Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Tuesday, October 25, 2011 - 1 comment

Mardin: Sneak Peek

I've been home from Mardin for almost two full days, and I've got a notebook full of scribbles that are dying to be turned into stories while the memories are fresh. But, alas, between catching up on all the sleep I skipped by getting up early to scribble those scribbles, doing mountains of laundry, hitting up the pazar and restocking the fridge, surprise guests who stay half the day, and all the other "catch-up" stuff that must be attended to when one returns from a trip, I have yet to be able to sit down and really write. Tomorrow. Tomorrow!

But, for now, here's a visual sneak peek at what the weekend looked like....

Looking out over the Mesopotamian Plain to Syria


Mardin: City of Arches and Alleys








"Mirra" - the Arabic coffee served in Mardin - is twice as strong as Turkish coffee, and seriously bitter. But it must be tried. :)








Courtyard of our hotel the first night. It used to be a kervansarayi - a lodging place along the Silk Road where stinky camels and stinky men could rest for the night.


The town of Hasankeyf is a historical and natural wonder, full of cave houses, a stone fortress, and a colourful cast of locals. It is set to be flooded when the government completes its plan for a hydroelectric dam, but there is a huge effort going on in an attempt to save the town and preserve its history.




The town of Midyat




One of the goals of our trip was getting to tour the house where Sila, a Turkish TV show, was filmed. My roommate had a slight crush on the main character and was very excited to tell us who lived in all the various rooms and where they ate breakfast.... :)


While we were at the house, a folk dancing group was filming a music video so we spied on them for awhile. They had to keep reshooting this bit cuz the handkerchief kept landing on the singer's face!


Our second night was spent in the Mor Abrohom monastery just outside of Midyat.




Driving into the village of Aynwardo was like going back to the Middle Ages...


Mor Gabriel is a Syrian Orthodox monastery that was built in 397, and it is the seat of one of Turkey's four bishops.






It took us some time to win our way into the hearts of the priest and nun caring for the church in the village of Zaz, but once the "doors of favour" opened up (good story to follow) they were happy to show us the ancient underground cave churches and offer us tea and stories.




We spent our third night in the Deyrul Zafaran monastery, which was by far my favourite of the ones we visited. It is one of the oldest continually operating monasteries in the world. Their hospitality was amazing - not to mention their saffron-cinnamon tea! We got to sit down with the bishop for some very informative and encouraging conversation.






Tomorrow I will (inshallah) finally get down to the business of organizing my notes and starting on some stories - one of the first of which will be titled "How I Avoided Accidental Marriage in Mesopotamia." Intrigued?

Tuesday, October 25, 2011 - No comments

Mardin Trip Prewriting: Passport to the East



(from Wednesday, Oct. 19)

We’re “just” taking a trip out east, but everything about this trip makes me feel like I’m heading to another country.

I had to laugh at myself as I loaded up my suitcase. I’ve got little bags of four kinds of snacks, as if we won’t be able to find food along the way, and all the fixin’s for coffee, as if we won’t be greeted with that classic Middle Eastern hospitality that will keep us on a perpetual caffeine buzz for the duration of the trip. I even had to remind myself that I won’t need an adaptor for my phone.

Perhaps its the “untamed frontier” photos I’ve seen of the vast plains stretching from Mardin down to the mysterious unknown of Syria. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that my Turkish won’t get me very far in a region where nearly everyone’s mother tongue is either Kurdish or Arabic. I have this delicious sense of anticipation that I am about to be dropped in the middle of an unfamiliar world where all the learned customs and rhythms, all the adopted bits that make up my carefully constructed Western Turkish self are going to be rendered completely useless. And I can’t wait.

There’s something about going to a new place that makes my senses feel more heightened and alive, like I’m actually experiencing everything I see instead of just “walking past it.” Flavours are richer, sounds more jarring, views more intriguing. It’s been a long time since I’ve been anywhere “new” in Turkey, and I am fully looking forward to having my senses assaulted, to really noticing the faces of the people I pass on the street, to new arched alleys to explore and dishes with unpronounceable names to sample. Armed with 16 GB in memory cards and my travel writing notebooks, I am ready to relish “the foreign” again.

