Abla’s. She’s the one who lives in here.” She motioned to the bottom floor apartment whose sliding glass door we were seated in front of. “She’s the artist behind all this. You’ll meet her another day, <i>inşallah</i>.”</div>
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“<i>İnşallah</i>,” I agreed.</div>
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“Perihan Abla is the oldest among us,” Reyhan Abla explained, sweeping her hand towards the other three middle-aged women seated at the picnic table. “You’ll like her. She’s my word game buddy.”</div>
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“Crossword puzzles?” I asked.</div>
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“Nope.” She wiggled her cell phone. “Online. These ladies, though,” she glanced around the circle at the three other women sitting with us, “they’re <i>okey</i> addicts. Sit out here with their tiles and play it all day long. I don’t have the patience for that. I like to just find my word on my turn and then go about my day. Then I check back later and that Perihan Abla, she’s always found a better one...”</div>
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Reyhan Abla filled a tulip-shaped glass with steaming tea and set it in front of me. She pointed to the plate of fried <i>gözleme</i> in the middle of the table. “That one’s cheese, and the ones underneath are poppyseed. <i>Afiyet</i> <i>olsun</i>.” </div>
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“<i>Elinize sağlık</i>,” I replied. “Health to your hands. It looks delicious.”</div>
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“Are you sure this is poppyseed?” asked Nergiz Abla, peeling back the outer crispy layer of a piece of <i>gözleme</i>. “I thought poppyseeds were dark.”</div>
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“This is the yellow kind - from the stuff Figen brought from Afyon. Blue poppyseeds - I’ve bought those before. From Ankara, if I’m not mistaken. Those ones you use in cakes. This kind makes a better paste.”</div>
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I took a bite and washed it down with a sip of tea. “It’s good.”</div>
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“Do you like Turkish tea?” asked Nergiz Abla. “Foreigners seem to mostly like coffee.” </div>
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“I love it,” I replied. </div>
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“Of course she does,” chimed in Reyhan Abla. “She’s lived here for nine years. She’s one of us.” </div>
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I smiled at the compliment.</div>
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“So, how did you two meet again?” asked Filiz Abla.</div>
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We both laughed. “In the Istanbul airport,” I replied.</div>
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“We were on the same flight. It was delayed and we got to talking in the lineup.” Reyhan Abla patted my hand. “I liked her right away. And you know I don’t warm up to just anyone.” The other three women chuckled.</div>
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“She’s writing a book about Turks living far away from their hometowns and I said she should interview me. We did that today, just now. And then I told her she should come to one of our garden parties. That you are all from somewhere else and could tell her some good stories for her book. Especially you, Esra Hanım.”</div>
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Esra Abla dipped her head. “I lived in Germany for twelve years. My husband was a guest worker. We’ll talk.”</div>
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“I’d like that.”</div>
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“Speaking of hometowns,” Nergiz Abla turned to Reyhan Abla, “You’re from Kayseri. I’ve been meaning to ask you about my <i>mantı</i>. I tried to make it from scratch the other day and the dough turned out all squishy....”</div>
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“How many people were you making it for?</div>
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“Four. I did four balls of dough.”</div>
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“Four! You made too much! I do one ball for four people. How many eggs did you use?”</div>
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“One for each ball.”</div>
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“Right. You put handfuls of flour on the tray - one here, one here, with space in between. Then you crack an egg on each one.” She demonstrated this with her hands. “Then you add water - let your eye decide how much.”</div>
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Esra Abla laughed. “This is the problem - your eye is from Kayseri and mine is from Tokat. It doesn’t know how to decide!”</div>
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“Well, I don’t measure it. I just know. It’s got to be a stiff dough. You probably put too much water. Stiff. And you knead it and knead it - don’t be afraid of over-kneading it....”</div>
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“Maybe I’ll just call you over next time,” said Esra Abla. “Anyway I just ended up frying the dough up in oil and giving it to the grandkids. Made the <i>mantı</i> from a package instead!”</div>
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“<i>Offfff</i>....” Reyhan Abla winced, her <i>Kayserili</i> sensibilities clearly offended.</div>
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Across the table, Filiz Abla, the quietest of the bunch, was swiping through pictures on her smartphone. “How do you ladies like my newest rose?” she asked, turning the screen towards us.</div>
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“Ooh,” Reyhan Abla exclaimed, grabbing the phone from her for a closer look. “Check out those layers - so full!” She passed the phone to Nergiz Abla and then picked up her own. “Filiz Hanım, your pictures are getting good. I’ve inspired you, I see.” She held up her phone and showed me a picture of a small cactus with a few smooth pebbles arranged around it and a pink bow tied on its pot. “I put all my flowers up on Instagram. Do you have Instagram?”</div>
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I shook my head.</div>
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“What?!” She looked shocked. “A photographer like you? You need to get on. Then you can follow me and see my flowers. Oh! That reminds me....” She reached back and grabbed a plastic bag from behind her. “I brought each of you a cutting from my big cactus!” She pulled out four miniature brown pots, each with a baby cactus inside, and they were met with much oohing and ahhing. She turned to me. “Sorry, I didn’t bring one for you...the ladies asked me for them the other day. Do you want one? I can give you Perihan Abla’s and give her another one later.”</div>
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“That’s sweet, thank you, but green things and I don’t get along very well.” I shrugged apologetically. “I tend to kill them.”</div>
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They all laughed. </div>
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“Oh, my dear,” Reyhan Abla went on. “You don’t really have to do anything to these - just spray them with a bit of mist....”</div>
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“Really, I’m good. Thank you, though.”</div>
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The other three shuffled plates of cookies and <i>gözleme</i> around to accommodate their new cacti.</div>
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Reyhan Abla’s phone dinged and she picked it up to read the incoming message. “Ah-ahhhh....” Her face fell. “Perihan Abla is at the hospital. Rahmi Bey’s blood pressure shot up again.”</div>
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“May God heal him quickly,” murmured Esra Abla. </div>
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Reyhan Abla tapped out a message, and then her phone dinged again. “She sends her <i>selam.”</i></div>
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<i>“Aleyküm selam,” </i>replied the other three in unison.</div>
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“So, this is us,” Reyhan Abla leaned back on her stool. “We come here at least once a week, maybe twice, and drink tea and talk about our flowers. We made a group on WhatsApp called ‘Çiçekçi Kızlar’ - The Flower Girls - and we make our plans that way.”</div>
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“None of us really have any relatives here,” said Filiz Abla. “So we formed our own little family.” </div>
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“That’s so important when you’re far from home,” I agreed. </div>
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“Her Mom lives in Canada,” Reyhan Abla told the others. “Just think. And her only daughter is all the way over here....”</div>
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“Yeah. At least we can email every day, though. And I go home every summer to see her.” I grinned. “I get to go in three weeks!” </div>
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“I guess really it’s the same if your family is in Canada or on the other side of Turkey,” Nergiz Abla said. “My daughter is in Tokat and I only see her once a year during Ramadan. Faraway is faraway.” The others nodded. “Though at least when my family is on the same piece of soil as me I <i>feel</i> like they’re closer. But when we lived in Cyprus....ooooh, that felt far away. There was a great big sea in between us!”</div>
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“Being in the same time zone helps for sure,” I said. “When it’s daytime for me, it’s nighttime for my mom. At least when you’re in the same country, it’s the same time. You’re hearing the same news, watching the same commercials on TV. Makes you feel closer, I imagine. Esra Abla, did you have any Turkish channels in Germany?”</div>
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“No, we didn’t. There was a Turkish news program on the radio. Twenty minutes once a week, I think.”</div>
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“We got Turkish channels when I lived there,” piped up Reyhan Abla. “Of course that was in the 80s...”</div>
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“At least now there’s the internet,” I said. “It makes everything feel closer.”</div>
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“Thank God for the internet,” exclaimed Filiz Abla. “I’m always texting my daughter. Look, she just sent me this picture of the stuffed pepper <i>dolma</i> she made last night.” She pulled up the photo and everyone made approving noises.</div>
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“Oh, and look what my son sent me a few days ago,” said Reyhan Abla, her swiping finger moving furiously across her screen. “The youngest one. He’s studying in Russia.” She held up a picture of golden chicken pieces nestled in carrots and onions in a roasting pan. “With loads of onion and garlic, just like I make. He asks for the recipes, of course. But just look at that!” She flicked to the next photo - rice with currants in it. “Look how he did it,<i> telli telli - </i>all the grains perfectly separated. Many women can’t even do that!”</div>
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“You guys are quite the techno-savvy ladies!” I laughed. </div>
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“That we are,” Reyhan Abla said proudly. “Are you on WhatsApp? I’ll add you.”</div>
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“I’m not,” I said. Their shocked expressions made me laugh.</div>
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“What kind of a young person <i>are</i> you?” exclaimed Reyhan Abla. </div>
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I laughed at her alarm. “I’m just not a huge social media person. I’m on Facebook but that’s it. I just don’t want the internet to eat up all my time...”</div>
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“Oh, Facebook, I don’t bother with that,” said Reyhan Abla. “Most of what people post is nonsense. But WhatsApp - a person <i>needs</i> that! And you’re not on Instagram, either....” She shook her head. I chuckled and shook mine back.</div>
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“Turks have always been interested in the latest technology,” said Esra Abla. “We jump right on it. When I moved to Germany in the 70s, no one there had a dish washer. But everyone in Turkey did.”</div>
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“Wow,” I said. “I still don’t!”</div>
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“And same with colour TV,” she went on. “And house phones. No one in Germany got them until later.”</div>
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“Oh, we weren’t so advanced where I came from,” said Nergiz Abla. “We didn’t have a phone when I went as a bride from Tokat to Kars. Someone from the post office would come to the door and tell us we had a call, and we’d quickly get dressed and run down there.” She smiled at the recollection. “I remember we only had TV two or three days a week. An episode of a show would come on in Istanbul and Ankara one day, and then we would wait and get it the next. TRT was the only channel for years...”</div>
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“Even when we got a phone in Germany, it was still such a big deal to get a call from Turkey,” said Esra Abla. They’d send a telegraph from the PTT in Turkey telling you to be home the next day because a call was coming. Then you’d stay home all day long waiting for the phone to ring....”</div>
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“We were so much better at waiting back then.” Nergiz Abla laughed and shook her head. “Now look at us. We order something online and the delivery guy comes a day late and we get all mad about it!”</div>
