Imagine you had a beloved friend that you hadn't seen in years. Once or twice you'd passed by her house on the bus, but time never allowed you to stop in for tea, and so you were left to press your nose against the window and imagine what it would be like to see her, to hear her voice, to listen to her heart....
That pretty much sums up the relationship I have with the town of Afyon. The first time I encountered her, she both frightened and intrigued me. But once I'd spent a week in her presence, she won my heart. And I've been dreaming of her ever since. I returned once a few years ago, but just for a day, and all that did was whet my appetite for more. Every time I take the bus home from Istanbul, it makes a stop at the Afyon station, and it's always torture to be so close and not be able to pop in and see my dear friend. But this road trip afforded me a long-awaited opportunity, and even though it was just for a few hours, I was out-of-my-tree excited to roam those colourful streets again. The town boasts a huge, imposing fortress set on the top of a massive rock. In its shadow is just about the most delightful Old Quarter you'll find anywhere in the country, with twisty streets and wooden Ottoman-era houses in a rainbow of colours. While at first glance, the place has an air of indifference, I have experienced in the past those precious moments where a smile, a cup of tea and a dictionary are all you need to form a friendship, if only for a day. And those streets are ever extending an invitation: "Come explore me, come hear my stories, come find out what's behind my shuttered windows and bolted doors." And I, for one, am happy to oblige!
Afyon's true name is "Afyonkarahisar," which means "Black Fortress of Opium." Poppies grow like crazy on the plains surrounding the town, and a third of the world's legally grown opium is grown here. But among Turks, Afyon is not known so much for its opium as for its kaymak - a thick, clotted cream. An inset in the Lonely Planet chapter on the town, entitled "Cream From Contented Cows" tells the story:
"Afyon's opium farmers rarely use the drug themselves, but they use every other part of the plant. The poppy seeds are sprinkled on bread and pastries, the tender leaves are good in salads and the leftover opium plants are fed to the cattle. The cattle become very contented and produce rich cream in abundance."
And rich it is. My favourite way to enjoy kaymak is in Turkish Delight. I always grab a sample at the bus station when passing through, and this time I tasted an amazing new (to me) variety - kaymak lokum rolled in coconut with Nutella inside - seriously amazing. I kinda finished off the bag before we'd even made it out of town...
The first time I visited this town, a violent, ethnic-hatred-inspired riot took place right outside our hotel within the first few minutes of our arrival. What a welcome! I remember watching from an upstairs window, feeling confused, intrigued, and a bit afraid.....thought likely not as much as I should have been. In the days that followed, we tried to sort out what had happened, but being that we couldn't speak any Turkish, we couldn't make out anything from the newspapers, and no one we asked was at all eager to talk about it.
Now, seven years later, with more background on the history of the city and a much deeper understanding of the situation in the nation, I was able to put some pieces together. Back in 1922, during the War of Independence, Ataturk and his army defeated the Greeks there in a battle that turned out to be a decisive turning point in the war. The Turkish Republic was born just a few months later, and Afyon has a proud place in history as a result. Approaching the town, we saw several war-memorials and a giant statue of Ataturk looming on a mountaintop. The spirit that forged the Republic is alive and strong today, and with it, it seems, comes the intolerance of those who are different that characterized the end of the Ottoman Empire and the birth of the nation of the Turks. Such a conservative and fiercely nationalistic city has no sympathy for the minority group that lives in the eastern half of this country, nor for their grievances or their prisoners. Slogans we saw (and can now understand) scrawled on walls around town echoed the hatred I saw on the street that day, and the sense I got as we wandered about is that this is not a place that embraces outsiders easily, if at all.
We arrived in the evening and collapsed in our ghetto little hotel room, and after a good night's rest, were ready to take on the town. Our hotel didn't include breakfast, so we grabbed some apples and peanut butter from the cooler and then set off in search of tea. As if in keeping with the town's inhospitable facade, we walked and walked and couldn't find a single place to drink tea! (Trying to find a tea shop in any Turkish town ought to be like trying to find a Starbucks in Seattle, so this came as an odd surprise.) Finally we came across a pide (pizza-ish dish) place and asked if they had fresh tea, which they did. We enjoyed a few cups as we brushed up on our Afyon history (courtesy of the Lonely Planet) and then got ready to hit the town. And we were humbly surprised when, because we were his first customers of the day, the owner wouldn't let us pay for our tea! Okay, phew, we were still in Turkey after all!