I’ve done tons of research for this trip, but the more I read, the less I understand. I would venture to guess that the oldest building in my hometown couldn’t be more than 200 years old (if that), and yet this week I will spend the night in a monastery built in the fourth century. This is Mesopotamia we’re talking about. From the Sumerians to the Turks, civilization piled upon civilization, conquerors building upon the foundations of the conquered, sometimes absorbing, sometimes obliterating. This is a land that has hosted more vibrant cultures and witnessed more tragic bloodshed than my mind can comprehend.

A hundred years ago, this particular region of Turkey was nearly 100% Syrian Orthodox or Armenian, but with the dawn of the Turkish Republic, most of those “mysteriously disappeared.” Over the subsequent decades, all but a handful of those who remained were either driven out or fled to Europe as it became increasingly difficult to stay afloat on their “Christian island in a Muslim sea” as waves of Kurdish refugees flooded in from the mountains, their own villages the theatre of civil war violence. Still, there are tiny pockets of Syriac Christians that have managed to survive - many behind the safety of high monastery walls - and still others that taking their chances on the current slightly more favourable political conditions and returning to make a fresh start in their ancestral homeland.

I am so curious to see what life looks like when the minorities are in the majority. Will the reactions to this week’s attacks be the opposite of what they are out here in western Turkey? Will we hear church bells more than we hear the call to prayer? Will Turkish even be spoken in the streets?

And, most importantly, will the monks let me help in the kitchen?

Our time out east will be incredibly short for the amount there is to take in - not even three days total - and I am prepared for the fact that I know I’ll be disappointed because it just won’t feel like enough. We’ve been waiting five years for this chance, knowing that without a guy (and his family) along we’d be pretty limited in what we could do and where we could go, not to mention rather unsafe. Besides the conservative, male dominated culture and the infamous stone-throwing children in that part of the country, there have been two terrorist attacks on both civilians and soldiers out east this week, and while nothing has happened in the area where we will be, emotions - both Turkish and Kurdish - are sure to be running high.

Mardin is not Istanbul. It's not the kind of place where I’ll be able to get up early and roam around by myself with my camera. I keep reminding myself that as much as I’ll hate to be restricted by having to stick with the group and go at a pace that will likely be faster than my usual meet-the-locals-and-shoot-everything-from-five-angles-and-take-detailed-notes-on-it-all one, I’m lucky to be going at all. This will be an appetizer - just enough of a taste to fuel my imagination until I get to go back for longer someday.

I’ll just have to marry a patient man who is a curious traveler like myself and will be happy to drink gallons of tea while we meet every family in every village on the next trip. :)

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Wednesday, September 14, 2011 - 2 comments

Being Turkish is My Day Job

Here's a little insight into the identity crisis I live with daily..... :)

The course assignment for "Working With Transitions" was to write a chronology of what I did in a day, and then weave in another story from the past that an event/moment from that day triggered. I found it slightly awkward to include all the details of what I did and ended up skipping the evening cuz it was already long and that would have been unrelated. But...I like the final result!

Being Turkish is My Day Job



The music of little girl shrieks outside my window pulls me from the sweetness of my day-off slumber. I smile listening to my next-door neighbours’ kids bid their father farewell as he roars off to work on his motorcycle and roll out of bed, ready to embrace what I hope will be an uneventful day.

The Saturday fruit and veggie pazar opens around 8:30, and I always try to get there as early as possible to beat the crowds and get this errand out of the way so I am free to enjoy my day off. I load up the French press with some Cafe Verona, the strong aroma carrying with it the promise of a good day of lounging. As my coffee brews, I head back upstairs to get dressed. The question of, “What shall I wear to the pazar?” is always a dilemma. While there will be plenty of modern Turks there sporting jeans and t-shirts, my desire to blend in with the masses causes me to choose a pair of şalvar, the baggy, patterned pants that form the bottom half of the uniform of nearly every woman in my village. I draw the line at the crotch-to-your-knees version and opt for the more citified style, which look more like a pair of floral print pajamas than a skirt that has been sewn shut at the bottom. Today I go the extra mile with a knit sweater vest in hopes that it will counteract my blue eyes and get me in and out of the market without the barrage of “Where are you from?” and, “How did you you learn Turkish?” that can turn a quick veggie-run into an all-morning event.

I down my breakfast, strap on my helmet and zip off to the pazar on my electric bicycle. My journey takes me past several friendly faces – my language helper’s husband setting up chairs at his restaurant, Gulizar Abla putting whole chickens on the spits in the roaster at the butcher shop. A good third of the people I pass on the road are riding a scooter just like mine, though the blazing blue helmet my western conscience forces me to wear likely detracts from my “local score” considerably.