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Several cups of <i>çay</i> later, I kissed each of my new friends on the cheek and thanked them for letting me join in on their little picnic. </div>
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“Come back again before you go to Canada,” insisted Esra Abla. “Before the 17th. Everyone will get busy with Ramadan and we’ll disperse for the summer.”</div>
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“I will,” I promised. “I want to hear a whole lot more about Germany.”</div>
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“I liked them,” I told Reyhan Abla as she saw me off at the gate. “Thanks for inviting me.”</div>
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“You’re welcome any time,” she said. “You know where the bus stop is, right?”</div>
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I nodded. I gave her another kiss on each cheek and started up the street.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">As I made my way down the sidewalk, she called after me, “Don’t forget to download WhatsApp when you get home!” </span></div>
everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-53590189347934191182015-05-31T08:09:00.000-07:002015-06-06T09:18:57.731-07:00Roadside Türkiye: Top Ten Reasons to Drive Instead of Fly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_blfqbn3H-j0HyiORkubFMufJWNh5SAaK1I18nVTSIMaNrwgxdBbKAnh-WCkOjvbJSMfJhOTxuAe0edNqfUP9_BsGllxyHpfwSmZ3eevcbVQ_DV1A9ZZbaje9cXp8-guxvXiVughm-nx0/s1600/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2527August+30%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_blfqbn3H-j0HyiORkubFMufJWNh5SAaK1I18nVTSIMaNrwgxdBbKAnh-WCkOjvbJSMfJhOTxuAe0edNqfUP9_BsGllxyHpfwSmZ3eevcbVQ_DV1A9ZZbaje9cXp8-guxvXiVughm-nx0/s320/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2527August+30%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The first couple times I visited Turkey, long-distance buses were pretty much the only way we got around. Only the biggest cities had airports, and airfare was spendy. We never really knew where we were going next until the day before we left, so being able to buy last-minute tickets at the local bus station worked with our spontaneous travel style. The seats weren’t always comfy, and eight hours sitting behind a chain-smoking driver was enough to make me want to hijack the bus. But a full day of headphones and a book always helped this introvert like her travel companions more when we got where we were going. It was fun to try to guess what was happening in the (badly dubbed) movies they’d show. (I swear they use the same male and female voice for every character in every film...) And I could always look forward to a Nescafe and a Pop Kek when the snack cart made the rounds...</div>
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By the time I moved here, more airports had sprung up and several budget airlines had appeared on the scene, making it usually more economical to fly than to take the bus. Nowadays, pretty much the only time I choose land over air is when I’m leaving the country and my luggage weighs more than the kilos allotted for a domestic flight. And while I love the convenience and time saved by flying, there’s something I miss about my bussing days...</div>
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The view outside the window.</div>
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I love soaring over puffy white clouds and miniature mountains as much as the next person, but there’s just no way you can know a country by looking at it from 30,000 feet. You can’t read its billboards, see what’s growing in its fields, observe what its people are wearing, or discover what houses look like from one town to the next. To really see a place, you...even if just from the highway.....you have to be at eye-level.</div>
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While a bus window makes for a great way to see the countryside, obviously the combination of "view" and "freedom to stop when you want to" makes a car the ideal choice for a Turkish roadtrip. And so, fuel prices aside (I don’t wanna hear any complaining from across the ocean - we’re currently paying $2.20 CDN a litre over here!), here are ten reasons you should drive instead of fly this summer.</div>
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<b>Top Ten Roadside Reasons to Drive Instead of Fly</b></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>1. Fantastic Statuary</b></span></div>
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No town square is complete without at least a bust of our nation's founding father, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk. That's a given. But the other statues gracing roadsides and roundabouts give the traveler insight into the "favourite sons" of a city as well as herald the goodies the town is famous for. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7WzBog6vZotxleJdmq-Cg1k-BReSZ0WleBn0Sfy7cr2-vXvZBQFGd8Ynvq7bAW-Sy7bGH6-n76vGG0Uaiipnew_c640TnPq2DagzqrwkP8U9gYT_2Pt9kl-HCWc6uT1HRRfIFuJvRuo7/s1600/kutahya-2624July+05%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7WzBog6vZotxleJdmq-Cg1k-BReSZ0WleBn0Sfy7cr2-vXvZBQFGd8Ynvq7bAW-Sy7bGH6-n76vGG0Uaiipnew_c640TnPq2DagzqrwkP8U9gYT_2Pt9kl-HCWc6uT1HRRfIFuJvRuo7/s320/kutahya-2624July+05%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A whirling dervish near the Mevlevi Lodge in Kütahya.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3v1XUi37cuyXZnrq_HaOpGNbV3UB8tOJJkZNAZ4ykbuRmH2V_Fo6QZDkwl_pgCKJco1_VrJ89NZtiOTmHx8w6MVQ1E7NAPpanl_pPUBK89Xj4TknJQF8e49xnQrYZaTIWuM_FsEI6f_5/s1600/road_HOME-2548August+30%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3v1XUi37cuyXZnrq_HaOpGNbV3UB8tOJJkZNAZ4ykbuRmH2V_Fo6QZDkwl_pgCKJco1_VrJ89NZtiOTmHx8w6MVQ1E7NAPpanl_pPUBK89Xj4TknJQF8e49xnQrYZaTIWuM_FsEI6f_5/s320/road_HOME-2548August+30%252C+2014.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A glance at the past: Nasrettin Hoca, the most famous Anatolian storyteller, <br />in his trademark pose near his hometown of Akhisar. (If you happen to be passing through, Akhisar hosts its Nasrettin Hoca Festival from July 5-10 every summer. Pull up a cushion and settle in for a tale or two...)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2JNagCdeq-LS62BhIr2whJSulw8OVsSuaFzzYaKO2C7I0vFiCR-9hIh8SLdENasdcfm9MZJyXCtIOgsX-H25UI2O28mHRrfIsHNp74ld_EldUk8a2U2AcPPkuRGtzTHe_L6Fwc2PmD_e/s1600/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2596August+30%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2JNagCdeq-LS62BhIr2whJSulw8OVsSuaFzzYaKO2C7I0vFiCR-9hIh8SLdENasdcfm9MZJyXCtIOgsX-H25UI2O28mHRrfIsHNp74ld_EldUk8a2U2AcPPkuRGtzTHe_L6Fwc2PmD_e/s320/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2596August+30%252C+2014.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"The famous Trabzon bread that never rots."<br />(It's also dense as a brick - you definitely don't<br />want that thing falling on your head!)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgp2Im1ULLAH1usu1t91-sa-BDN5xE0C-8Xt_YIMUmym7DcL7skiOHTJcZ0rlV2prlVgpDapKSgMaC0NrGaH8y1dBcICffPiM-8AtaCmT8c4zhx9o4rpz5ZYvXhcC8jwChbN5UrE0PZW_x/s1600/road_HOME-2581August+31%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgp2Im1ULLAH1usu1t91-sa-BDN5xE0C-8Xt_YIMUmym7DcL7skiOHTJcZ0rlV2prlVgpDapKSgMaC0NrGaH8y1dBcICffPiM-8AtaCmT8c4zhx9o4rpz5ZYvXhcC8jwChbN5UrE0PZW_x/s320/road_HOME-2581August+31%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The "Rose Intersection" in Isparta, renowned for its fragrant blooms<br />and rose-scented creams, soaps and Turkish delight.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKiIrsbfvbs-q7NvEpUA_53Zvw43tp8KYhdU6WGLd7kk7J0_wIuUhSNd29q9FKR10R_VrEl7YtvKI7vlVGKgppxXEBetJDV0qGjoZR2BfYQNz9unskjbSzTYtPOFOQPLhSZ-ZXRkNn70i/s1600/trabzon_to_amasya-2547August+29%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQKiIrsbfvbs-q7NvEpUA_53Zvw43tp8KYhdU6WGLd7kk7J0_wIuUhSNd29q9FKR10R_VrEl7YtvKI7vlVGKgppxXEBetJDV0qGjoZR2BfYQNz9unskjbSzTYtPOFOQPLhSZ-ZXRkNn70i/s320/trabzon_to_amasya-2547August+29%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Swing through Amasya in early fall and stock <br />up on its crisp, juicy apples.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOfdnv3hG3Xot6yX4QhEx6cK5LOs2v1mbBw92KvBXWdAg9GcaT6hDHWk1sMgOqq3S9qyj2lQYj1PcNs82VnJKEoqECoNBYkN-lkw1JZlSrWRTHPVALjDk-qFm6aBdNJmVv2jjpt9Xqkse/s1600/pamukkale%252Bkas%25CC%25A7-2505October+10%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOfdnv3hG3Xot6yX4QhEx6cK5LOs2v1mbBw92KvBXWdAg9GcaT6hDHWk1sMgOqq3S9qyj2lQYj1PcNs82VnJKEoqECoNBYkN-lkw1JZlSrWRTHPVALjDk-qFm6aBdNJmVv2jjpt9Xqkse/s320/pamukkale%252Bkas%25CC%25A7-2505October+10%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">If you're in the market for a new garden gnome, Turkey's got you covered.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7i0NspyHfazxSxE6UdnfGvjMZKeIeH7AoBemGf0ppyrgOpvJIIzbnHsqH37CwDPIJG0kuirNx6mQy2BRrdEXovtR5g-B7VL8XiDUKWcDNWl7i_MkEXBswqXH6capBrNybB8Eh2opAHxrM/s1600/kas%25CC%25A7_to_antalya-2514October+12%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7i0NspyHfazxSxE6UdnfGvjMZKeIeH7AoBemGf0ppyrgOpvJIIzbnHsqH37CwDPIJG0kuirNx6mQy2BRrdEXovtR5g-B7VL8XiDUKWcDNWl7i_MkEXBswqXH6capBrNybB8Eh2opAHxrM/s320/kas%25CC%25A7_to_antalya-2514October+12%252C+2014.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A friendly wave to send you on your way....</span></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>2. Colourful Companions</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Half the run of a road trip is checking out the people in the lane beside you.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLOxiCyZIj1CacgeHJvGiLVqheurd9RiNkhcP9c34AyrgGaAZ60TtHwN4xr_x4rNQNawbx3XFBP2eEcGnXduOOs6UnBkPzzC0T3CBFpAVA9v2KgzCprgCdoxHMymjaALldsOxyI7AA6Ub9/s1600/Samsun_and_Yol-2611August+04%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLOxiCyZIj1CacgeHJvGiLVqheurd9RiNkhcP9c34AyrgGaAZ60TtHwN4xr_x4rNQNawbx3XFBP2eEcGnXduOOs6UnBkPzzC0T3CBFpAVA9v2KgzCprgCdoxHMymjaALldsOxyI7AA6Ub9/s320/Samsun_and_Yol-2611August+04%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A twenty foot high stack of soccer balls certainly breaks up the monotony <br />of an endless highway. (And if the netting happened to burst, now THAT <br />would be something to write home about!)</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCfMDMkv5IKd4hQt83WHD7D9LO1cwyQH3Fh1BU1TFANSHRB_KebI44i4FSqN9cMBqpixUGXXP56LWf63UfUq8T2NwHVHHbNM3pQ21OLmOQWWnDG0BdtK6Q13rpMEnp3QtVQo2_oP2cFDG/s1600/trip+to+selcuk-407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCfMDMkv5IKd4hQt83WHD7D9LO1cwyQH3Fh1BU1TFANSHRB_KebI44i4FSqN9cMBqpixUGXXP56LWf63UfUq8T2NwHVHHbNM3pQ21OLmOQWWnDG0BdtK6Q13rpMEnp3QtVQo2_oP2cFDG/s320/trip+to+selcuk-407.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Don't come to the taxi stand,<br />we'll bring the stand to you!"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTI9rHw-R0TdLhIbhbHZQ4fu6eLYd_mGrMUJ7l58c1WlX4FgUtuabJ8w-XHD7jJgwFnDsIzfsr_XHXUEK2ywRZ4KRhwCiq-ksnXC9pnffBnQr9sUxfi_Xo7Cwkt0cXt8PBOjsrXKkxTNk/s1600/bademagaci_17_haziran_2009_094.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTI9rHw-R0TdLhIbhbHZQ4fu6eLYd_mGrMUJ7l58c1WlX4FgUtuabJ8w-XHD7jJgwFnDsIzfsr_XHXUEK2ywRZ4KRhwCiq-ksnXC9pnffBnQr9sUxfi_Xo7Cwkt0cXt8PBOjsrXKkxTNk/s320/bademagaci_17_haziran_2009_094.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Make way for tractors and <i>teyzes</i> in tow.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5nKwhOVz89TPFOlz42ErAEADhrDFyDQyLPaZw8ee34me_xTFV5Zl0iygjkIyteYMLR9rzBa3t51ZbQKzPn9LwuTOJfQMMoHlRGy_P9IydJDf7j9Q1xtNRASuwYmIYgOKrY3cCJrAP5Wic/s1600/awake_antalya-8009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5nKwhOVz89TPFOlz42ErAEADhrDFyDQyLPaZw8ee34me_xTFV5Zl0iygjkIyteYMLR9rzBa3t51ZbQKzPn9LwuTOJfQMMoHlRGy_P9IydJDf7j9Q1xtNRASuwYmIYgOKrY3cCJrAP5Wic/s320/awake_antalya-8009.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Goat and sheep-induced traffic jams are a<br /> common occurrence on Anatolian roads.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwDihGdXYmC7MyOlSC0ifKs_hzFAwJiRwOsP-VhVYNLs7IS4TOmCRSmKgZB9ueo_f_luZcRQQlxE3DSe2zYPR5x0ehhmIMJaJGw9hie2EMJHxuFMSRl1SCd5X_OwaVr0QlogdLBhjrTOX/s1600/akseki_march_7_2009+%252819%2529_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwDihGdXYmC7MyOlSC0ifKs_hzFAwJiRwOsP-VhVYNLs7IS4TOmCRSmKgZB9ueo_f_luZcRQQlxE3DSe2zYPR5x0ehhmIMJaJGw9hie2EMJHxuFMSRl1SCd5X_OwaVr0QlogdLBhjrTOX/s320/akseki_march_7_2009+%252819%2529_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Here's someone you really DON'T want to have to <br />share the road with. Get stuck at a red light with a musical <br />Election-Mobile and you'll have a headache for hours. <br />June 7th can't come soon enough....</span></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>3. History Lessons on the Fly</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Find yourself driving through a place you've only ever read about in your kids' school books? Turks are fiercely proud of their history and the countryside is thick with monuments and markers of famous battles and events. Road trips are a great way to connect the dots and see history come to life.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlcLNFCrw-PjjOp5M4kYQVaXzK3K_RczNzFgNz9c6n9iBwaTkdzVRttdZ_xlKOLlnnWCnVug0alw_I6vRBfmXN7pPL4OeP1TWWLoeKPbWt0imdQ5jrGxiN79udpy62zHQA8R_He1xSnlt/s1600/road_HOME-2554August+31%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlcLNFCrw-PjjOp5M4kYQVaXzK3K_RczNzFgNz9c6n9iBwaTkdzVRttdZ_xlKOLlnnWCnVug0alw_I6vRBfmXN7pPL4OeP1TWWLoeKPbWt0imdQ5jrGxiN79udpy62zHQA8R_He1xSnlt/s320/road_HOME-2554August+31%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sign at Duatepe, just west of Ankara: "You are on the soil where the <br />Republic was won." During the War of Independence, the Greek army <br />advanced almost as far as the capital before being driven back to the sea. <br />This legendary site, where the tides of the battle turned, is hallowed <br />ground in the Turkish heart.