Feeling less like unwelcome guests and with a much happier taste in our mouths, off we went to the Old Quarter. Now THERE is a place that makes my heart come alive! Besides the fact that it brings up all sorts of great memories of the friends with whom I first discovered it, around every corner is photo after photo just waiting to be taken. We spent a few hours roaming the streets, me never tiring of trying to shoot the same old staircases from a fresh angle, always trying to coax the hidden beauty out of the cracked walls and crooked old doors. Perhaps the current inhabitants are more aware of the drafty windows and the mold and the cockroaches, but when I look at those old houses, I see them for glory I know they still possess, and I am enchanted.
We came across a couple of interesting scenes during our wandering - almost as if they had been staged and were just waiting for someone to show up and appreciate them. (Pick me, pick me!) The first was the "kececi" - the maker of felt. The whole street was strewn with sheep's wool, and the guy was more than happy to show off his various felt creations. This one is a sort of coat to keep shepherds warm when they are out in the hills, and it doubles as a blanket to keep the sheep warm when they are giving birth. (At least I think that's what he said...accent was kinda tricky, and I am not up on my shepherd vocab!)
The town was apparently the second most important dervish centre in the Ottoman Empire (next to Konya, which we saw later on our trip) and the Mevlevihane Mosque boasted an impressive little whirling dervish museum. Members of this mystical sect of Islam studied and lived in these quarters, and the museum showed various scenes of them eating, praying, copying the Qu'ran and performing the mysterious worship-dance for which they are famous.
It must have been kite-making week at the local school or something, cuz everywhere we went there were kids running up streets and down hills trying to get their colourful creations airborne. I sat watching these two kids in particular, impressed with their determination to get theirs to fly. I was was especially drawn to the old man in the shadows, watching him as he watched them, filled with nostalgia and memories of his childhood, and probably wishing his knees were stronger so he could go run with them, too.
Afyon, once more you have drawn me into your mystery, capturing my imagination and yet still holding me at arm's length. You've afforded me shy glimpses of your beauty, but your pride demands that you keep me at a distance. I long to know your true heart, and to share with you mine. Perhaps when we've had more time together, you'll get up the courage to open your doors....
Next stop, Izmir. Known back in the day as Smyrna, Izmir has been called "home" by Hittites, Romans, Greeks, and everyone in between. In more recent history, it was the site of much bloodshed and tragedy during the War of Independence and subsequent population exchange between Greece and Turkey in the 1920s, and it is now proudly known as the most secular and westernized city in Turkey. (Seriously, I barely saw a covered head there!)
My days in Izmir were a flurry of happy reunions with treasured friends, a suitcase full of gifts from home (thanks, Ma!), Iskender (yum!) and IKEA (the car came home a good bit fuller than it was when we started...) and a good refilling of the soul.
Wedged in the middle of it all came a visa run - a necessary evil that I can't complain too much about, cuz it always means a new adventure. A friend and her sweet baby came along with me on the early morning ferry ride to Samos, a Greek Island an hour off the Turkish coast. By the time we had been on the ferry five minutes, one of the guys working on board had set his heart on our sweet blond baby as a perfect candidate for a besik kertmesi - a "cradle engagement" - with his little boy. All in fun, of course. Her daddy woulda never gone for it! :)
We had about six hours on the island, and were grateful for cooler weather in which to explore and take pictures of all the quintessentially Greek homes and alleyways. Highlight for me: ham and pineapple pizza! (Visa runs are always a big excuse to eat pork!) We also checked out an old Greek Orthodox church, and its colourful graveyard, and enjoyed the peace and the presence there. Amazing the difference you can feel in the air just crossing the border!
Here's a coupla shots from our little Greek Island getaway:
We carried the baby in the baby carriage all the way down this loooong staircase - what were we thinking?