It’s early enough that the vendors are still setting up their stalls at the pazar, and several of the aisles are blocked by trucks piled high with potatoes, onions and trays of shiny cucumbers. At this hour, one must constantly be on the lookout for back-up lights so as not to meet an early death as a şalvar-clad pancake. I dodge a couple of stray tomatoes tumbling from the peak of a perfectly formed pyramid as a farmer artistically arranges his greenhouse-grown jewels. My toes are safe as the cart-toting teyzes – innocent old ladies in appearance, but often deadly behind the wheels – have yet to descend on the market. I make my way from stall to stall, sampling strawberries and squeezing kiwis, until I’ve checked everything off my list.

When it comes to getting in and out of the pazar quickly as an undercover Turk, I really am my own worst enemy. All those perfectly arranged rows of apples and colourful bins of nuts and dried fruits are too much for my photographer’s eye, and I can’t resist snapping a few shots. The camera, of course, cancels out the sweater-vest, and my cover is now blown. After a few minutes of chit-chat over what a Canadian girl is doing living in this village, and the obligatory photos of the grinning boys at surrounding stalls eager to be made famous “in America,” I make my way back to my bike. With several kilos of fruit in the baggage compartment, greens and onions swinging from both handlebars, and more stashed precariously between my feet, I set off for home.

Once home, I toss a load of laundry into the washer, and I get started on cleaning and putting away the produce, eager to be done with my domestic duties so I can get on with relaxing. After grabbing a quick bite, I hang my laundry out on the line, will the sun to shine long enough to dry my sheets by bedtime, and head up to the terrace to read. As I settle in with a history of the Ottoman Empire, I notice dark clouds gathering in the distance. It’s not long before it starts to drizzle, and I race down to rescue my clothes from the line before they are soaked. Having creatively hung my laundry from every available knob and railing, I make myself a cup of tea, head back to my spot on the balcony and settle in with my book.

Pulling my hood up over my head, I am determined to defy the impending storm – after all, I am from Vancouver. Rain is what we do best. But as the tempo intensifies and the individual drops merge into puddles covering every inch of the freshly squeegeed tile, I am forced to move under cover.

Resituated under the overhang, I sit back and inhale the scent of the storm, and a thought crosses my mind: “Perfect day for a Black Sea rain.” It is one of those moments where my nose recalls a memory before my brain does. The smell takes me back to a day eight years ago, long before I’d learned to speak Turkish or had a clue how to make grape-leaf wraps, when I was just a starry-eyed tourist, falling in love with the nation that would later become my home.

“Şemsiye,” the Antique Man said, pointing to his umbrella, and then gestured out the window of his shop to the downpour drenching the world outside. My friend John and I had formed one of those “phrasebook-and-sign-language” friendships with him the day before as we browsed through his trinkets and treasures, and he had invited us to come to his house for dinner. The deluge that had descended upon the Black Sea town of Safranbolu seemed like reason enough for a cancellation to me, but as a local used to the region’s wet weather, he seemed unfazed by it. So off we went.

By the time we had walked to the bus, ridden the short distance to the Antique Man’s house, and made a mad dash for his front door, all three of us were soaked to the core and shivering. His wife greeted us with the customary kisses on our cheeks as if we were beloved relatives she hadn’t seen in years, and then hurried us in to their cozy living room and sat us down beside the hissing woodstove. She rattled off a string of Turkish words to her teenaged son who was standing shyly in the corner, and he disappeared into another room, returning a few minutes later with some of his clothes for us to change into. The sweats I was handed were several inches too short, and I felt awkward and silly, but I was grateful to be dry, and when I saw the feast she’d prepared for us, I forgot all about my hairy ankles.

What followed was a golden evening of Turkish home cookin’, endless cups of strong çay, black-and-white family photos, and labourious conversations huddled around the dictionary, punctuated by celebratory laughter when we finally got our point across. As we donned our own clothes, long-since dried over the fire, and headed for home, I marvelled at the way this nation embraces its guests – even ones that show up on the doorstep looking like drowned rats.

The chirping of a bird jars me from my reverie and for a moment I am siezed by “day-off panic” because the bird’s song sounds remarkably like my doorbell. I groan, not wanting to put down my book and put on my hostess face. When I realize it is, in fact, an actual bird, I laugh at myself, struck by the fact that to a Turk, an unexpected guest is a joy and an honour, while to me, the sound of the doorbell on my day off is something I dread.