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPtEEmXlENSVMkLb4wyRJGG09cOgY_onxOdMua-n92asP6TtnqQuhwY9oXY1GB34nh2RGu2OwvC3u1XCiXm_PzvrD6vqiWJSnzi0t3X3kW09xkPVFzB_OOSUUM_HqRjd1YTzLly76xLlF/s1600/Samsun_and_Yol-2501August+04%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPtEEmXlENSVMkLb4wyRJGG09cOgY_onxOdMua-n92asP6TtnqQuhwY9oXY1GB34nh2RGu2OwvC3u1XCiXm_PzvrD6vqiWJSnzi0t3X3kW09xkPVFzB_OOSUUM_HqRjd1YTzLly76xLlF/s320/Samsun_and_Yol-2501August+04%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"May 19th - Population 24,500." An entire town named after<br />the day Atatürk landed at Samsun and launched the war<br />for the Anatolian heartland.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvIiLYdFfL8nj_zzs9talC73U_Wi4DHjCK4yEXkZOVpcwMnLI-06TMFrsf7snnWhpHc_UdFOfJ5ld3uyZ4bZ7fjGHw8uJNsrMRcrd-Q3kilXAGoGQpIy3EAQswxtvtkk3Yu2fPvjyX-Tg/s1600/Road_Day_2-2539July+05%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvIiLYdFfL8nj_zzs9talC73U_Wi4DHjCK4yEXkZOVpcwMnLI-06TMFrsf7snnWhpHc_UdFOfJ5ld3uyZ4bZ7fjGHw8uJNsrMRcrd-Q3kilXAGoGQpIy3EAQswxtvtkk3Yu2fPvjyX-Tg/s320/Road_Day_2-2539July+05%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Get to know the Father of the Turks.<br />Atatürk's likeness and his immortal words adorn buildings,<br />monuments and overpasses from İstanbul to Antalya,<br />İzmir to Van. This one reads, "Happy is he who calls himself a Turk."</span></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>4. Impromptu Dance Parties</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The Turks are a nation of dancers. It's in their blood. And when their feet feel the rhythm, they are not above pulling the car over and starting up a <i>halay</i>. Could be that their football team just scored a goal. Could be that they've just caught sight of their hometown after a long absence. Or it could simply be that a good song came on the radio and the spirit moved them. So, hop on out and join the chain!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYRHUhJssQSvpnVbTUUGGG2ub8XEf7hJFRY-mtOnn1d7YVB4HVPhk4FOJ704yRknDw_BF5GuNS38E8AAiFvdeb9ZB3L8erQRKMXAHmjemrB6Id9rguu5aZPsM-8ZQVmUL-jgU9JEvMQvc/s1600/road_to_erzincan-2503August+22%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYRHUhJssQSvpnVbTUUGGG2ub8XEf7hJFRY-mtOnn1d7YVB4HVPhk4FOJ704yRknDw_BF5GuNS38E8AAiFvdeb9ZB3L8erQRKMXAHmjemrB6Id9rguu5aZPsM-8ZQVmUL-jgU9JEvMQvc/s320/road_to_erzincan-2503August+22%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A roadside <i>halay</i> in the province of Gümüşhane.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>5. Pit Stops That Beat a Bag of Peanuts By a Mile</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Domestic airlines that serve actual food (unless you're willing to cash in your gold) are down to a precious few. And even then, the standard fare is a cheese and tomato sandwich and a bit of eggplant salad and some olives if you're lucky. But a car gives you the freedom to follow the LED signs to whatever you might be craving. <i>Pide</i> (flatbread "pizza"), <i>kebap</i> and <i>köfte</i> (spiced meatballs) are available countrywide, but roadside restaurants are a fun way to sample local specialties without having to go all the way into town.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuljnR9e5WriCK1_KFqt9gNopuFIz1oJwdnJe6oIUB8or9L-c0Vutr1llBK-BmR2PBWZ-WcpEHwY9K8rsaTzMAtKLhjnUi0pXtjn2IpyGduN68_P8gESl5QAVVVX0ounRFZn8K0L1PqN6/s1600/road_HOME-2577August+31%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxuljnR9e5WriCK1_KFqt9gNopuFIz1oJwdnJe6oIUB8or9L-c0Vutr1llBK-BmR2PBWZ-WcpEHwY9K8rsaTzMAtKLhjnUi0pXtjn2IpyGduN68_P8gESl5QAVVVX0ounRFZn8K0L1PqN6/s320/road_HOME-2577August+31%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Kurufasulye (white beans in tomato sauce) is the ultimate in Turkish <br />comfort food. They can be found at every rest stop, often being<br />devoured by truck drivers on their way back from delivering loads<br />in Europe and college kids counting the miles to Mom's home cooking...</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVsBamae6yzyUsQUwZuJzGJoBQqJCkLGRcIjLarUNyb4v8wkbuhI9N0Q4ukaPkA41XLeuF0EMxtZ8cxme35G7_YSrWEj9dom6BZW_ob5chuHsIUhejYd_i6KiVFMkwk1Zd4DlF3uZQN9p/s1600/trabzon_to_amasya-2529August+29%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVsBamae6yzyUsQUwZuJzGJoBQqJCkLGRcIjLarUNyb4v8wkbuhI9N0Q4ukaPkA41XLeuF0EMxtZ8cxme35G7_YSrWEj9dom6BZW_ob5chuHsIUhejYd_i6KiVFMkwk1Zd4DlF3uZQN9p/s320/trabzon_to_amasya-2529August+29%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Tokat Kebabı" - grilled lamb and eggplant served with a side <br />of the province's famous tomatoes. (In an episode of the popular<br />comedy, "Avrupa Yakası", Burhan is trying to figure out what to<br />offer Queen Elizabeth when she comes to Istanbul, and ends<br />up presenting "her majesties" with a plump tomato from his hometown<br />of Tokat because there's nothing more worthy of her in all the land...)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kyiXcNRsUfaX1JOBA9qYjfehw9kdE2jh6vLuv9l5c6__KnutqVuAgbBU_wh9ZTyAfw0c3G-CHkYedNIoNuxOCIoHzQMBnpM1x3BhLIK6dI4_Ux8yS_kHToEoeuGLSuL7X9nL1ysUEg5K/s1600/trabzon_to_amasya-2516August+29%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kyiXcNRsUfaX1JOBA9qYjfehw9kdE2jh6vLuv9l5c6__KnutqVuAgbBU_wh9ZTyAfw0c3G-CHkYedNIoNuxOCIoHzQMBnpM1x3BhLIK6dI4_Ux8yS_kHToEoeuGLSuL7X9nL1ysUEg5K/s320/trabzon_to_amasya-2516August+29%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">If you're passing through "Hazelnut Country" in Giresun <br />or Ordu, skip the BP station and grab a Coke from a jumbo <br />nut-shaped snack counter with a sea view!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQirx5x8_1p9OFDJNq88sNHqDq6TqBQwVFhyT_mIfWzke3ycxBlJp60_JHJkHbxdSRaMDQr_sdVYZiceuM4R7TKjRtl6ErksnVG2L635pXenod_odADKZyRRtiYE3AQAT00zpK0U5kWsao/s1600/passover-422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQirx5x8_1p9OFDJNq88sNHqDq6TqBQwVFhyT_mIfWzke3ycxBlJp60_JHJkHbxdSRaMDQr_sdVYZiceuM4R7TKjRtl6ErksnVG2L635pXenod_odADKZyRRtiYE3AQAT00zpK0U5kWsao/s320/passover-422.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">That Turkish Airlines food cart definitely doesn't <br />serve Magnum Bars. Just sayin'.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>6. Fruit of the Land</b></span></div>
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When driving a Turkish highway, an empty trunk won't stay empty for long. There are too many yummy things to buy along the way! Whether it's snacks for the road or a hostess gift you forgot to buy before leaving, the purchase of a few kilos of fruit will give you a taste of the local flavour as well as make some farmer's day.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM8Nc55msx07Bu2h_npUvdulUrjNKzgKeiOIIVmrLbdqVmHO5ARQbxOQ_U8s60WRtIzknVtOiqvzHBFsKf0Awxtsrff_uiAMIGmDPAR_KtOsWrGZr17qMlucLQyZMEKHqNKTI9Zd99PERx/s1600/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2568August+30%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM8Nc55msx07Bu2h_npUvdulUrjNKzgKeiOIIVmrLbdqVmHO5ARQbxOQ_U8s60WRtIzknVtOiqvzHBFsKf0Awxtsrff_uiAMIGmDPAR_KtOsWrGZr17qMlucLQyZMEKHqNKTI9Zd99PERx/s320/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2568August+30%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Fresh honeydew and melons for sale near Ankara. <br />The best part? They take Visa!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJtHrmOkW3BWg61lWVk4HDYpLhGsg_58ZMszwcQxPgbews4IpADRYNcU7lEGDFRIdwy5nrQGZMz2ix2u2ohQaDjPKDIFR_9PRRFEwBpbG5UgFMeq-L8xVFewXEiozerQ-8Gp5kTb4cndX7/s1600/kapadokya_w_amelia-619.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJtHrmOkW3BWg61lWVk4HDYpLhGsg_58ZMszwcQxPgbews4IpADRYNcU7lEGDFRIdwy5nrQGZMz2ix2u2ohQaDjPKDIFR_9PRRFEwBpbG5UgFMeq-L8xVFewXEiozerQ-8Gp5kTb4cndX7/s320/kapadokya_w_amelia-619.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Organic honey, fresh from the bee's belly, and <br />much cheaper than the grocery store.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Antalya is the Florida of Turkey - citrus fruit galore!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>7. Language Lessons a la Billboard</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A good language learner always keeps a dictionary in the car. Getting out of your city and your familiar surroundings often means exposure to new words on signs and billboards and is a great way to build your vocabulary. (And if you're feeling fiesty, challenge your roadtrip buddies to a friendly game of "How many words can I find that I know and you don't". :)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEighdQ-KuabR1HFU1RWdmB_TI5eaIbPZcQF0wMRPHWo7bNGszlwrClx13tnTp9lVWH-cMEhpidkToDQcB7FmqbWXxOLqISoVQezmCfzdCu7jmCAQW8e_USIKYLdt8erB8i8Z-sj2mQoUITu/s1600/road_to_erzincan-2537August+22%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEighdQ-KuabR1HFU1RWdmB_TI5eaIbPZcQF0wMRPHWo7bNGszlwrClx13tnTp9lVWH-cMEhpidkToDQcB7FmqbWXxOLqISoVQezmCfzdCu7jmCAQW8e_USIKYLdt8erB8i8Z-sj2mQoUITu/s320/road_to_erzincan-2537August+22%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Teveccüh" = "courtesy, kindness, favour." Who knew?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>8. Hot. Fresh. Now.</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Forget Krispy Kreme. Hot fresh roasted chickpeas are where it's at. And they deserve a category all of their own. While Ç</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">orum is most widely renowned as the Chickpea Capital of Turkey, entire main drags of many towns, like Serinhisar in Denizli, are lined with nothing but chickpea and nut sellers as far as the eye can see. The signs on the shops selling them inevitably involve the words "world famous" or "so-and-so's Chickpea World" and each one offers a variety of flavours (plain, salted, honey-and-sesame, chocolate covered) as well as an assortment of nuts, dried fruit, and Turkish delight. Pick some up for your Turkish friends to let them know you thought of them as you traveled - for whatever reason, those little balls of salted chalk have a direct line to their hearts.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Leblebi Bazaar"</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMpOCVIBpMvzT2z4WpMtzg0RvoJ1tGWEkZGgXGxX0wO81jn0TNb880-u5dVgucIxahH5bkbzK122ryrV7S1V6oNZt0R1VjMOfC3JRhvqrn2LodzGPF1rRC_XI_UUqbUm5LnvL512UKaOV/s1600/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2513August+30%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMpOCVIBpMvzT2z4WpMtzg0RvoJ1tGWEkZGgXGxX0wO81jn0TNb880-u5dVgucIxahH5bkbzK122ryrV7S1V6oNZt0R1VjMOfC3JRhvqrn2LodzGPF1rRC_XI_UUqbUm5LnvL512UKaOV/s320/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2513August+30%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Hot roasted chickpeas, 10 TL. We do gift packs."</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVlkqP9OrY5Nr5xxmNMQbDjf9hfqqjbbyCFlxP9mBQoMiYmAC7wWqwKI4zM-lAqxyWhSoRUKrBqjt5dQK_BSQ0q2PpY3Lo-c-8WTqNu9-E-yZhoU6O6UCf-oQoT8xgpX3eqkG09jhOJmW/s1600/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2517August+30%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVlkqP9OrY5Nr5xxmNMQbDjf9hfqqjbbyCFlxP9mBQoMiYmAC7wWqwKI4zM-lAqxyWhSoRUKrBqjt5dQK_BSQ0q2PpY3Lo-c-8WTqNu9-E-yZhoU6O6UCf-oQoT8xgpX3eqkG09jhOJmW/s320/amasya_to_polatl%25C4%25B1-2517August+30%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It seems that where you find chickpeas, you find clay pots, <br />though no one's really sure why. It conjures up memories of the <br />"video and tanning" phenomenon that once infected the South...</span></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>9. Road Trip Games</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Let's face it: cross-country drives can be long and tedious, especially if there are kids in the car. Fortunately Turkey has no shortage of fun things to count. (Motorcycles with more than three people on them, life-sized statues of cartoon characters and people driving the wrong direction come to mind....) So, whether you prefer a scavenger hunt where everyone participates or a competition for who can spot the most of a certain object, make your list and start scanning the road!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0dEE4DXGr9T1BRkYuZ1XhFGmdhjJpz7r2Krm84cT4BaZXa53X1jSaqO2OluBAPtPOqDoUCXL4yz76bh5nX8fExoswoj4Vj4RIRRhs0zVhvvzf0WwnXNuZGlhrIVMuoTSdmwzwpo58N8m4/s1600/manavgat_march_7_2009_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0dEE4DXGr9T1BRkYuZ1XhFGmdhjJpz7r2Krm84cT4BaZXa53X1jSaqO2OluBAPtPOqDoUCXL4yz76bh5nX8fExoswoj4Vj4RIRRhs0zVhvvzf0WwnXNuZGlhrIVMuoTSdmwzwpo58N8m4/s320/manavgat_march_7_2009_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The license plate game is always a favourite. Print off a list of the <br />license plate codes for Turkey's 81 provinces and see who can <br />find them all. (Warning, this could take up to three years. Some would <br />swear that certain hard-to-spot provinces have no cars and only use <br />horse drawn carriages...)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ntUJUwFCin42McnhUuLjDepZet66YNz_SdGKO1mMyqOwTYTLHMnny0yZJ3EMlf0jXUn41YQ5_eq9qu_XOhlHB525j4r5v3deuB8p956NGeWiZEzsE81tD0PppzxFY__aBeGKxdX3qxd9/s1600/Samsun_and_Yol-2620August+04%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ntUJUwFCin42McnhUuLjDepZet66YNz_SdGKO1mMyqOwTYTLHMnny0yZJ3EMlf0jXUn41YQ5_eq9qu_XOhlHB525j4r5v3deuB8p956NGeWiZEzsE81tD0PppzxFY__aBeGKxdX3qxd9/s320/Samsun_and_Yol-2620August+04%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Bonus points for foreign cars with Turkish bumper stickers. (Germany <br />must be full of cars owned by homesick Turks sporting slogans like <br />"Every place is Trabzon to us.")</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMxSwn2NpbVlwlEmMZSJ6iJpIGUm0SI_9ISVT9RdfGa9MrNJYLLB677BbchkbrMBWDcbs5wGOTGzFv7cgjOJe7v2qH0lCeQYO-PcwMEakaBIEVbrctnmkz7uH3Toll4kMrXw1qWPgcz-O/s1600/kapadokya_w_amelia-606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMxSwn2NpbVlwlEmMZSJ6iJpIGUm0SI_9ISVT9RdfGa9MrNJYLLB677BbchkbrMBWDcbs5wGOTGzFv7cgjOJe7v2qH0lCeQYO-PcwMEakaBIEVbrctnmkz7uH3Toll4kMrXw1qWPgcz-O/s320/kapadokya_w_amelia-606.