So, off we went. First stop: Selcuk. Selcuk is most famously known for being the home of Ephesus. Seeing as we'd already been there done that several times (and stood in awe, don't worry!) we opted out of the sightseeing and went to connect with the friend we'd come to see. He owns a nice little carpet shop (as anyone who's anyone here does!) and I got some fun shots in there. We spent the night in a pansiyon I've stayed in a couple of times before. It is an old restored house and I am particularly fond of its cozy little courtyard, so my coffee and my journal and I had a "moment" there, as per tradition. Nothing huge to say about Selcuk, as it was just a stopover this time around, but I will tell you that the other thing it is famous for is its storks. They seem to have adopted every old Roman pillar (of which there are surprisingly many) as their own and have nests all over town. Rumour has it that if one nests on your roof, it brings good look to all in your home. Probably leaves little presents in your courtyard, too. So, there you go.
13 days, 2451 km, 24 gas station toilets and a whole lot of almonds and Magnum Bars later, we are the proud accomplishers of a successful road trip. Family gatherings, follow-ups with curious friends and sheer wanderlust took us from our home on the Mediterranean (well, sort of) to blue Aegean, up to the Black Sea, and back again, and I have to say, I am more in love with my country than I was when I left!
One million miles starts with a step or two, or so they say, and the same goes for a road trip, and a road-trip-chronicling-blog. My tendency is to wait til I have edited all the pics and "have time" (ha!) to write, but instead I'm gonna dive in and take the first step of getting this blog rolling tonight. Thus begins my account of our cross-country meanderings. Stay tuned!
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You're guaranteed to always have matching clothes when everything you own is the same colour!
The Google Maps plan wasn't as flawless as we'd hoped, being that most of the streets in this country don't have street signs.....still, in the end, we always got where we were going.
Whether you're in the mood for Jack Johnson, Bill Johnson or John Lennon, battery=operated iPod speakers on the road are a wonderful thing. (We sometimes used the pluggy-in thingy, but since the cigarette lighter is broken, I had to balance the whole deal on my knee, which got tiring sometimes.)
Have Frenchpress-CaffeVerona-sugarcubes-powderedmilk-helpfulgasstationattendantswithhotwater, will travel!
Marriage proposals are kind of a regular part of my life here. (Hear culture, not vanity there!) We're always talking about how we should keep track of how many random guys (or, more often, how many potential mothers-in-law) pinch my cheek and ask for my hand. The neighbours joke about how many cows they're gonna get for me, and my Turkish family always says that they're holding out for a guy who will buy them a new house. (A foreign daughter is a pretty useful commodity, I've discovered!) Living in a modern city in western Turkey, you see far fewer arranged marriages or swapping of girls between families than you do out east, but the process from first glance to "I do" still involves a whole lot of family involvement. (Definitely not a bad plan, either. I think our chick-flick informed version of the road to happily-ever-after could definitely afford to take some cues from the way things are done in this corner of the world.)
The tradition of the "isteme" is when older members of the man's family pay a much anticipated visit to the girl's home where her relatives will be waiting with pastries and pressed clothes and hopes of a successful match. (This pretty much happens whether the couple have been "dating" for months or are just meeting for the first time.) The girl's job is to look pretty, to show interest (but without looking flirty, cuz that would indicate bad character) and to serve Turkish coffee to the guests. As the story goes, if she has no desire whatsoever to marry the man, she'll toss a little salt into the coffee and hope that they take the hint.
As a single girl here, having a "guardian" allows me to hold a place of respect in society and not look like a hussy. :) My Teyze ("auntie") that I live with has become quite adept at warding off unwanted suitors. (Lucky for me, negotiations fall to her, so I don't have to deal with the unpleasantness...most of the time...) Some dear friends of ours were once quite set on securing me for their son and after much polite declining from my Teyze, they were still not convinced that they didn't want to come see what sort of Turkish coffee I'd make. Finally she had to tell them that, much as we try to live the Turkish life here, when it all comes down to it, according to our culture, I'm not hers to give away. (We're not even really relatives!) Where we come from, I have a choice in the matter. After a solid (but, of course, terribly polite) "No" from me, it seemed that, while disappointed, they accepted my answer. Still, every once in awhile when they're over, I half-consider dropping a little salt in their tea, just to be sure we are still on the same page. :)
A recent visit to another neighbour family brought out a new aspect of the culture we'd not encountered before. Our friend was telling us excitedly about how they were going to take a trip back to their hometown this summer because her brother is getting married. He'd finished his military service, scored himself a good job (as a nightclub piano player..."good" being a relative term) and was now ready to settle down. The family had started to make preparations for the wedding, and our friends were looking forward to a week of fun and feasting with everyone they knew.
