...and end of airport Turkey updates

15.08.08 2205
Our breakfast, check-out, and ride to the airport went blissfully pretty much according to schedule, and even though I started to slip into Travelling Meaghan, as mentioned, once caffeinated here at IST, I felt much better, especially after being fed, watered, and a little bit napped on the short hop up to Europe’s largest city. It was on the bus ride to DLM that Ryan conceived the idea to camp in the airport all night, a plan that we are currently executing with much conviction. Ryan is currently napping on my knee (upper thigh, technically) on my scarf (after much coaxing to use my scarf as a pillow and to lie on his back) as I try not to move my right arm too much for fear of waking him. Parentheses are difficult, as is backspacing.

I am reminded of a certain caricature of someone’s typing habits, and how that would be impossible right now.

Some musings:
Moving things, like elevators and subway systems, here in Turkey are ridiculously deliberate. In the elevators that aren’t glass, I don’t realise that we’re moving until we’re stopping. On the metro systems, the train comes to a stop so gracefully that there is no backlash when we stop--everything unlike the T to which I am accustomed to riding. I’d rather have my red line surfing late at night, though, across the Salt and Pepper Bridge. Sometimes, I miss having my city--a place where I know all of the social customs, where I am no tourist, where I can help people who look lost with directions, and where I know where to go when and what is open at what times.

I know, however, that I will so thoroughly enjoy Rome, and especially being right in the heart of everything. I’ve wanted to go to Rome pretty much since the first days of high school, and Ryan rightly beseeched me not to die of excitement when we got there.

There’s still too much world to see to die upon my first sight of Rome, but I know that this will not be my last.

Ciao! In italiano, allora…

Time well spent, but time to be over.

15.08.08 2117

The next day, being our last in Fethiye, we wanted to make worth our while. O, it was. We started by taking a dolmuş (after breakfast, of course) to Kayaköy (lit. ‘rock village’) which Ryan had wanted to see since we first arrived. The town’s history dates to three-thousand BCE (I think that I might start using the founding of Rome as the date by which all are calculated once again), most of the buildings were constructed in the late eighteen-hundreds and early nineteen-hundreds. In the exchange of populations, though, the town was abandoned and remained so, with few inhabitants still remaining, until it was realised that there was potential to capitalise on tourism.

I HATE HATE HATE BOTTLED WATER.

Even though the dolmuş that we took seemed to run every ten minutes, we had to wait an hour for the bust after we were done walking. Luckily for us, the mayor’s house, the largest in the village, had been converted into a wonderfully beautiful restaurant, and we were able to have a personal wine tasting in the four-hundred-year-old wine cellar. Ryan had a glass of old sirah and I had a glass of something light that was strawberry-cherry flavoured, as it was a hot day, and I never get light drinks. It was still a red, though--don’t worry, Mommy. We ended up talking with some Brits on holiday who loved the place, and the woman and I ranted about how horrible Turkey would be if it changed from anything but what it is (read: either fell to the fundamentalists as it narrowly escaped by only one vote about a month ago or was forced to modernise and become even more western with things like health codes and liquor licenses and the like) and lost all of its charm and traditional rhythm. After paying and talking some more, we sprinted down the stairs and out of the restaurant to catch the dolmuş to Ölüdeniz.

The next few minutes of our journey were characterised by swindling Turks trying to make a few lira by telling us the wrong dolmuş, but then still charging us, chasing us down not once but twice on the beach after we didn’t pay, and stupid profiteers charging us to sit on the lounge chairs and use an umbrella on the beach, both of which were already there, and yelling at us and telling us that we couldn’t just sit on our own towels on the sand, which wasn’t sand, but smooth rocks.

We’re over that, though. Except for the comment that I understand, Turks, because you have centuries of mercantilism in your genealogy, and I would totally get hung up about some lira if I did, too. Luckily for you, I just have a flash temper in mine heritage, but some lira definitely isn’t enough to bring it out, so you can have it, and your profiteering, too. Harumph.

After nervously swimming in the beach with our few lira in our pocket because we didn’t trust anyone—wait.