I picture Antique Lady’s smiling eyes and the way she fussed over us and treated us like royalty instead of the soggy North Americans that we were. She was thrilled to have her life interrupted by a couple of strangers. I realize that, no matter how perfectly I might serve my çay or how many pairs of şalvar I own, I still don’t have the heart of a Turk when it comes to unannounced guests.

Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the revered founder of the Turkish republic, once made a declaration that is etched on plaques and statues of him in every town square in the nation: “Happy is he who calls himself a Turk.” I wholeheartedly agree, Mustafa Kemal.

Just not on my day off.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Saturday, September 10, 2011 - No comments

One More Cup

My blog is feeling neglected. Any spare time for writing these days goes to trying to finish up assignments for the travel writing course I'm taking, and sadly, even from that, I have very few finished pieces to post on here. They all seem to have filed for permanent residence status in the land of The Polishing Process. (I do promise more frequent entries as I make this more of a priority.)

To keep your appetite satisfied, though, I realized I never posted my (not winning) entry for the Travel Writing Scholarship Contest I entered several months ago, so for your amusement, here it is. The 500 word limit was a huge challenge for me, and I hated having to whittle out a lot of the more colourful details, but in the end, I think I'm okay with the finished product.


One More Cup


The ease with which the teenaged boy simultaneously poured precisely the right amount of tea from the pot in his right hand and water from the one in his left suggested that the lack of a daughter-in-law in the house had given him years of practice at this normally female task. Inhaling the steaming comfort emanating from the tiny tulip-shaped glass, I wondered if Laura and I should be trying to make a quick exit before we became candidates to fill the position.

Four hours earlier, we had set out on my recently purchased electric scooter for a picnic in the pine-scented sanctuary of Kurşunlu Falls on the outskirts of Antalya, Turkey. The pleasant journey took us past greenhouses gleaming in the late autumn sun, bearded men tottering towards midday prayers, and aunties knitting on porches, evidence of their culinary prowess spilling over the waistbands of their colourful şalvar. The return trip, however, had turned into a “foreign damsels in distress” tale when the bike ran out of power six kilometers from home. Like circus clowns in blue helmets, we entertained the passing locals as we wove and wobbled our way a little further down the road, Laura furiously working the “emergency pedals” while I gripped the handlebars and fought hopelessly to keep us from veering into traffic to our death-via-tractor.

To our relief, salvation appeared in the form of my bike’s black twin parked in front of a rundown shack at the end of a dirt lane. Where there was a bike, there must also be a charger! Dispersing chickens as we struggled into the overgrown yard, I sheepishly asked the boy who greeted us if we could plug in long enough for it to get us home.

With a flurry of electrical cords, bowls of sunflower seeds and chalky dried chickpeas, both we and the bike were set down to rest on a cushion of humble Anatolian hospitality. The collection of old couches and vehicles being devoured by the yard gave the impression that this family wasn’t the cream of this village’s crop, and yet their reception made us feel like we were sitting at the sultan’s table instead of on a sagging porch with plastic tarps for walls. The diminutive headscarved matriarch, having apparently trained her four sons uncommonly well, made sure the youngest kept our teacups filled. While their heavily accented Turkish, peppered with unfamiliar colloquialisms and unconjugated verbs, was a challenge for my Istanbul-trained ear, their friendly conversation made us feel more like welcome neighbours than imposing foreigners.

Two hours later, amidst repeated offers of more tea (but thankfully no offers of marriage), we thanked our rescuers and mounted the bike, wanting to make it home before night fell, and with it our reputations. But when, a kilometer from home, the needle dipped towards empty again and I made Laura get off and walk, she was wishing we’d stuck around for just one more cup...


Monday, August 15, 2011

Monday, August 15, 2011 - No comments

Lying Down in Green Pastures

There aren't exactly a lot of "lawns" in Turkey. Who knows when the next time will be that I get to lie in the freshly cut grass, surrounded by clover and wishers and bumblebees, staring up at the big blue sky. When you've got a million things to do but a window of 20 glorious minutes left til the dryer buzzes, you just gotta seize the moment.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Saturday, August 13, 2011 - No comments

Five Ways to Take a Bite Out of the Bosphorus



The Bosphorus from Beylerbeyi Harbour


Like the watery spine of an anthology of tales of ancient glory, the Bosphorus binds together the Asian and European sides of the noble city of Istanbul. Linking the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara and, beyond that, the Mediterranean, it has been a much coveted and much fought-over waterway for millennia. But with the fortresses and palaces of the conquered and their conquerors now turned into museums of strength and opulence, the children of the Ottomans enjoy the Bosphorus as their playground.