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">See how many <i>mescits</i> (mini-mosques or "prayer huts") you can count <br />in a day. (Roads leading out of Konya are goldmines for this one!)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14pZ644fUR8IXhjgXLTDs4q6PsUPRiscvAsL7izc7lQenkjL83XRmoCCPwVQRDJU2k_iF1WrCTXOSwWMkkyutoBqEhhAsmGV0xF1-yM-4uQdSAskhGMz1UBchyLrtbuW3-Otsps7kIH8x/s1600/kapadokya_w_amelia-612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14pZ644fUR8IXhjgXLTDs4q6PsUPRiscvAsL7izc7lQenkjL83XRmoCCPwVQRDJU2k_iF1WrCTXOSwWMkkyutoBqEhhAsmGV0xF1-yM-4uQdSAskhGMz1UBchyLrtbuW3-Otsps7kIH8x/s320/kapadokya_w_amelia-612.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Some chiropractor somewhere is making a fortune on his ads telling <br />drivers to "Call this number if you have a herniated disc." The highways <br />around Antalya have a high concentration of his graffiti - see who can find the most.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDabf1kWVOewlgcLGKTdcD6hUvljSboQwVmn7HqnG6wAkXNhnI8TxsmRpDez-7EzFdeSm5vGspRcvPA5YnGW-uJ5yViCyjp-yYXCxvnI5FLmcUhxpuaBU_PPI4FOy6hxiQXWMPVe89sSBf/s1600/kapadokya_w_amelia-647.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDabf1kWVOewlgcLGKTdcD6hUvljSboQwVmn7HqnG6wAkXNhnI8TxsmRpDez-7EzFdeSm5vGspRcvPA5YnGW-uJ5yViCyjp-yYXCxvnI5FLmcUhxpuaBU_PPI4FOy6hxiQXWMPVe89sSBf/s320/kapadokya_w_amelia-647.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: small;">And then there's the ever popular "Count how many signatures and <br />likenesses of Atatürk you can find on the back of vehicles..."</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><b>10. Freedom to Detour</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Perhaps the best part of traveling by car is the freedom to stop and look at every random thing that tickles your fancy. If you're not pressed for time, every exit sign is an invitation and every "Hey, what's that over there?" an opportunity to see a snatch of the country you would've otherwise never seen.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9NoyzxGvPJttFFj-y2g6ieGcA_kDVLWnupHy7gO1B4k4JAYCT84_GIZLl14wkyKH3Xxxz3HERvYGgQ_EzeRCj-zW5WooBUxfU8K2-6wFh0tIz8YQvFthFYwHmCKOe8HsAYvSkySzxQlJj/s1600/aspendos_day-107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9NoyzxGvPJttFFj-y2g6ieGcA_kDVLWnupHy7gO1B4k4JAYCT84_GIZLl14wkyKH3Xxxz3HERvYGgQ_EzeRCj-zW5WooBUxfU8K2-6wFh0tIz8YQvFthFYwHmCKOe8HsAYvSkySzxQlJj/s320/aspendos_day-107.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: start;">
<span style="font-size: small;">There just happens to be a Roman aqueduct on the side of the road? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Go check it out!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKMsxVUbbox6Q73Am_Ku9jwyrhwadnzzj5gBTy-3Nby_up-SA-0UINqj2_VyVLQ_UEYLIjbq84IVaL-wEXaUyuk8wTp2vbFWT6t0-wK584ckRlrPLAg4WCY1OUJ3JT_uiiaVy-vsXlxdZ/s1600/kas%25CC%25A7_to_antalya-2503October+12%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKMsxVUbbox6Q73Am_Ku9jwyrhwadnzzj5gBTy-3Nby_up-SA-0UINqj2_VyVLQ_UEYLIjbq84IVaL-wEXaUyuk8wTp2vbFWT6t0-wK584ckRlrPLAg4WCY1OUJ3JT_uiiaVy-vsXlxdZ/s320/kas%25CC%25A7_to_antalya-2503October+12%252C+2014.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Passing by that sign for St. Nicholas' birthplace for the umpteenth time? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Maybe today's the day you should pop in and find out what the </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Santa Claus story is REALLY all about.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5_cy0XA6tws_-4qIo3g8Jff3Hp1hi0ZyrL3imHLAPtL-mnk8iBrlHVjZ2MEaDDc2DZNSPka3HImCZ2cVPrvF8jYV_sok8iiw-shFc8OHRv9bRb6TUMBSHtu1x5L1FSKLO6U8oCmOTEvR/s1600/kas%25CC%25A7_to_antalya-2508October+12%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5_cy0XA6tws_-4qIo3g8Jff3Hp1hi0ZyrL3imHLAPtL-mnk8iBrlHVjZ2MEaDDc2DZNSPka3HImCZ2cVPrvF8jYV_sok8iiw-shFc8OHRv9bRb6TUMBSHtu1x5L1FSKLO6U8oCmOTEvR/s320/kas%25CC%25A7_to_antalya-2508October+12%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">If you have to stop for lunch anyway, why not veer just slightly <br />off the </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">beaten path and cool your toes in the Med before you </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">make the last push towards home?</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keep your eyes open for those brown "Tourist Attraction" signs. <br />Samsun could be just another mile marker on the Black Sea coast road, <br />but a tour of the </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Bandırma</i> - the boat from which Atatürk stepped ashore <br />and started Turkey's War of Independence - makes for a great stretch break.</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqNKiA_K9EGg7x8Pg9WhCIVbYjqB1H2d2WfcF-RhsbwX4_FRc9Xum7Zz_NfvP2CXTkSQBwGi5VvtEml1tb2McGZCCi6VZq3qg-hvJK6xYdEJtDHiX7QStdK2toRVbSjXkRdFBkluL8Eky/s1600/amasya-2663August+29%252C+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqNKiA_K9EGg7x8Pg9WhCIVbYjqB1H2d2WfcF-RhsbwX4_FRc9Xum7Zz_NfvP2CXTkSQBwGi5VvtEml1tb2McGZCCi6VZq3qg-hvJK6xYdEJtDHiX7QStdK2toRVbSjXkRdFBkluL8Eky/s320/amasya-2663August+29%252C+2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the best parts of overland travel is getting to decide where you'll <br />spend the night. A little pre-trip research can mean the difference between <br />sleeping in "whatever dumpy pansiyon you happen to find" and spending the <br />night in a restored Ottoman house in Amasya, the city where the sultans' sons were educated and where the Republic of Turkey's "birth certificate" was signed.</span></span> </td></tr>
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So, what are you waiting for? Load up your HGS Card, fire up your GPS and hit the road!</div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-44302996266968139152015-05-17T13:46:00.001-07:002015-05-17T14:05:41.655-07:00A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">For years we’d heard about it:</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">the hometown where they loved to spend their summers </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">(“All the fruit you could ever eat...And that water.....”) but were so glad to return from in the fall.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Then last spring, they moved back there for good.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Elderly parents to take care of, a vineyard to tend to.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And so it became that our best Turkish friends are two flights, a hundred years and several layers of headscarf away.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Two weeks ago, we made our fourth trip out to their village since they moved.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">First it was their daughter’s wedding, then a proper catch-up visit.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Then a third, tearful trip a week later when the man who was so much like a father to me succumbed to the damage done by the brain aneurism he’d had during our autumn picnic in their orchard on the third day of our previous visit. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><b></b></div>
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This fourth one was both hard and sweet. Same furniture, different house, same old comfortable friendship. A lot of laughter and “remember when” punctuated by a lot of tears. A happy reunion with a sad family that has a long way to go before the words “father” and “husband” aren’t followed by a sharp intake of breath and a pack of Kleenex. Last summer’s wedding is now this year’s baby, and the piles of relatives we once struggled to keep straight (okay, we still do...) are now becoming familiar friends. </div>
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It’s a season of adjustments. Their old home that’s become their new home. New family members added, by vow or by labour. Beloved family members lost by death or divorce. And plunked into the middle of it, two foreign women who have somehow earned the honoured place of “insiders.”</div>
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The day we spent up at their orchard was one I both looked forward to and dreaded - a big family picnic under that same apple tree, food cooked over that same fire, tea drunk out of those same glasses while sitting on those same tree stumps. And yet it was also a chance to clear stones from the furrows and sticks from the veggie patch, to marvel at the blossoms that had appeared on trees that we last saw bone bare, to throw our own handfuls of dirt onto the foundation of the little house for which he showed us the plans just minutes before he collapsed.</div>
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A chance to hope for beauty from ashes.</div>
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<b>Here’s our weekend in soundbites:</b></div>
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“Smell these lemons! Smells just like home. I don’t miss it there, not really....but I do miss the lemons from your garden....”</div>
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“He always said he had a third daughter, you. And just before that weekend, I said, “Dad, why do you look so happy?” And he said, “Cuz they’re coming to visit.” </div>
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“But then it snowed on Thursday and all the trees got cold. Another week and we’ll know if they froze or not.”</div>
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“Motherhood looks good on her, doesn’t it?”</div>
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“Go pick some parsley for our salad - the big leaves. It’s the patch up there beside the green onions. You remember - you picked it last time...”</div>
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“It was that spot by the fire where my dad died, wasn’t it? Can you tell me again everything about that day....”</div>
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“Hacı Baba’s tea is always good. He mixes the Turkish stuff with the illegal stuff.”</div>
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“I used to climb that walnut tree when I was little. Here, you wanna come up with me?”</div>
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“What a pair we are! Two sisters - one can’t hear and one can’t talk!”</div>
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“My dad used to collect these little bits of sap - he called them “<i>ınç</i>.” And he’d stick them all onto the back of his hand, like this, and then he’d bring them to us and let us eat them.”</div>
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“Dan dini dan dini, little baby cow. Her mom’s a monkey, her dad’s a flea. Ey, ey, ey baby.....”</div>
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“They told us in school that they’re checking people’s teeth before they can apply for police school. They won’t take you if you have bad teeth. Or if you have weird marks on your face.”</div>
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“The water here isn’t like the water anywhere else. Do you want to stop and drink some?”</div>
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“I think I miss the <i>pazar</i> the most. And you guys, and my other neighbours, of course. But if I could just go to the pazar - not even to buy anything, just to see all those greens lines up in a row. We don’t have <i>pazars</i> like that here. Everyone has their own garden, you know? But I miss seeing it all in one place.” </div>
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“You have a cold? You should drink this soup. Nettle and herbs and greens. I know all about healing soups...”</div>
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“The <i>usta</i> is up there right now making the rock wall for the base of the house. Then we’ll go up and flatten out the dirt and let it rest. My dad had the dirt brought in right before he.... And, well, we haven’t done anything with the house yet until now.”</div>
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“I still haven’t gotten used to this place. After living where we used to live, it feels like someplace other than Turkey to me now.” </div>
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“Wrap that baby up! She’ll freeze out here!”</div>
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“It’s amazing, isn’t it? My father-in-law made it when he was in jail. He made that wooden mosque there, too. And my husband made these beaded roses when he was in......”</div>
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“Tea’s almost ready. And I made egg salad because I know it’s your favourite.”</div>
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“I don’t know if we’ll be able to make it to your house. We only have a few days, and a month wouldn’t be enough to see your whole clan!”</div>
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“See how the blossom just crumbles in my hand. Such a shame. No plums again this year...”</div>
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“The people who own the vineyard next to ours won’t let us put a window on the side facing them. They’re afraid someone they don’t know might watch them from inside.”</div>
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“Mom, you used to string up a swing like that and rock me in it when I was a baby, didn’t you?”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wwrEwh763QGboSAq0fc_1s5ouHQRGOL1ShIngE1DW-Z5OfaQbUXfcKocc3SvghUvEjhCqlJq0oR-2bv3SdknMrsDxhYXRN-xNC8zTyupzfUakP9j2wQd1btcokPV9SNMqFBC6S9f8pCi/s1600/erzincan_may_1-4_-5241May+03,+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wwrEwh763QGboSAq0fc_1s5ouHQRGOL1ShIngE1DW-Z5OfaQbUXfcKocc3SvghUvEjhCqlJq0oR-2bv3SdknMrsDxhYXRN-xNC8zTyupzfUakP9j2wQd1btcokPV9SNMqFBC6S9f8pCi/s320/erzincan_may_1-4_-5241May+03,+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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“I haven’t been able to go to his grave yet. I’m not ready. I had to come to the vineyard. I have no choice - there’s so much work to do and the trees won’t wait. But not the grave, not yet.”</div>