"Congratulations," we said. "What's the girl like?"
"Oh, we haven't found her yet."
(Confused silence.)
"How can you have a wedding without a bride?"
She went on to explain that he'd decided there were no suitable girls for him in the big city, and he'd much rather have one from "back home," so he assigned his older sisters the task of finding him a wife. Talk about trust! They'd scout out a girl, coffee would be poured, a dress bought, hands hennaed, a childhood home farewelled, and viola! A wedding!
Much as this whole thing of a fill-in-the-bride wedding seemed a little...presumptuous...at first glance, I can see where the idea makes sense. Those who know you well and know what makes a good wife find you one from within their circle, and half the work is done already! You like her, she likes you, and the rest you sort out when the ring is on your finger. In this culture, the bride belongs to the whole family in a much deeper way than she does in western culture, and her getting along with her mother-in-law and her husband's sisters is hugely important, especially if the couple will be living in his family's home. (Which won't be the case for Ankara night-club-boy, as far as I can tell.) A marriage is the merging of two families, a blending of communities, and you want to make sure that all parties involved like the ingredients being added into the mix, cuz they'll all be eating this cake til death do them part.
Our friend started to list off the qualities they were looking for in a bride. I could see where this was heading, and sure enough....
"Hey, what about you? You'd make a great wife for him! You're sweet, kind, cultured, you can cook and clean. We love those ginger cookies you make. Can we give him your number?"
Enter Teyze and the well-practiced, face-saving turn-downs...
Tomorrow is two weeks since I had my tympanoplasty - fancy word for "snagging cartilage from the flappy triangular bit at the front of your ear and using it to patch up the humongous hole in your ear drum" - and I definitely can't say I'm back to normal yet. The pain is pretty much gone, but the energy hasn't come back yet. Getting off the pain meds helped a lot, but then when I attempted to do a few normal things around the house, I wound up right back in bed where I started. Slowly, slowly...
It was a super long and complicated process, trying to sort out if I would have my surgery (the need for which had been hanging over my head for years) at home or here, and in the end I was super happy to be able to get it done here. ("Here" being Istanbul.) Besides the fact that it meant I didn't have to leave the country - and essentially, my life - for an extended period of time, it also served to really bond me in with my "second home" even more deeply. A friend here who had her babies in another Central Asian country told me that the experience made her feel so much more rooted there, more settled knowing that her country could take care of her. I felt the same way - like this was some sort of milestone in "cultural adaptation." I was super pleased with the hospital and my doctor, and everything was over and above what I'd expected. It was nice to feel like, apart from a couple of really technical conversations, I could function in the hospital in Turkish....albeit more slowly when I was coming out of the anesthetic! (Plus, I've learned all sorts of new vocab words, like "narcotics," "discharged" and "anesthesiologist.") Feels good to know that I can get what I need here, and that "home" isn't the only place I can survive. Kinda like how when I first moved here, I had a Walmart list a mile long every time a friend was coming to visit, but now I've figured out how to make what I like with what we have here, and the list is down to a chunk of staple items. (Maybe one day we'll get proper brown sugar and non-waxy chocolate chips here - that'll save heaps of suitcase space!)