A sunny day draws locals of all ages and classes to its shores for a picnic, a stroll, or a cup of strong çay (tea) accompanied by the soothing sights and sounds of the sea. Ferries ply their routes alongside tankers and fish boats, flocks of chattering seagulls trailing in their wake. Once isolated fishing villages are now linked by miles of seawall lined with alternating centuries-old imperial residences and modern villas. Waves lap against the sides of gleaming yachts while seasoned fishermen cast their rods, seeking to fill their buckets before the sun sets over the imperial city.

Venture away from the crowds and kitsch of the Historic Peninsula and explore the natural beauty and cultural riches of the Bosphorus, best experienced with a steaming cup of çay accompanied by one of Turkey’s myriad edible delights. Here are five “snacks with a view” that will let you relish the full flavour of the Bosphorus.  Afiyet olsun! (Bon appetit!)

1. Börek and tea at Çınaraltı in Çengelköy (Asian Side)

While away an hour or three in the shade of the towering plane tree at the Çınaraltı Tea Garden. The cafe’s leafy namesake is said to be over 500 years old and has thus witnessed the absorption of the quaint fishing village of Çengelköy into the metropolis of Istanbul. With its charming wooden houses, bustling bakeries and lively fish and produce vendors, Çengelköy has retained its “neighbourhood” feel in the face of urbanization.

Both Çınaraltı’s courtyard and window-walled dining room form the perfect theatre for watching the comings and goings of ferries and fishing boats or the setting of the sun over the Bosphorus Bridge. As it is permitted to bring in food from outside, locals like to pair their steaming cup of çay or Turkish coffee with a slice of börek (a flaky cheese, potato or spinach-filled pastry) from the Çengelköy Börekçisi up on the main road (Çengelköy Caddesi). A popular spot for the newspaper-toting weekend brunch crowd, Çınaraltı is perhaps best visited on a weekday, and makes a perfect stopover between visiting Beylerbeyi Palace and Anadolu Hisarı (Fortress of Asia) just up the coast.

How to get there: From the European side, take the ferry to either Kadıköy or Üsküdar. From Kadıköy, take the Beykoz dolmuş or the 15BK or 15 F bus. From Üsküdar, take the Beykoz dolmuş or the 15 bus.

2. Kanlıca’s famous yogurt (Asian Side)

While its well-preserved wooden houses, Ottoman fountains and the shady forest of Mihrabad Korusu are certainly worth a whirl, Kanlıca’s claim to fame is its “historic” yogurt. Immigrants who came to Istanbul from Bulgaria during the later Ottoman-Russian wars brought with them the recipe for this thick, tangy treat, and it has been a favourite amongst Istanbul’s residents for over a century. The yogurt is sold in markets around the city, but for the proper Kanlıca experience, head to the kiosk in the square by the docks and order yours loaded with powdered sugar - a tasty complement to the bite of the yogurt. This is one of the narrowest points along the Bosphorus and is a perfect spot to settle in on a bench and watch the ships glide past on their way to and from the Black Sea.

How to get there: From the European side, take the ferry to either Kadıköy or Üsküdar. From Kadıköy, take the Beykoz dolmuş or the 15BK or 15 F bus. From Üsküdar, take the Beykoz dolmuş or the 15 bus. The Bosphorus ferries from Eminönü and Çengelköy also stop in Kanlıca.


Sugared yogurt and çay in Kanlıca

3. Fish sandwiches in Istinye (European Side)

History and tradition may be in favour of the “balık ekmek” (“fish bread”) served by men in Ottoman costumes by the docks in Eminönü, but if you want to skip the tourist crowd and take in a spectacular Bosphorus view, head to Istinye. Climb aboard any of the bobbing boats-turned-restaurants next to the ferry dock and tackle a freshly grilled fish sandwich, served on a half loaf of bread and piled high with lettuce and onions. Looking back the way you came, the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge spans the gap between Asia and Europe, while to the north, the Bosphorus winds out of sight towards the Black Sea. But be warned - if you get too absorbed in the view, you may find that a seagull has flown off with your lunch!