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“We were lucky with her. She’s the best bride we could’ve asked for. Always smiling, never doing anything to cause problems....”</div>
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“Oh, but you know your Book’s been changed, right?”</div>
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“I don’t know what happened to the <i>börek</i>. It all stuck to the bottom of the pan. She came last night and she made it and put it in the fridge....is that why? Did the eggs all sink to the bottom? Now I can’t get it out. It was going to be such good <i>börek</i>...”</div>
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“I think I understood about five percent of what I heard today. These accents.... How come no one ever conjugates a verb around here??”</div>
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“That’s because she’s a police wife. Gets everything for free - even her phone plan! Not a regular civilian like us...”</div>
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“He says he always gets up from the table before he’s full. If you eat until you’re full, the devil roams freely in your veins.”</div>
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“You’re just like Grandma. She never remembers her tea during breakfast cuz she’s too busy with the cheese. And then she gets mad that it’s cold. Hand it to me, I’ll freshen it.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfBqgLZeEu23-SkoCfnWOdy5NRQUZ12SCibaoiBQJF2OkXZbw2-FlFMNIzImn8pDhFmlRMKtungNqGxRSqBQYwx8mdOCmURMBjw0SvihdWWc-lt5SXMDCTt617fg1KXxHxevwqS90qEbFH/s1600/erzincan_may_1-4_-5246May+03,+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfBqgLZeEu23-SkoCfnWOdy5NRQUZ12SCibaoiBQJF2OkXZbw2-FlFMNIzImn8pDhFmlRMKtungNqGxRSqBQYwx8mdOCmURMBjw0SvihdWWc-lt5SXMDCTt617fg1KXxHxevwqS90qEbFH/s320/erzincan_may_1-4_-5246May+03,+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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“And they built all those houses, all the same. A few hundred of them. But no one’s buying them. There are only seven thousand people in this town - do they think that many people are going to move out here? Maybe if they built a factory or something where there would be jobs. Plus, who’s going to buy a house with no radiators? You’d freeze in the winter.”</div>
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“She’s not a guest in this house, she’s family. Let her fill your teacup.”</div>
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“My aunt’s house you’ve been to. Just a few apartments down from us. My sister’s is in the building just below that. And in that building, my brother that died - his wife and daughter live there....”</div>
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“Remember when we came here last summer, the day after the wedding? And you took a picture of the one lonely walnut up in that tree. I hope there’s more than one this year....”</div>
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“I had an errand at town hall today, but you heard that funeral announcement, right? The mayor’s dad. He was the mayor before and now it’s his son. So now I can’t go for a week, at least. Maybe ten days. To pay my respects, of course, but not for business. It would be rude.”</div>
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“Don’t worry about the littlest rocks. Just get the big ones. When that bucket’s full, we’ll go dump it onto the dirt where they’re working on the foundation for the house.”</div>
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“I’m worried about him. He hardly talks anymore and won’t open up to any of us. He’s doing okay in school now, thank goodness. But he watches<i> Kurtlar Vadisi</i> and I think it’s made him hard.....”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbm9qoIcP7EaPTVwrp0VKcPr9Gce-1nJMYZ0ZeaSWlEfodXoTAMmrTrSwtfBEVnNAyH7BLmK3md3Hnt5dWSRQjS-3DGhebzl_unLSvu7k8vDOqiw4neCCg7np7SQjN2k9yztnOWARwFR5t/s1600/erzincan_may_1-4_-5234May+03,+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbm9qoIcP7EaPTVwrp0VKcPr9Gce-1nJMYZ0ZeaSWlEfodXoTAMmrTrSwtfBEVnNAyH7BLmK3md3Hnt5dWSRQjS-3DGhebzl_unLSvu7k8vDOqiw4neCCg7np7SQjN2k9yztnOWARwFR5t/s320/erzincan_may_1-4_-5234May+03,+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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“I’ve been stuck inside with her since she was born. It’s finally getting warm now and I am so ready to get out of the house and walk down to the sea...”</div>
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“This village is suffocating. The nature here is pretty, but the community, it’ll drown you.”</div>
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“Those egg stains never did come out of the carpets. Who throws eggs at the groom anyway?”</div>
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“Poor Teyze, bless her heart. She’s facing the wrong way. Mecca’s over that way.”</div>
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“He’s a good father otherwise. Brings home money. Takes us out on the weekend. It’s when he drinks that we’re so afraid of him...”</div>
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“And all you have to do is take the lace and sew it onto the two ends of your towel. Not many people can do it like I do it so I sell a lot of them.”</div>
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“Do you leave your car in Turkey when you go back to America or do you take it with you?”</div>
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“Keep an eye on the chicken so that cat doesn’t run off with our lunch like last time!”</div>
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“You can’t buy alcohol here in our village. At all. People go down across the highway to the Alevi village to buy it. And you can’t play Backgammon or Okey here, either. You used to be able to, in our grandfathers’ time. And then some guys got in a fight. Now, no games.”</div>
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“Oh, don’t go to bed yet. Let’s have some Turkish coffee! Your time here is so short...”</div>
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“I miss my dad so much. On days like this, I catch myself thinking he’s just off buying chicken for the barbecue and he’ll come up and join the picnic in a little bit...”</div>
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“You should come back in cherry season. And in October - the first weeks of October - for the grape harvest. Our grapes here are famous. You’ve never tasted grapes like these....”</div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-43320825807702459772015-05-10T05:48:00.000-07:002015-05-10T10:13:21.907-07:00Journey to Jordan #8: (Making a) Living in Petra<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
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When I pictured “spending a day amongst the Bedouin” in the ancient city of Petra, hanging out with the Pirates of the Caribbean wasn’t what I had in mind. But from the moment we entered the Siq - the narrow passageway that winds its way for just over a kilometre before opening into the ancient city - we were surrounded by Jack Sparrow lookalikes. Black kohl smeared under their eyes and wild curly hair tamed under a bandana or a traditional <i>keffiyeh</i> made it easy to picture them listing crazily at the bow of a great ship. <i> </i></div>
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Many of the local Bedouins make their living as tour guides and “chauffeurs” for the tourists who come to explore the red rose city where most of them grew up. Our first encounter with these colourful characters came as they careened their way through the gorge with the thunder of horse-hooves echoing against the high rock walls, dragging tourists clinging desperately to carriage rails in their wake. Having successfully avoided a crushing death-by-pirate-mobile (and dodged the abundance of selfie-pods and Korean tour guides wielding large flags) we were rewarded with a golden view of al-Kazneh (The Treasury) as we rounded the last bend in the Siq’s striped stone walls. </div>
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The area, surrounded by high rock on all sides, was crowded with other tourists taking photos, carpet-backed camels who seemed happy to pose for said photos, and tanned Bedouin children shouting, “Happy hour! Ten postcards, one dinar!” As we took turns posing for the obligatory “I was here” shots in front of the grand stone edifice, a guy in camouflage pants, a navy blue Ralph Lauren Polo sweatshirt and a white bandana approached us, leading a grey donkey by a rope. </div>
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“You want I take photo of you together?”</div>
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We smiled and he clicked, and then he informed us (nonchalantly, in a practiced non-pressuring voice) that he’d be happy to give us a ride up the 800 plus steps to the Monastery if we wanted. </div>
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“Much easier for donkey than for you,” he smiled, gold caps shining in the sun. “If you can’t find me, ask anyone for Feraz. They find me.”</div>
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As it turned out, Feraz was rarely out of our sight. Or, rather, we were rarely out of his. As we strolled the Street of Facades, poked our heads into royal Nabataen tombs and took in the grandeur of the Roman amphitheatre, we never went more than five minutes without him appearing on his donkey, nodding as he trotted by. No one was going to steal his customers, that was for sure! Occasionally, other men and their camels would sidle up to us, the animal’s smile revealing a checkered dental past, the owner calling out, “Taxi, Madam? Air-conditioned!” We decided that, rather than spending our time shopping around, we’d stick with the devil we knew. When we were ready to make the trek up to the Monastery, Feraz got us saddled up on a horse and a donkey and off we went.</div>
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“The donkey knows the way,” he called out as my mount trotted on ahead of where he was walking my roommate’s horse. “Don’t worry!”</div>
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And as if to reinforce the message, the dreadlocked owner of the donkey whose bottom I followed along the millenium-worn colonnaded Roman road turned on his transistor radio and bopped in time with Bob Marley. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he belted out, accompanied by the clip-clop of hooves. “Every little thing gonna be alright.....”</div>
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A few minutes later, when we’d settled into the sway and swagger of our beasts of burden, Feraz pointed to a hillside sloping up away from the Roman temple we were passing. </div>
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“See that cave, there? I was born there.” We had read that many of the Bedouin currently running the tourist show had lived inside of Petra until the government built them a “new village” nearby, so I was inclined to believe him. </div>
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“How long have you been working here?” my roommate asked. </div>
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“I start when I am seven,” he answered. “Like these kids.” He nodded at a pair of boys racing their donkeys up ahead, eliciting a flurry of shutter-clicks as they paraded in front of a group of Asian tourists. “I learn from the older boys. And now I teach these boys.</div>
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I was grateful for my little grey donkey as we made the steep climb up the narrow path. He indeed knew the way, and moved with surefooted familiarity up the steps carved out of the mountainside. (Other donkeys, apparently, weren’t so trusty. For example, the one sporting the Aussie who flew by us yelling, “Look out! Out of control donkey!!”) My roommate’s horse, a natural tour guide, it would seem, was intent on giving her an up close and personal view of the grain of the stone in the rock wall, often at the expense of her right leg. Feraz, himself on foot, appeared to be no less winded than his animals, though his dark sweatshirt didn’t seem to be doing much to prevent the beads of perspiration collecting on his forehead.</div>
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“It’s okay,” he said when we reached the top, patting his horse with a metallic smile. “I take taxi down.”</div>
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I don’t know if the donkey would agree, but I thought the Monastery was well worth the trek. Not only did the monks back in the day do a spectacular job of finding an “ends of the earth” sort of a place where they could worship in peace with an incredible view, but they (or whomever they hired) carved a real masterpiece out of that rock face. I was in awe of how they managed to produce perfectly round, evenly spaced pillars without the use of modern tools, especially when, like the Treasury, the components were not so much “assembled” as “called out from the stone.” Amazing.</div>
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We scrambled up yet another hillside (Where was that donkey when I needed him?) to admire the Monastery from a higher vantage point and I laughed when I saw that the lookout was populated by Inukshuks. Either the monks were the ancient ancestors of the Inuit or some other Canadians had left their “I was here” marks in recent days. I couldn’t resist grabbing a few stones and adding a little one of my own to the collection.</div>