This water, people, was amazing, really. It was crystal blue-turquoise, like looking into an aquamarine jewell (etymology, much?), and was fantastic in which to swim. O, my. We were continually in awe as we looked down and around. Huge mountains rose up out of the shoreline, and I think that this was the first soil that I’ve seen that’s rockier than that in New England. It is as if the sea vomited huge mounts of rock one day in a fit of disgust, and out of this rock barren coniferous trees grew with tall grasses in between them, begging for forest fires when combined with either careless nicotine addicts or Nature’s electricity.

The water was beautiful, and the sand was amusing because it was, as mentioned, ‘very small rocks,’ which wiped right off your feet and didn’t stick all over everything like the sand at home, or even the sand at Karadeniz.

We had dondurma--real dondurma, the gummy kind--and headed for the dolmuş back to Fethiye. On the dolmuş, we saw another one of those ubiquitous (even on sale at the bazaars, I swear) insignias of the empire of evil. If you can’t tell in the picture, then it’s because that horrid omen is obscured by the dolmuş pole, but it is, indeed, that accurséd overlying ‘N’ and ‘Y.’ Why this is everywhere, I’ll never know, but I kept being afraid that it would get me into some trouble, because, after being born and bred in Red Sox Nation, my first reaction upon catching sight of one of these symbols is to glower at the sign, and this may be misinterpreted as a glower at the wearer or seller, and I haven’t the language skills to explain how stupid it is to wear a symbol of that status when one doesn’t fully understand its implications.

After dinner at the same harbour local dive at which we had eaten second breakfast, we had a nice, relaxing evening full of me desperately trying to keep Ryan from procrastinating packing (I was all set already) and realising that our flight from Dalaman was two hours later than we thought--yay! When the time came, we walked down the hill to the hamam, where I was part of Ryan’s induction into that wonderful aspect of Turkish culture.

Squeaky clean and with glisteningly exfoliated skin, we walked back up the hill in the dark and reflected upon how wonderful our hostel and its owners are.

Some reflections of Turkey, thus far.

Ryan's darling napping little head has afforded me enough time this afternoon to upload, organise, date, and locate all of my pictures; update my blog with all of that text from the other day; edit a little bit; and now add some reflections and commentary that have some intellectual significance that I've been meaning to do, even with a few minutes' worth of power outage (it happens here).

Turks, in general:

From the first night (and even before, just hearing my professor speak), some of the stereotypes that I'd had proved to be true. (I know that most of you probably don't have any Turkish stereotypes, but that's okay; at least you know where Turkey is.)

The Turks are a very proud people who are adamant about their Ottoman heritage and Atatürk. The first or second night in the dorms, Havva explained to me (in Turkish) that she, like all Turks, would die for Atatürk and the Turkish republic (pointing to the picture of the flag that was then my computer background).

Like what you see of the Greeks in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, they assert that all good things are Turkish, an assertion that they defend by stating that the Ottoman Empire stretched from the Indus River Valley to the Straits of Gibraltar, from modern-day Poland down through Egypt to beyond the Red Sea into the Indian Ocean. All of this is, to their credit, true, but of course we learn nothing of it in any primary or secondary school history classes. This assertion is at times, obviously, very amusing. The Turks are also a very kind, good-natured, hospitable people for the most part, which will throw some Americans off-guard. On occasion, though, those Turks with more in their history as swindling merchants will use this kindness to lure people into a false sense of security and then scam them.

The taxi drivers are utterly insane, and people here tend to drive with little regard for pedestrians. To cross the street sometimes, though, you have to walk out into traffic very slowly and keep moving at the same pace, nomatter what. Cars beep here for everything that you can image: get out of my way, I don't see anyone but I'm coming so get out of my way, get into my cab, thank you, what the hell are you doing, you look pretty... When they parallel park, they leave a ridiculously large amount of space between cars. Like Spain, and I'm assuming most of Europe, everyone drives stick, even the huge passenger buses that we rode. The cars here in İstanbul were not so small. The road signs were pictoral, id et, where we would have a 'NO PASSING ZONE' sign because 'everyone in America should speak American, I mean English,' there would be a picture of two cars next to each other with the one on  the left crossed out. The stop signs (same colour and shape) say 'DUR,' however, which I liked, because the ones in Spain said 'STOP,' and that was stupid.