From Istinye, join the bikers, joggers, and sweater-clad dogs walking their bejeweled owners for a stroll south along the sahil (seawall). This stretch offers a great chance to admire the coast’s stately old wooden mansions, watch the weathered fishermen reel in their daily catch, or clamour around on a well-preserved bit of Ottoman history at Rumeli Hisari (Fortress of Europe).

How to get there: Take the ferry from Kabataş, Beşiktaş or Çengelköy, the 25E bus from Kabataş, or the 40 or 42T bus from Taksim.


Climb aboard "Helios" for fresh fish sandwiches (5 lira)


History with a view: the fortress of Rumeli Hisarı


Elegant coastal houses in Arnavutköy


Fishing nets

4. Kumpir and waffles in Ortaköy (European Side)

If it’s crowds and colour you’re after, Ortaköy is sure to please. With its iconic mosque posing proudly against the backdrop of the First Bridge, Ortaköy’s festival atmosphere is a magnet for those in search of something a little out of the ordinary. Stalls selling handcrafts, incense and quirky gifts compete with cotton candy vendors and street performers for space in the lively seaside plaza. Ortaköy is chock full of cafes and restaurants, but its most famous edible attraction is kumpir - a massive baked potato piled high with your choice of a dizzying array of toppings. In keeping with the “overstuffed” theme, follow up your spud with a waffle filled to bursting with various chocolate sauces, Nutella, fruit, nuts, and sprinkles. Since you’ll need the exercise, round out the experience with a walk down Çırağan Caddesi and check out the ornate beauty of the Çırağan Palace (now a five-star hotel), or hike the hill in Yıldız Park to see the luxurious last residence of the sultans.

How to get there: Take the ferry to Beşiktaş from Üsküdar or Kadıköy, the bus from Taksim, or the bus from Eminönü. The 25 E bus from the north Bosphorus (if you are heading back from Istiniye) also passes through Ortaköy.


Kumpir with the works


The mosque at Ortaköy

5. Sunflower seeds on the Üsküdar seawall (Asian Side)

On a warm summer’s night, crack your way through a bag of sunflower seeds and let the salty sea breeze cut the sticky air at “The Steps” in Üsküdar. With the fabled Maiden’s Tower standing regally just offshore and the spires of Sultanahmet’s mosques silhouetted in the hazy distance, this is one of the most popular spots in town from which to watch the sunset. Vendors will keep the çay coming, and men wander past selling kağıt helva, a round wafer-like treat. (Do have either your best stone-face or your change purse ready, though, because you are an easy target for the persistent beggars who also frequent this location.) Challenge a local to a game of tavla (backgammon) if you dare, or just sit back and let yourself be mezmerized by the twinkling lights of the Bosphorus ferries. Come on the weekend and you’re more than likely to catch a rainbow of wedding fireworks lighting up the night sky.

How to get there: Take a ferry to Üsküdar from Beşiktaş or Eminönü, or the 12a or 12b bus from Kadıköy. From the bus terminal/ferry docks, head south along the seawall towards Salacak.


Last catch of the day; Çengelköy


Sunset on the sahil

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Tuesday, August 02, 2011 - No comments

Gotta Love Shutterfly

Just got a $10 coupon from Shutterfly for posting my most recent creation on my blog. Not a bad deal! :)

Thank You Noir Thank You 3x5 folded card
Send thanks with Shutterfly custom Thank You Cards.
View the entire collection of cards.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Thursday, June 16, 2011 - No comments

Wistful Anticipation



The suitcases came out of the closet today.

Four more sleeps til I’m on a plane to Canada for the summer, and I figure it’s high time I start acting like it. It’s not that it snuck up on me or that I’m not excited. It’s just that my life has been careening at such a breakneck pace for the last, oh, two months, and there are still a million things to do before I get on that plane, so I feel like my brain won’t really switch gears until my passport is stamped and my seatbelt is buckled.

I do know myself well enough by now, though, to know that an 18 hour plane trip isn’t enough for me to emotionally make the transition between this home and that home, so in an attempt to avoid a bad case of cultural jetlag (culture lag?) I need to start processing the switch now. In all my spare time. :)

My heart is in an interesting spot. On the one hand this is my first real summer home in Canada in like twelve years, and there are so many things that I am SO looking forward to - things that meant “summer” to me growing up. On the other hand, I’ve spent the last five summers here in Turkey, and there are a whole lot of things I am feeling wistful about missing out on by being gone. (40 degree days with sticky humidity not being one of them.) It helps to remember that it’ll still be deathly hot when I get home again in August, and we’ll still have a good month or more of “summer” left. But, having been too busy to really enjoy much of the beginning of the season (I just packed away my winter clothes today, if that tells you anything!) I’m just feeling a little like I’ve got seasonal whiplash.