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Turning our backs to the Monastery, we took in the "well-advertised view" of the vast expanse of barren desert and windswept rock that is the Wadi Araba. It’s no wonder the children of Israel needed a cloud and a pillar of fire to guide them - I’d be completely lost if I were set loose in the wide open emptiness and told to find my way home!</div>
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After fortifying ourselves with dried fruit and cookies from my backpack and Coke and Mr. Brown’s Iced Cappuccino from the mountaintop refreshment stand, we picked our way back down the steep trail, this time sans donkey. I wanted to spend a bit more time exploring the Kings Tombs, but my roommate was done with climbing for the day, so I deposited her at a little cafe to people watch and then made my way up the trail to the western facing facades of the Urn, Palace and Corinthian Tombs. Lonely Planet had informed us that the late afternoon sun would turn these grand edifices a blazing shade of pink. Low cloud cover dulled the effect somewhat, but I was still dazzled enough to understand why the Nabataen kings would want to spend eternity on this particular hillside.</div>
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The crowds had thinned out considerably by this point in the day - at least to where not every photo was splattered with sun visors and unsightly fanny packs. Several of the souvenir stands were sitting unmanned while clusters of Bedouin locals took tea breaks in the shade. I spotted a couple of donkeys taking a break from Monastery Duty in the coolness of a cave. As I approached the multistory Urn Tomb, three little girls clambered around on the ancient equivalent of a great stone jungle gym, either too distracted to offer to show me their uncle’s trinket stall or too young to know they ought to. </div>
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In the distance, a long walk in the sun away from where I stood, I could make out what I thought, judging by my map, might be the Crusader Fortress. Just above it, on a high ridge, sat a cluster of half-finished cement houses. I wondered if that was where the “new village” for the Bedouin had been built - the one that replaced their caves with doorbells and indoor plumbing. Were they grateful that the place where they lay their heads at night was free of ticket stubs and clicking cameras and Europeans trying to figure out how to tie their new checkered <i>keffiyehs</i>? Or did they stare at those four concrete walls and long for their red rock home?</div>
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As I headed back down the hill, ready to call it a day and make the trek back up through the Siq towards dinner and a comfy bed, I turned around to admire the warming of the colours on the rock one more time. Motion beside what otherwise looked like an abandoned souvenir stall caught my eye. I squinted and recognized the camouflage pants kneeling, then rising, then kneeling again, the white bandana being pressed to the ground. It was Feraz, tucked back in the shadow of a flapping tarp, doing his <i>namaz</i>.</div>
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I felt like I was intruding on a private moment, and yet I couldn’t help but watch. Here was a man who spends his days charming weary hikers and shuttling them around in his “four-legged taxi” for a fee, and yet even his few solitary minutes with his Maker weren’t completely free from the eyes of a curious tourist like myself. I watched as he stood a final time, cupped his hands and then brought them up to his face, sliding them slowly down his cheeks to receive the blessing of Allah. He rolled up his prayer rug and tucked it under the trinket table beside him. And then, straightening his bandana, he untied his grey donkey and made his way back down the hill to find his next fare.</div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-52680176267535920772015-04-19T01:54:00.000-07:002015-04-19T03:06:34.396-07:00Blank Canvas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQzItwmyyrh3ZKS3hJ42LJqUhrAh4qtv15g046v2rIAM3ckSZQpbWdlcCDMsHIvoxXoxRMW457OHEBnPYZdfLysorKr8ojf4L0_KWqVYFHd4dUPGRADUTJyP86hEDfhGI5oi3kGS7uZeb/s1600/ustas-4003April+16,+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQzItwmyyrh3ZKS3hJ42LJqUhrAh4qtv15g046v2rIAM3ckSZQpbWdlcCDMsHIvoxXoxRMW457OHEBnPYZdfLysorKr8ojf4L0_KWqVYFHd4dUPGRADUTJyP86hEDfhGI5oi3kGS7uZeb/s1600/ustas-4003April+16,+2015.jpg" height="200" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“There’s no furniture, but at least we have internet!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have a famous photo of my old roommate sitting on a pile of luggage in our completely empty room, typing on her laptop. We were in the middle of painting our newly rented house and hadn’t purchased beds yet, but we were excited to have successfully gotten our wireless hooked up. We may have been sleeping on couches mashed next to the stove and the dining room table in the middle of the living room, but at least we could write home about it! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eight years later, my room is in the same state again. (Note the modem on the floor on the right.) We’re having my room (and several other spots) repainted, so it’s empty right down to the blue walls. I texted said roommate this picture and we had a good laugh. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we first moved in, our other roommate had her furniture shipped down from her old place in Istanbul, so the rest of the house was set, but as for our room, we were starting from scratch. Both of us were in serious relationships and assumed we’d be setting up our own houses in the next year or two, so we only bought the basics - beds, night tables and clothes cupboards. I can still remember testing out my bed at the second hand shop and thinking, “Gosh, I hope there’s nothing weird growing inside this mattress...”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We painted the room ourselves (along with the rest of the house) and got pretty skilled at using kid brushes after all that white trim. It was the biggest room I’d ever lived in and our initial bare bones furnishings made it look pretty sparse, but we filled it soon enough with a tiny bookshelf, a china-cabinet-turned-bookshelf borrowed from our other roommate and pictures on the walls. Then, when my roomie moved out to get married, I replaced her cupboard with a desk/shelf unit and set up all my knickknacks and travel memorabilia on it. But her bed stayed. Not so much because we needed a guest bed - there is a whole third floor guest room for that - but because I am a piler and the big flat space gave me room to “organize” my brain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Over the years, I’ve added more bookshelves. (Let’s just say that while I love my Kindle for how much lighter it makes my suitcases, I still far prefer the feel of paper in my hands and all those spines staring back at me from their shelves make me happy.) I’ve added and switched out a few pictures on the walls, though many of the tacked up postcards had to stay a lot longer than I might have wanted for no other reason than that I knew they would peel the paint off as soon as I took them down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then recently, I decided it was time for a change. Having my bed for my office (partly cuz this non-desk girl finds it comfier and partly cuz it’s just plain warmer under the covers in the winter) didn’t always make the lines between “work time” and “recreation” very clear, and I found myself wanting to have separate spaces for “working on the computer” and “having a quiet time/doing personal stuff online/reading for fun”. I decided having half my room as “my bedroom” and the other half as “my office” was the solution. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The second bed got the boot and IKEA.com made some cash off of me, and two new cube bookshelves took up residence in the corner where my bed used to be. I set up a “goals station” where I have my regular planner (nope, I don’t do electronic calendars either...) and my writing planner set up, along with a clothesline strung with papers detailing my goals for the month/year: what I am going to write, word count goals, my running schedule, books to read this year.... I am definitely more motivated when I see it all in front of me, like the pathway to so many of my dreams.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once the bookshelves were <span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: line-through;">conquered</span> assembled, the only thing missing in my little corner was the perfect armchair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My roommate and I were also both in need of new beds. (The primary catalyst for this big painting project was our pesky mold issue, and since you can’t exactly spread anti-mold paint on a mildewy mattress, the only option was to replace them.) When The Great Power Outage of 2015 hit (it was actually only eight hours long, but made international news due to the fact that there was a simultaneous blackout in nearly the entire country) we decided that since we couldn’t do anything productive at home, it was as good a day as any to hit the furniture stores.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most of the shops we visited didn’t have generators, so we ended up doing most of our bed-testing in the dark, which really didn’t matter, since your eyes are closed when you’re sleeping anyway. :) And it was in the basement of one such store that the saleslady’s flashlight hit a chair that she claimed was dark brown and “just what I was looking for.” And she was right. It was love at first sit, and when the store-muscle hauled it upstairs into the daylight, I was sold. At the next store, we found a great deal on some super comfy beds and we went home happy campers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My chair was delivered two days later, and we have been getting along famously. It’s just got just the right curve for my back and is just big enough that I can curl up in it. Every time someone comes over, I make them sit in it so they can ooh and ahh over its wonderfulness. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfB-WjFeYGweTdu8MMDhiHSgevD79hCabWlHYqVZJpng7K_gIgYQXeizCRLSGxiMPkv_apcyRZKNAuskfW4-unJfDkO35dOak15mb7sVTIX6eXmobqrPwQPC_jGiqtCa5cUapa4sgbbJN4/s1600/chair-801April+02,+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfB-WjFeYGweTdu8MMDhiHSgevD79hCabWlHYqVZJpng7K_gIgYQXeizCRLSGxiMPkv_apcyRZKNAuskfW4-unJfDkO35dOak15mb7sVTIX6eXmobqrPwQPC_jGiqtCa5cUapa4sgbbJN4/s1600/chair-801April+02,+2015.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No sooner had I gotten my little office corner set up just the way I wanted it when it was time to empty out my room for the painters to come. So now the house is in a state of organized chaos. Everything from my room has been packed up and squeezed it into the hallway and my roommate’s room, with what I hope are all the clothes I need for the next week stashed in the guest room cupboard. Our new beds haven’t arrived yet, so my roommate is sleeping up in the guest room, and I’ve got a “bed” on the floor in the upstairs kitchen that I will set out every night in between workmen tromping through the kitchen to the terrace, which they are also fixing. Feels a bit like those summer nights when we lay out our mats to sleep on the balcony, minus the mosquito net and the great view of the stars.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Initially, I struggled a bit with the fact that I was buying <i>another</i> single bed. Truth is, if I’d been the one writing this story, I would’ve upgraded to a double - and someone to share it with - long ago. I would have a whole house to redecorate instead of a solitary room. But I learned years ago (through <a href="http://everydaytreasuresblog.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/on-hope-and-small-appliances.html" target="_blank">the purchase of a certain blender</a>, you may recall) that buying small appliances and hanging pictures and making this home <i>mine</i> - however temporarily - does not mean I’ve given up hope of the life I’ve been believing for all these years. Settling in doesn’t equal <i>settling</i>. The place of waiting can be - and should be - a place of great joy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My empty, echoey bedroom feels like a fresh start. The walls hold memories of friends who helped paint (some whose brush strokes were smoother than others...) and a “cover up job” for a disaster involving a certain former roommate and a well-shaken (but not tightly capped) bottle of pink nail polish. They’ve been home to framed vintage postcards from Istanbul, artwork by my favourite kiddos, flags from my various homelands, testaments to my love of coffee, and verses that are now etched on my heart. But now, they are a blank canvas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know where all the furniture is going to go. I know I’ll be having new light fixtures installed (if for no other reason than that the current bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling make my roommate feel as if she’s walking into a KGB interrogation room....) But as for the walls and what I choose to display on my bookshelves, I’m wide open. Knowing me, it’ll probably take me ages to get it just the way I like it. Or even to hang the first picture. As an adult in my (almost) mid-thirties, the space between this floor and ceiling is the only thing in the world that’s really mine. And that makes it feel really significant. I want my room to express who I am and who I’m becoming. A little more grown up (but not TOO much!), a little more homey, still colourful and creative. I want it to be a place that inspires and encourages me when I’m working, is an inviting haven when I’m resting, and brings life to my heart during both. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now if we could just get the pace of the workmen to speed up a little, I might get to move back into my room before I’m thirty-five....</span></div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-84494555283656374892015-04-16T10:26:00.000-07:002015-04-16T23:25:07.743-07:00Journey to Jordan #7: Petra By Night<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;">