From what I gather, the pervasiveness of clicking one's tongue as one looks up to indicate 'no' is not as widespread as I'd imagined it would be, and I think that I was understood when I accidentally did the Western head signal for 'no.' I did see Dilek one night, though, protest having her picture taken and signalling in this manner.

Yes, the men stare, but it's not like you'd think. The men in America stare, too. I showed Gözde some shirts that I had (spaghetti-strap and similar) and explained that this is acceptable wear in America. 'Don't the men stare?' 'Well, yes, but it's not really a big deal.' Burak's friend also commented at one point how men will call out car windows to women. In Ankara, no one looks. In İstanbul, some people will accidentally turn their head back. In America, the women will either solicit the men right back or scream obscenities.

This made me realise that it's not the men who are different here, but the women. Women do dress more modestly, and you notice it, but we were comfortable eventually wearing those spaghetti-strapped shirts. Women do cover their heads, although it's illegal in federal buildings (post offices, official spaces, universities) because Turkey is a secular nation (see Atatürk's reforms). And tourists will wear the burqa.

The first night in Turkey, Gözde asked if I would like the door open, even though there would be bugs. I learned the word for insect. When we were out at the mall another night with Dilek, Gözde commented how 'there are so many more Arabs here than Turks!' She then giggled and said, 'İnci! Böcek [insect]' as she pointed to a woman in a burqa (Burak also referenced them as ninjas). She found it just as odd, if not more so, than I did. All in all, I found that the Turkish women, because they are more modest, provided the stereotype for Turkish men, although those men in the leather district were pretty cat-call-y...

For some reason, everyone has two cell phones. Some people have a business and a family, some girls have a social and a family, and who knows what everyone else does. We decided that cell phones could be for: business, family, friends, significant others, one-night stands, men who asked for a number and you needed something with an automated message to give them, anything. Who knows? Far more people than should, however, have that cell phone ring that is stereotypically ridiculous: da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-daa... like the sketch with the giant cell phone in Trigger Happy TV. It got really annoying.

There are stray cats and dogs absolutely everywhere, which hocam asserted was to control the rat population, and Boston wouldn't be known for its rat problem (?) if it would allow stray cats. She absolutely would not hear the spay/neuter argument from a few people who offered it. I'd rather not have mangy mutts trying to make friends, thank you.

As for religion, I had the unique opportunity to become pretty close friends with two Turks and to hear their perspectives. Gözde explained a few things about the east of Turkey, roughly Anatolia. As I compared it with the American south, she explained how they all speak differently and incorrectly there and it sounds funny, they're not as educated as the west, they're poor, and they're willing to be won over by horrible politicians for one reason or another (theirs promised the poor food and water, ours promised cultural hegemony and religious imposition...same difference). She said, speaking of their current president, whom no one likes, 'They are stupid. They haven't mind. Because they are so poor. And he, um, he given food and money for the people who lived in the east, and they are so poor people, and he give money and food for them, and so they vote for him. They didn't use their minds.' Don't worry, no one ever does... She said how conservative Muslims 'think that we are not religious because we pray like this (she opened both of her hands palms-up) and not like this (she made a bowing to the floor motion) and because we are Western, but I am still a Muslim.' Damn straight, Gözde. Don't let crazy conservatives tell you what to do, dear. Burak was raised Muslim a bit, I think, but he broke out of those shackles. As we walked by Sultanahmet Camii, he in a tee-shirt and jeans and I in my green dress (I couldn't help but stare defiantly at the women who stared at me, my sides and back bare, by low-cut halter dress swishing at the bottom around my knees, thinking, 'Welcome to your antithesis') he asked, 'Why would I want seventy-two virgins? That is foocking bullshit! What if I am lesbian? What if I am gay? What will I do? I think they live  in desert like this, they imagine what they do not have--water, gardens, flowers, trees--and say you get that.' He found silly stories made up by people who can't prove anything just as amusing as I do.

I told him that I'd still take seventy-two virgins.