Being "the patient" in this culture was a new experience for me. A huge value here is community, and it is unheard of to leave someone alone when they are sick. Leading up to the surgery, I was a little anxious about this, cuz I wasn't sure if I'd be able to rest. Turns out I was pretty grateful to have my Turkish mom and dad by my side in the recovery room. (Mom even had to feed me cuz with the IV in, I couldn't hold my spoon!) It was probably good for me to have to let go of some of my "western independence" and let them take care of me. In the days that followed, I wasn't always fond of being babied or told what I should or shouldn't do, but it wasn't a battle I was up for fighting, so I left it alone. Not drinking cold water and staying out of the wind never killed anyone. :) I was grateful that most of the days I stayed with them, everyone was working, so I had some good alone time and peace and quiet - definitely good for my sensitive ears.
I survived the looong bus ride home (no planes for 2 months cuz of the pressure) and was super happy to get back to my own room and my own bed. Not to mention getting away from the cigarette smoke! I hadn't realized how much I needed to speak English and get all sorts of random stories out of my system, so the first night, my roommate got an earful! The first day back, I realized I was going to have to prepare myself for all sorts of visitors, even if I didn't feel up for it. Whereas in our culture, it is normal to leave someone alone and let them rest while they are recovering, here it is shameful not to come visit and keep the person company. We quickly discovered that keeping friends and neighbours away was gonna be impossible, cuz it would kill them not to be able to come say a "Gecmis olsun" - "May it pass quickly." Thankfully my roomie is a great buffer - she laid down the law and told incoming well wishers that I was super tired, so they couldn't stay long, that no sickies were allowed in (risk of infection) and above all, no being funny- besides the fact that it hurt to laugh, a good joke is not worth blowing stitches! They probably think it is horrible that I'm left in my room all day while not feeling well, but I am grateful for the space. Still, it has been really sweet to have people come over and Gecmis Olsun me - and I've even scored some nice soup, muffins, milk, cookies and plastic flowers out of the deal!
The part that has amused me the most is that, since I have to rest, the serving of the tea is now up to my roommate. It is customary for the youngest girl in the house (me) to serve the guests, so being the auntie, she pretty much never has to do it. But now that I get to lie around when the guests come calling, she gets the pleasure. We've got quite an array of tea-drinking styles amongst our neighbours - some light, some dark, some with lemon. Some drink it with sugar cubes held in their mouths, others spoon the sugar into their cups - it's a lot to remember, and keeping those tiny glasses full definitely keeps you on your toes. I am thoroughly sitting down while she has to keep her eyes scanning the room for empty cups. :)
So, here's to new experiences and to feeling like this land is that much more my home.
The sign said "Dead End." Still, the crooked alleyway held the promise of proudly decaying wooden houses and equally decrepit teyzes knitting on their front stoops, so we ignored the sign and ventured on to see what we could see.
A few photographs later, a group of ragamuffins who had previously been amusing themselves by wrestling in the dirt descended upon us with what I ought to have recognized as a mischevious gleam in their eyes.
"This way, abla! There is an exit just through this gate!"
They pointed to a large metal gate that led to a block of apartments. Figuring there must be some little pathway beyond the houses too small for a car to pass through, we ventured on... only to hear the slam of the door behind us, accompanied by shrieks of delight. Laughing eyes peered through the slats of the door as they congratulated themselves on trapping what I can only assume were the most recent in a long succession of gullible foreign prisoners.
Thinking we'd humour them, we walked on a bit, discovered that we were, indeed, stuck, and then returned to try to wrestle the gate open. They put up a good fight, but eventually gave up on holding us captive and let me win, dissolving on the ground in a heap of giggles. I decided it would be better to make friends with these urchins than to get mad at them (wouldn't want them to follow us back and throw eggs at our window or something!) so I started snapping pictures. They were more than happy to ham it up for the camera. (I just now realized that the little guy in the blue jacket is giving me the Turkish equivalent of the finger! Not so innocent, these ones.)
As we walked away, I called back to them, "Do you do this to all the tourists?"
With great pride came the answer, "We try!"
There's this fun little section at the heart of Kadıköy called the Fishermen's Market - a few lively blocks crammed full of colourful produce stands, pastry shops, pickle shops, dried fruit and nut shops, Turkish coffee shops, breakfast-stuff shops and, yes, fresh fish. When I'm up in Istanbul, I look for any excuse to go buy something there - a kilo of dates, some dried cranberries (which have, thank heaven, finally made their debut on the Turkish scene), some Turk Kahvesi to take home as a present. And even when I don't need anything, I'll go out of my way to take a stroll down this crowded back street, just to drink in the ambience. (Plus, it's impossible to get out of there without scoring some free samples!)