So, because I like to make lists, and because I am too tired to write very many complete sentences right now, I’m gonna process a bit by making lists of all the things I’m excited to do at home this summer, and all the things I’m gonna miss about Turkish summers.

Things I’m looking forward to about being home:

-MY MOM IS THERE!!!
-the JOY of being with my best friend
-English Bay fireworks competition
-the Salmon Festival
-picnics and bonfires at Garry Point
-Pajo’s Fish n’ Chips
-family gatherings
-Timothy’s Frozen Yogurt
-Stanley Park
-being able to go running
-the Public Library
-a cousin camping trip (haven’t asked anyone, but wouldn’t it be fun?)
-Tennessee fireflies
-Bard on the Beach and Theatre Under the Stars
-the ice cream man
-wearing shorts
-driving

Things I’m gonna miss about summer here:

-long nights talking over tea on our best Turkish friends’ balcony (if I could bottle up "a summer night" and carry it around with me, that'd be it right there)
-wedding fireworks from the surrounding villages
-how it takes a long time to get home in the evening cuz on every front porch, people are out drinking tea and inviting you into the circle
-fig season!
-open-air cinema on the beach (I haven’t been, but I’ve been wanting to try it!)
-the smell of fresh bread baking wafting up from the bakery late at night
-loading up the picnic bag and heading to the Med
-walking to town for Magnum bars whenever we get an ice cream craving
-sleeping outside under the mosquito net
-grilling kebabs on the terrace
-the sound of the owls that live on our neighbours’ roof
-adventures at the waterfalls
-that feeling of community that comes from the way everyone lives outside on their balconies in the summer and you go to sleep listening to the sounds of tinkling teaspoons and laughter and life going on around you and feeling a part of it somehow
-the smell of the honeysuckle that wafts up from our garden
-hedgehogs in the yard
-the little clay lanterns with star-shaped holes in them that we light candles in at night on the balcony

I’m a citizen of two worlds, with my home in another one entirely. And I am trusting the One who watches over my coming and my going to help me be all there wherever I am this summer. Besides, I know that once I am wrapped up in a mom-sized hug at the airport, I won’t be thinking of teapots or mosquito nets at all....

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Saturday, February 19, 2011 - No comments

Citizen of the World

The (only slightly contrived) moment: Canadian girl, appropriately decked out in a "True North Strong and Free" t-shirt dipping Dutch stroopwafel (purchased by an American friend at an Islamic fundamentalist-backed grocery store) into hometown Canadian coffee in a Jordan Starbucks mug (never been, but it's on the list) served on an Uzbek tea tray (again, never been, but well-travelled roommate = multicultural adornments) while reading a travel story about Vietnam to the tune of Cuban music** on her balcony in Turkey.

**"Cuba, Mi Amor" was the only (mildly) manufactured detail intentionally introduced to the otherwise "as-is" scene for added international embellishment. And it's proving to be the fitting accompaniment to an afternoon of reading travel literature.

Saturday, February 19, 2011 - 1 comment

I travel. I write. I am a travel writer.



Mom bought me this journal at the Grand Bazaar when she was visiting in the fall. It was worth the ten lira purely for the fact that it was original - a tiny, unassuming work of art standing out amidst the cookie cutter mounds of shaker belts, mother of pearl Tavla sets, touristy t-shirts and jeweled letter openers that fill the over 4,000 shops of the Kapalı Çarşı. And thus, it is my hope that today, as I open this notebook and begin (officially, if only to myself) my career as a travel writer - that my words would paint a unique picture of the same locations that have been described time and again for centuries. I dream of giving a fresh melody to the old songs, planting new footprints on well-trodden paths, and capturing the flavour of now-cliché destinations and experiences so that those who have never lived them will be lining up in droves to purchase tickets to Over There, and those who have will be inspired to go live them again for the first time.