Here in the coastal town of Fethiye, I don't know what I'll see as far as Turkey is concerned. I know that Ryan and I totally lucked out (okay, totally are appreciating my elaborate research into pensions) as far as our hostel is concerned. We spent some time reading the reference books on one of the tables in the garden/lobby, and it's filled with brochures and tours, warnings not to book anything without talking to Tuna (co-owner) because he can get you discounts, notes of thanks from other hostel-stayers about how great Monica and Tuna are and how never ever to stay at Ideal Pension or some other with an 'a,' all sorts of things as mentioned earlier. We could tell that we had definitely found a nice place, and were lucky to have it at our disposal. I can't wait...!

One funny thing, too, is that, for some reason, everyone assumes that I'm Russian. We were even greeted in Russian at dinner the other night, and then we received an apology with that explanation. Only little Emre could guess that I was from those Isles, but more often than now the square face, tall thinness, and wavy hair suggests that cold, expansive country. One better part, though, is that everyone thinks that Ryan is Turkish, and this, coupled with my speaking, had gotten into some pretty funny instances. One staff at the resort asked me, in Turkish, if Ryan was Turkish, because he looked a little confused with the conversation, and I laughed, 'Hayır!' I decided that Ryan can be the Turk and I can be the Russian bride that was kidnapped in the lucrative sex trade across the Black Sea to İstanbul...only, I think that we're too young.

a dialogue over

I enjoyed this class very much, although I still have my creative project and research paper to write. I actually made some female friends, too! This is a huge deal, because I made my first official female friend from college only three months ago, and now I have at least three more. Woohoo! I really did enjoy our group: the dynamics worked out very well, and things only got caddy when people were bored at the end of the trip and had nothing else to talk about.

I'm thinking of everyone now as I had been. Waiting in the airport for Ryan, I wondered in my head where he was up in the sky, and where everyone else was as well. Meghan went on to a cruise on the Dalmation coast, Lauren to Paris and London with her grandmother, and Sonja back on her own a few hours after everyone else. I thought of you at your take-off, and as you were in the sky. When it was 1030 here that night, I hoped that everyone had touched down in Boston safely. A lot of them really missed home. I think that I'm too stubbornly independent, but I do miss little things sometimes.

As far as missing home was concerned, though, sometimes I wanted to throttle people, I won't lie. I did a very good job...for a Meaghan...keeping these opinions to myself. Yes, the American Embassy was attacked by three gunmen days before we left for İstanbul and two guards were killed, and yes a bomb was set off that killed fourteen+ people an injured more miles outside İstanbul proper, but this is the Middle East, people. Things like this happen about once a month, but they kill fewer people than drive-by shootings in the United States. I'm sorry if anyone from my group is reading this and is offended, but you should have thought about what you were doing before you came here. You were i no danger, and you should have trusted your professor, who's Turkish.

I was lucky enough to be rooming with Gözde, who asked me, 'Are your friends scared, Meaghan?' 'Yes, but that's only because they're just now hearing what the news in America is showing. Remember what I showed you?' 'Yes, okay. But you're not scared?' 'No.' 'Good. Scared is silly.' Yeah, silly. The day after the bomb, we walked around İstanbul with the rest of everyone, going about out business. Although I understand some fear because people didn't have access to information, I feel that the real fright happened when people got wind of what American media was portraying.

Mommy, I'm so proud of you for not freaking out. I admit, I was a little worried that you'd have a heart attack at me, and I"m sure that you did a little bit, but you can't even begin to comprehend how happy I was not to receive freaked out American e-mails begging me to come home.

I did pray in one of the nice churches for you, and for everyone else. We happened to visit a church in İstanbul at one point (read: stumbled upon and entered), and there was a sign asking that no one cross a certain point except to pray. Not liking to be held back, I crossed it, entered a pew on my own, and kneeled. I kneeled in all of the churches that we visited, where I was afforded and opportunity, for the same reason that Sobie covered her head in Sultanahmet: she had never entered a mosque without covering her head. I still even crossed myself with holy water upon entering, and I entered with Jessica, who's Jewish. Even though I don't pray to that god that most people in this world do, I figure that that energy that flows through all living things may as well be the same manifestation, and just because I'm in a certain god's house doesn't mean that I can't pray. I pray for all of you not to worry about me, for you to be safe and healthy, and for you to be enjoying your summers.