I wish I could bottle up the smells, the sounds, the flavours for you.....here's a visual sampling....
Mmm, dolma! Stuffed eggplant, stuffed tomatoes, cabbage wraps....
Pickled everything.
These grape leaves are used to make sarma - tight little rolls filled with rice and spices.
I always feel like a real "Istanbullu" after having run to catch a ferry. There is something so exhilarating about hearing that "last call" fog horn sound, racing across the plaza to the ferry building and swiping your Akbil (transit pass), then making a mad dash for the docks. Some days it's just not your day and you make it to the doors only to have them slammed shut in your face. But then there are those glorious days (I had two last week) when you just barely slide through the doors and leap onto the ferry just as the ropes are being undone and the gangplanks lifted. Out of breath and feeling supremely victorious, you congratulate yourself and then make your way upstairs to find a seat.
No matter how cold it is, I nearly always prefer to sit outside where all the action is. There is nothing like the scent of the sea and the feeling of the wind whipping past, watching century upon century of history glide by as you make our way across to The Other Side. ("The Other Side," you must know, is a real and true place. Whether you are in Asian or European Istanbul, the opposite shore is simply referred to as "The Other Side." It's kind of like how they refer to leaving the country. Whether I’m heading on a quick visa run or clear across the globe to Canada, my friends will always say I'm heading "to the outside of the country" - but it's used more in the sense of an actual destination (interchangeable with, say, Germany) and less in terms of "everything outside Turkey's borders." This little language nuance has always amused me.)
(Is it legal to use parentheses inside of an already parenthetical statement? Cuz I just did.)
Anyways, enough digression. Back to the ferry. A must on these 20 minute "intercontinental crossings" is a hot cup of tea - 50 cents from the man who comes around selling them on his tray. (That's another thing that makes me feel like a local – having the correct change ready when he comes around instead of having to ask the price.) On cold winter days, they offer something even better than tea – sahlep. Sahlep, made from crushed orchids, is a creamy, cinnamony bit of heaven in a glass – the perfect companion on a chilly journey. You wrap your freezing fingers around that little cup of glory and inhale its steamy goodness, sighing a sigh of gratitude for this culture which revolves almost singularly around the presence of hot drinks.
And then there's the on-board entertainment. Sometimes it's a mobile salesman who busts out his lemon juicers or paring knives or whatever he's selling and wows the crowd with his demonstration of their magical powers. But much more faithfully, and far more engaging, are the flocks of seagulls that follow each vessel back and forth across the waters, waiting for the morsels of simit (a sesame seed pastry) that passengers toss up in the air into their hungry mouths. (The birds' mouths, not their own - though that would be entertaining, too!) These seagulls possess an amazing amount of endurance and skill, and rarely do you see a bird turn back from exhaustion or a stray chunk of bread fall into the sea. The art of Simit Tossing is a rite of passage for all Istanbullus, one clumsily attempted in childhood and perfected with age, and it is guaranteed to brighten even the greyest of Istanbul days.
When the boat has left Uskudar's Maiden Tower in its wake and the Yeni Camii and the fishermen on the Galata Bridge have come into view, it is time to make your way downstairs and join the throng waiting to disembark. Another distinguishing mark of a true Istanbullu is the ability to leap from the ferry to the dock before the walkways have been lowered and the ropes tied. Great fun.
I once heard a story of a little girl who, as the ferry was docking, slipped and fell into the space between the boat and the dock. A moment later, a man was beside her in the freezing water, and soon the girl and her rescuer were pulled safely to the shore. The girl’s parents hugged her with relief, and the man was surrounded by an admiring crowd. "Bravo!" they cried. "You were so brave to jump into that icy water and save her!"
He put his hands up to silence them, and someone called out, "Shh, let our hero speak!"
When the crowd grew quiet, the man looked around and said, "What I want to know is, who pushed me?"
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