It feels fitting that on the cover of this notebook is a painting of an Istanbul ferry, seagulls and clouds dancing in the sky overhead. I've spent many a Bosphorus crossing scribbling away in a notebook (or, if I didn't have one on hand, repeating what I hoped were clever phrases over and over in my head until I could get my hands on a pen and a ferry schedule to jot them down on), trying to craft just the right words to describe the way the sound of the seagulls and the fog horns and the tinkle of teaspoons in tulip glasses rise to mingle with the sunset behind the minarets to form one of those iconic Istanbul moments. Much of my now-named passion for travel writing has been birthed out of my love affair with Istanbul and my insatiable quest to find a way to put its soul on paper - as if a city of 9,000 years of magnificence could be reduced to a few lines on a page. And yet I feel compelled to try.

As wise old Confucius once said, "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." And so I begin. After years of friends and family urging me to "write already!" and months of those shiny, fresh-from-Amazon travel writing books on my bedroom floor seeing little action apart from when I pick them up to vacuum, I've decided that today is the day.

I carved it in the stone of my Creative Journal, where I like to document monumental occasions of this sort: "I hereby declare myself a travel writer," along with today's date. I suppose a "travel writer" is essentially just "a traveller who writes" and "a writer who travels," in which case I've been one all of my adult life, with seeds of the dream planted long before that in Mr. Wiebe's poetry class and in crépe paper African huts in VBS. And while I've chosen, mostly, to limit my travels these days to the dirt roads leading back and forth to my neighbours' houses and to places I can ride to on my electric motorcycle, I do in fact buy my vegetables and hang my laundry and pour my çay in a town on the Mediterranean coast, in the Cradle of Civilization. The everyday doesn't get much more exotic than that. :) What's more, I've got a wealth of moments on Chinese trains and in Mayan villages, Syrian bazaars and Tibetan monestaries which, with some effort, I'm still young enough to remember, even if only as fodder for practicing my anecdotal skills.

The catalyst for this line in the sand was an email that appeared in my inbox on Thursday: "World Nomads 2011 Travel Writing Scholarship in Istanbul, Turkey." Hello! You have to write an essay on why you should be chosen, and the prize is a week shadowing a professional travel writer, gleaning from his input and experience, and doing research/revisions/reviews for the next edition of The Rough Guide to Istanbul. That assignment is followed by an "adventure tour" of hiking, horseback riding and sea kayaking through several gorgeous spots in Turkey - ironically, all of which I have been to and one of which I live in. It would be the chance to see the familiar-yet-fascinating through fresh eyes, all the while working on my writing skills and benefitting from constructive criticism. My mind has been consumed by this one thought for days: I HAVE TO WIN THIS THING!!!

And so, armed with "Globejotting" by Dave Fox and "Lonely Planet's Guide to Travel Writing," my notebook and I are going to spend the day on the terrace reading the work of those who have gone before me, starting to find out what editors and publishers are looking for, and scribbling away as fast and as long as my hand can stand it.

I'm done waiting for "a season when I have time to write" or "til I figure out where to send my work." Goodness knows what I need most is to develop my research skills, find my style and voice, become an observer who uses all her senses, and learn how to describe scenes without using clichés. (See, I've used that word twice in the last hour!) The time to grow is now.

I recently finished reading "The War of Art" - a book on overcoming Resistance as the enemy of creativity. (Colourful language and slightly New Agey tilt aside, I highly recommend it.) In the first half of the book, author Stephen Pressfield details the various forces and excuses that prevent us from rising up and creating.

"Procrastination is the most common manifestation of Resistance because it's the easiest to rationalize. We don't tell ourselves, 'I am never going to write my symphony." Instead we say, 'I am going to write my symphony; I'm just going to start tomorrow.'" (p.21)

I've let procrastination steal the life from my best creative flashes for years. Even today, in all my "I'm ready to write" zeal, I've been tempted to give in to its innocent sounding hooks. "I'll start writing...as soon as I fold this laundry. And I'll need a cup of coffee - it's good for inspiration, and besides, it's cold up there. Oh, but the terrace is probably dirty from all the rain last night - I should probably squeegee it." And on and on it goes. (My inner Turkish housewife is my inner writer's arch nemesis.)

But I was smart. I decided to trick Resistance and (temporarily) avoid the terrace altogether (how low of it to pit my sanctuary of choice against me!) and plunked down on my (yes, unmade) bed and I wrote. I took that first step. And now, my hand sufficiently cramped, I am feeling satisfied with my small-victory-of-a-beginning, and most deserving of that cup of coffee.

And then it's off to the dirty, un-squeegeed terrace. Off to the journey and the stories it will become.

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