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Indiana Jones was speechless when he first laid eyes upon it in The Last Crusade. The characters in the Agatha Christie novel “Appointment with Death” (which I’d brought on the trip for “ambience reading”) found it to be a perfect backdrop for murder. My own first glimpse of Petra’s Treasury was no less full of awe.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Upon our arrival in Wadi Musa (the town just outside the ancient site) we purchased tickets for Petra By Night. Trip Advisor reviews had prepared us for “a mediocre performance of traditional Bedouin music” and “lukewarm mint tea”, but the allure of the Siq (the long rock-walled passageway leading into the city) aglow with candlelight far outweighed the potential for disappointing entertainment, so we bundled up and off we went.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We arrived just after dark and, joining the thin crowd (“War is not good for tourism,” our taxi driver had said), were led in a hushed procession through the tight space. A desert-sky thick with stars was visible through the narrow opening between the cliff-faces overhead and the pathway was lined with thousands of “lanterns” made from candles set in paper bags. The ground was muddy in some spots, thanks to that morning’s rain, but with the help of the candlelight, we managed to avoid stepping in any horse poop left behind by the day’s explorers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1.2 kilometres feels like an eternity when you’re on an uneven path in the dark. I kept expecting to see the Treasury around the next corner, and was continually rewarded instead with more candles and curves. And then all of a sudden, when I’d stopped anticipating and settled into the walk, there it was, framed by a jagged slit in the rocks, positively glowing. </span></div>
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The facade was illuminated by hundreds of candles arranged at its feet. Our Bedouin hosts, barely visible in the flickering light, arranged us in rows on mats, and I closed my eyes to avoid getting a migraine from the frenzy of flashes as a hundred other people simultaneously recorded the beauty of the Treasury for posterity. </span><br />
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The magnificent building, carved directly from the sandstone surrounding it in the first century AD, was originally used by the Nabataeans as a mausoleum. Its pillars are crowned with figures related to the afterlife, including four eagles said to carry away the souls of the dead. It is said that the Treasury earned its name due to an urn on the second level where a pirate hid his substantial treasure. Apparently the urn is full of bullet holes from when a group of Bedouins tried to shoot the urn open to uncover the loot. Imagine their disappointment when they found out that inside the urn was....solid rock. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When everyone was settled, our silhouette of an emcee appeared, his shadow swelling and swaying against the candlelit backdrop, and he welcomed us in an impressive string of languages. His accent was tricky and I couldn’t hear him very well, but I caught wisps of what sounded like “traditional music of the desert” and “sit back and enjoy the show.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the next half hour, various solo musicians treated us to an assortment of Bedouin tunes. From their places in different corners of the stone gallery, the lively voice of a flute, then a stringed instrument, then another flute rang out in the darkness. With each performer, lights positioned a little ways up the back cliff wall caused the Treasury to brighten, sharpening its shadows and defining its details. The scene before me was mesmerizing, but when I leaned back on my elbows and looked up, that was when the show really took off for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That sky. Stars - millions of them on display in a visual concert of their own. Barely aware of the narrator’s comments, I drank in the beauty on the canvas overhead, and when I joined in the audience’s applause, it was more for the Artist than anyone else. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When the music had finished, men brought around trays of hot tea (that Trip Advisor commenter must have hit them on an off night) and we sipped ourselves warm in the chilly night air. Picking our way back through the candle-lined passageway, I watched the light dance on the soaring rock walls overhead, catching mysterious glimpses of a grave carved out here, a statue in a niche there. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the path broadened at the mouth of the Siq and we made the climb up the last hill, the candles on the path ahead seemed to merge seamlessly with the twinkling lights in the night sky. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And it's hard to say which shone brighter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's kind of a joke around our house that we're "ruin snobs." (See <a href="http://everydaytreasuresblog.blogspot.com/2012/03/converse-in-land-of-plastic-slip-ons.html" target="_blank">this</a> previous post.) Living in the land of "ancient this" and "Roman that", we are spoiled rotten with arches, columns and underground cisterns. We no longer jump at the opportunity to visit every vestige of an empire past just because it's in the neighbourhood. (Though I must say that a "Seven Churches of Revelation" tour with an educated guide is still high on my bucket list.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That said, what I <i>do</i> find intriguing is when the ancient is mixed in amongst the modern. Take my usual Starbucks, for example. It's right smack inside the old Roman city walls. That to me is cool. Coming across a local shepherdess grazing her sheep in the middle of Perge, having tea in a home whose yard is bordered on one side by Istanbul's Byzantine land walls, and shooting senior portraits of a girl in jeans and UGGs with a backdrop of a Roman harbour once sailed into by the apostle Paul - those are the kinds of interactions with ruins that I love the most.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So even though visiting "The Temple of Hercules" wasn't high on my list of things to do in Amman, the fact that it was located on the citadel right in the heart of downtown made me want to check it out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My friend-cum-tour-guide hailed us a cab, and we wound our way up the most central of Amman's seven hills (pretty sure it encompasses more than seven now...), our driver deftly navigating the crowded streets while watching a religious teacher preaching in the desert on his dashboard TV. Immediately inside the gate, a series of stone signs took us through the parade of civilizations that had built, conquered, ruled from, worshipped upon or sold entrance tickets to this citadel. Everyone from the Ammonites (Amman - get it?) to the Nabataeans (we were to see a whole lot more of their footprints in Petra) to the Romans, and the Ottomans have had their stake in this ground, all the way up to the Hashemite Kingdom, whose capital Amman is today. It is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. The hill is believed to be the place where Uriah the Hittite was killed, and it is crowned by monuments from its various past lives.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Temple of Hercules</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Interior of a Byzantine church</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Roman mosaic</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Refugees make up almost half of Jordan's eight million people - two million Palestinians since the creation of Israel and nearly as many Syrians and Iraqis during the current war. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With urban planning not exactly keeping pace with the steady flow of newcomers, the city is a swollen sandstone and concrete forest with hardly a park to speak of. But up on the citadel, a significant chunk of green space with a breeze and a view makes for a perfect picnic spot. The hillside was dotted with families on blankets, clusters of teenaged girls taking Roman-selfies, and women collecting bags of what I can only assume were edible herbs and weeds. When the wind picked up, the kite flyers appeared, and it was fun to watch Ammanis out enjoying the day in their city's ancient core. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Layers of civilization - ancient and present day Amman</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'd heard a lot about Amman's "monotonous ugly brownness" - it is illegal to make a building that is anything but neutral sandstone or concrete - but I actually kind of liked the continuity. (Maybe that's some leftover annoyance at the "Corinthian columns and mismatched paint" free-for-all that has taken over our once-uniform complex like a disease...) Even so, it was still fun to spot little splashes of colour sprinkled around the city.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Walking down from the citadel, we came out of a neighbourhood and were greeted with an impressive Roman amphitheatre right across the street. From there, we headed over to the <i>souk</i> - lacking in the medieval charm of Aleppo or Istanbul's covered bazaars, but still a colourful hub of activity. Moving away from the more touristy shops on the periphery (think belly dancing skirts, <i>kohl</i> eyeliner and pirated DVDs) we headed into the section of the <i>souk</i> where locals come for fruit, vegetables, coffee, nuts and spices. Best part: snacky samples and the cart from which one can purchase gummi bears, gummi worms and fuzzy peaches! </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9ARCRouoiRwwXlCut1wCLGnPmVu_ltvSta1hg_rLpjfiuZ2ugIAAamrU42Sg32OM0cuthrlyBtIVLJZTuoOq1oEXvGZy1jMHjNjxBjZzHg2dLE1d1WvH9tL2nl-jcuY-6WQLMVoP8AgB/s1600/citadel_and_downtown-101March+11,+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9ARCRouoiRwwXlCut1wCLGnPmVu_ltvSta1hg_rLpjfiuZ2ugIAAamrU42Sg32OM0cuthrlyBtIVLJZTuoOq1oEXvGZy1jMHjNjxBjZzHg2dLE1d1WvH9tL2nl-jcuY-6WQLMVoP8AgB/s1600/citadel_and_downtown-101March+11,+2015.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Candy Man :)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By this point, we'd definitely earned some refreshment, and since we (okay, I) couldn't decide between the juice man and a coffee shop, we did both. The fresh strawberry-banana-pineapple "smoothie" got my vote over the cardamom-laced Arabic coffee. I'd been curious to try it and was glad for the experience, but I think I'll stick to straight Turkish coffee, which is apparently favoured by Arabs anyway. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN6JCnO9IC3SUNvOOYcorWZ0ZAUl5yxInL1cu0ms4IVUkHLlP40y21eWEiN_p2TiKwJDI69mleeaNQcl9EZnneUNauUHLQhy6iC4lbWwOxzp8a_oh9dBUzLgKzzTq6jIkgvpnn1p75R_W/s1600/citadel_and_downtown-102March+11,+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN6JCnO9IC3SUNvOOYcorWZ0ZAUl5yxInL1cu0ms4IVUkHLlP40y21eWEiN_p2TiKwJDI69mleeaNQcl9EZnneUNauUHLQhy6iC4lbWwOxzp8a_oh9dBUzLgKzzTq6jIkgvpnn1p75R_W/s1600/citadel_and_downtown-102March+11,+2015.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We finished out the evening with a trip up Jabal (Hill) Amman to Rainbow Street. The street, which gets its name from a nearby cinema. Al-Rainbow Street is one delicious string of cafes, burger joints, espresso bars, waffle sellers and funky bookshops. (It's a very good thing I was full and tired by the time we got up there!) A pop into a corner grocery shop to stock up on presents - Nerds and Skittles for the kids, parmesan cheese, pancake syrup and blueberry pie filling for the grow-ups - rounded out my tour of the city.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rainbow Street caught my fancy because not only is it the place where the smartphone crowd come to sip and socialize, but the leafy boulevard also </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">boasts some of the city's oldest and most charming villas, one of which was once home to King Abdullah's father and grandfather, the two previous kings. I</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">t was the upper-middle class equivalent of picnicking beside the temple of Hercules. And it showed me an Amman lives its present in the midst of its past.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Makes me excited for my first "latte in the shade of the Roman walls" when I get home. :)</span></div>
everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-32683951634708075392015-03-27T07:06:00.002-07:002015-03-27T14:22:25.246-07:00Journey to Jordan #5: Drive-Thru Amman<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Squat sandstone apartments piled one on top of the other. Hills guaranteed to produce quads of steel. Tiny shops with metal grates for doors selling ground coffee and fruit and eggs. Men in long grey <i>djellabas</i> and women in tightly wrapped veils. Giggling white-scarved schoolgirls little boys tangled up in kite strings. The neighbourhood we called “home” in Amman was more or less what I expected of the capital of the Hashemite Kingdom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But a trip to the local Starbucks showed me that the slice of society I’d been exposed to thus far was only half the picture. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had every intention of a productive morning of work and had merely wanted a change of scenery from the apartment. But sitting beside a window overlooking the 24-hour drive thru, I found the clientele far more fascinating than the Turkish history lesson I was supposed to be focused on. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyTz6jAv7G9ySgLTGUk1o5slR6NFEqE_ZQqtFeVv3Z1kFRR3t2q8YlvVMeaUuHUelTlhGkacXlLb-5O13wvy_dMWb_IJRs9GJ8G0j2jjFS6_XFkaFmcgY2FcDR2XlAhojIEDJGG4qQgiM/s1600/starbucks_trip-4March+10,+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyTz6jAv7G9ySgLTGUk1o5slR6NFEqE_ZQqtFeVv3Z1kFRR3t2q8YlvVMeaUuHUelTlhGkacXlLb-5O13wvy_dMWb_IJRs9GJ8G0j2jjFS6_XFkaFmcgY2FcDR2XlAhojIEDJGG4qQgiM/s1600/starbucks_trip-4March+10,+2015.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The fact that one can pull up to a window an</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial;">d get a caffeine fix at all hours of the night is amazing enough in itself.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial;">But the </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">kind</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> of people who make a trip through the “latte lane” were ones I probably wouldn’t have otherwise seen, since they seem to move through the city hidden safely behind the tinted windows of SUVs and BMWs and aren’t out breaking a sweat on the seven hills.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Good little ethnographic researcher that I am, I pulled out my notebook and began to document what our host refers to as “The Californians of Amman.”</span></div>
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<ul>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Silver BMW: Tight hot pink sweater, hot pink cell phone, gold watch, bleached blonde hair. Texting.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Black Mercedes: Cream-coloured turtleneck, elegant tan silk headscarf, big sunglasses, silver watch. Alternately texting and changing radio stations.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Black car (I’m bad at guessing makes and models): McDonald’s sticker in the back window, prayer book with gold Arabic lettering in the back seat, passenger mirror held together with duct tape.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Grey Toyota: Passenger and driver, both female, are texting. Navy blue men’s blazer hanging up in the back seat.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shiny red convertible with the top down: driver is a rotund bald man in a navy and white track suit drumming his fingers to the beat on his steering wheel.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pedestrian in the drive thru: woman with short spiky bleached-blonde hair, black tights under a black sweater with a diamond-studded Mickey Mouse on the front.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Black BMW: blonde lady in a white tunic and jeans with a red scarf around her neck, multiple parking pass stickers on her window, tablet lying in the backseat, texting.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gold Audi: guy in a crisp white button-down shirt and jeans, sunglasses, alternately cleaning his nails, picking his cuticles, brushing crumbs off the passenger seat and buffing his phone screen.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Black Hyundai: girl with long, dark brown hair in a salmon-coloured shirt, credit card in left hand, texting with her right, backseat full of shopping bags.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Silver BMW, guy in a dark brown leather jacket, holding a cigarette out the window in his bandaged left hand, kids books piled up in the back window, Mac sticker on the back of the car.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Black BMW: guy in a navy blue suit with a burgundy tie with an ID tag clipped to it, dark sunglasses, checking phone and messing with air vents.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Silver Mercedes with the topper pulled off and a “Mercedes” sun shade folded up in the </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">backseat: light blue button down with military insignia/pins on chest and shoulder, brown suit jacket hanging up in the back, putting in headphones to talk on his cell.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gold sedan: stocky youngish balding guy in a long-sleeved black shirt talking on the phone with his left hand and trying to open a Marlboro package with his right, box of Kleenex in the backseat.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Silver SUV: girl in a grey t-shirt with long brown hair pulled up in a ponytail counting change and driving without touching the wheel</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beat up older silver BMW with dents and peeling paint on the roof: guy in a grey wool suit, red and white striped tie, NOT texting (!), Harley Davidson baseball hat in the back window.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shiny silver BMW: guy in dark Aviators with a neat beard and mustache, big silver watch, grey hoodie with orange lettering on it.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Black SUV: girl with long black hair in a long-sleeved grey comfy shirt, a glass of tea (I assume) in her hand...now putting it in the cup holder and carefully applying hand lotion.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Teal Super Safari SUV: guy in a grey t-shirt, silver watch, big muscles eating a <i>shawarma</i>.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dark grey sedan: two guys in dark suits, the mirror on the passenger side popped in like they’d park in a tight spot recently, driver with his head in his left hand leaning out the window, then checking his watch, then popping a breath mint from a green tin.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Black Range Rover with tinted windows: woman in a black blazer with bright red nails checking something in a red file folder on the passenger seat.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dark grey Range Rover - woman with long straight black hair, no phone in hand (!), a large-faced watch on, sunroof open, grey t-shirt and sweatpants...oh, wait, now she’s got her phone out...</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tiny black KIA: stuffed full of two middle-aged men, the driver (who bears a remarkable resemblance to King Abdullah) fiddling with the bills in his left hand while talking and gesticulating wildly to his passenger with his right.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pale yellow new VW Bug with the front VW logo bit curiously missing: big fake yellow Gerber daisy on the dashboard, girl with a red baseball hat, grey hoodie with brown fur trim and big sunglasses, brown wallet open on her lap displaying at least a dozen cards, left hand tapping on the car roof out her open window, right hand scrolling and swiping on a MASSIVE smartphone...and, oh, there’s the VW hood ornament lying on her backseat...</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dark grey Mercedes: two women in the front, both with long, flowing black hair. Driver is in a neon yellow t-shirt with her nails painted an identically blinding shade. Her passenger, in a long white t-shirt, has neon pink nails and a bracelet to match. D<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">river holds up her gold iPhone over the steering wheel and tries to take a selfie, but when she can’t seem to get the right angle, she hands her friend the phone and strikes a pose...</span></span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Proving yet again that the Middle East isn’t all teapots and carpets and veils. </span></div>
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everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9038044065846852626.post-12054208816779083612015-03-11T02:40:00.000-07:002015-03-11T12:02:27.110-07:00Journey to Jordan #4: Audible Amman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPenQFyy19RQNm3MW6gpnoQ0S9JEUE1Me4jxQiJb12kQ0s9EExIh7hyphenhyphenqV5VTtn_v-LWvAzklD19baS2NQKkdWA_GZj-jzefSYv1JAmNqTEYmVLW-pVoBZ0IR1JvM8R6JhPGcIJJRbwph-_/s1600/starbucks_trip-11March+10,+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPenQFyy19RQNm3MW6gpnoQ0S9JEUE1Me4jxQiJb12kQ0s9EExIh7hyphenhyphenqV5VTtn_v-LWvAzklD19baS2NQKkdWA_GZj-jzefSYv1JAmNqTEYmVLW-pVoBZ0IR1JvM8R6JhPGcIJJRbwph-_/s1600/starbucks_trip-11March+10,+2015.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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The call to prayer that woke me at 4:20 on my first morning here was the most beautiful <i>ezan</i> I’d ever heard. </div>
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It was so soft, so near and so pronounced that it sounded more like it was playing from a radio on my nightstand than sounding from a minaret outside somewhere. I heard a single voice - not at all like the cacophony that always jerks me awake on the first night of a stay in Sultanahmet when all ten mosques within ear shot are competing with each other. The<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> voice was humble, with none of the drama and gusto of the <i>muezzins</i> back home.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">No static or screechy loudspeaker effect, either.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">No, this guy was pure pleasure to listen to, with vocals like a boy-band pop star gone religious. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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I could make out every word, and I was so intrigued that I wanted to stay awake and listen. (Not that the rooster accompanying him really gave me a choice.) When he finished the call, the melodic rise and fall of a Qu’ran recitation began, followed by the muffled sound of prayers coming from multiple mosques. About fifteen minutes later, the <i>ezan</i> was sung again (that voice...) and then he repeated the words to the call in a speaking voice.</div>
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<i>God is great.</i></div>
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<i>There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His prophet.</i></div>
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<i>Come and pray. Come and pray.</i></div>
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<i>To pray is better than to sleep....</i></div>
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For the first time I understand what all those guide book writers and romantic wandering nomads mean when they describe the call as “hauntingly beautiful” and “mesmerizing.” </div>
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Clearly the key is to find someone to read it who sounds more like Bruno Mars and less like the rooster.</div>
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The fact that I was still getting over a bad cold when we got here meant I took the opportunity to get as much rest as possible. Translation: I slept (off and on) for fourteen hours the first night. Lying in bed afforded me the opportunity to “listen to the neighbourhood” a whole lot. It’s amazing how much you can learn about a place without even opening your eyes. Here are my “audible first impressions”:</div>
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<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px;">There is a nearby school whose “bell” is Fur Elise.... Must be a universal choice of bells, as many schools in Turkey use the same song. (Right along with <i>Jingle Bells</i> and <i>We Wish You a Merry Christmas</i>. Go figure.)</li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Lots of honking, screeching of tires and the occasional police or ambulance siren.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The birds are celebrating the arrival of spring.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> One, in particular, sounds JUST like our doorbell at home, and it’s got me constantly thinking I need to jump up and see who’s there.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Apparently these are the first warm days they’ve had here, and all the neighbourhood kids are out in force. The shrieks and laughter got particularly exuberant when several little boys were up trying to fly kites on their respective roofs. Not much wind to help their cause, but I admire their tenacity.</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">There is a constant flow of trucks coming by with guys yelling over loudspeakers.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">If I didn’t know better, I might assume they are spouting angry propaganda and be tempted to be afraid.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But the cadence of their voices and the length of the sentences sound exactly like the guys who drive around our neighbourhood yelling, “Potatoes, one lira!</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Onions, one lira!</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Watermelon, one lira!” (For how garbled their words are over the PA, those guys back home might as well be speaking Arabic!)</span></li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Every fifteen to twenty minutes, a truck goes by playing a song that conjures up images of a Chinese ice cream truck - all tinny, like a discordant music box.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My hosts later confirmed my hunch - it’s the gas tank delivery guy.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">He must literally just drive up and down the hills all day, because his song ebbs and flows but is never quite out of earshot.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> I think I’ll be hearing it in my sleep.</span></li>
</ul>
everydaytreasureshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08109318884289399861noreply@blogger.com0