Other student's family members were not enjoying themselves, apparently, and were being ludicrous with worry. Students actually contacted Northeastern (whose president still visited on 04 August) to get tickets home, but when they realised they were only a couple days early and 1000 USD more, they decided not to go.

Ah, now I see where your concern for personal safety ends.

Seriously, the product of our culture just got rick under my skin and itched there as people carried on about how the crowded bus that we were on would be a perfect target, or how we shouldn't go to the bazaar. When we visited the water treatment facility, I wanted SO BADLY (this is totally a trait from you, Mommy) to make a comment about how if terrorists were really smart, then they would bomb the city's water supply...o, wait, where are we right now? We're literally standing right on top of the mountain summit where the treatment facility and open pools are...o... I didn't, however, but it took a great deal of strength. I mostly enjoy ridiculing people, methinks, but only when it's to prove a point.

Luckily, these people are home, and I'm in Turkey with a wonderful companion who is happy to travel with me, my rudimentary Turkish, and my stubborn communication skills. He's still napping, the sweet thing, but he seems to be waking up a bit now. Maybe we can finish Aladdin (yay!)...

I will end with one (albeit egocentric) quote from hocam, as we ate delicious desert in a traditional place:

'You know, at the beginning of this trip, you seemed to me to be so delicate, but you've turned out one of the strongest.'

That's all that I know how to do.

Spanish reflections

Just some thoughts about Spain--

I'll begin with the country and end with water. I could see very clearly Spain's Catholic history, and its recent fascist past. No one j-walked; we all waited for the light (it drove me crazy, like San Francisco). Hours were strict, and we were received on the minute when we had appointments with city officials and the like. The style of dress is simple, and somewhat modest. The food was so plain; some soups and salads had flavour, and we did have a delicious meal up in the Pyrenees, but one could argue that they are their own nation: so isolated from the lower altitudes. Most of the time, however, one received bread, wine, water, some fried seafood or vegetables, and then a slab of meat with french fries on the side, with little done to either other than the heating preparation. Life seemed simple and planned.

I did enjoy the long, late lunches, however. Spain sits on the ultimate end of the European time zone, so this means that when it's 2300, places as far away as Macedonia are sleeping, it's still light (albeit barely) in Spain at this time of year. This causes an hours shift: lunch is eaten between 1300 and 1500, and dinner isn't until 2100 usually. Spaniards don't sleep in the summer, though, because work starts between 0800 and 1000 still. Because of this, you'd think that night life would be awesome, but the only nights that were worth going out were Saturdays, because everything is quite dead any other night of the week.

Some random differences:

--When written, the number nine has the monkey tail (yes, I invoked that pre-school term), which loops back under the circular part. It looked weird.

--Cars were not nearly as small as I imagined they would be, but they were small. Some, though, seemed just like their American counterparts: some Volkswagens, BWMs, Audis, Mercedes, et cetera.

--Parallel parking was akin to Boston: 'I'll park in this tight space by continuously hitting the two adjacent cars until I fit.'

--Cabs scared me driving, because they drove with some heightened sense of purpose, which was completely unnecessary.

--No one apologises when bumping into someone on the street, nor do they watch when entering onto the sidewalk (from buses, buildings, et cetera) for other pedestrians. Population density--there are lots of people in very little space in Europe?

--Recycling is so easy; the city has great bins everywhere, which people really, actually use. I know that I did. =)

--There are a bunch of ska kids, who are at odds with the skinhead neo-Nazis. I thoroughly enjoyed remembering my childhood whilst sitting with a couple of said punks.

--Mullets: the hairstyle is alive and well in Spain. Apparently, it's some kind of political statement, and on small children, it's a statement from their parents, but I don't believe it. I even saw a species of mullet that was DREADED.

--I saw just about two morbidly obese people; everyone else looked healthy. It's nice being able to walk streets that are full of people who have been taught how to feed themselves.

As for water, I think the fact that water costs as much as, if not more than, wine attests to a lot. Water is scarce in Spain, as well as most of southern Europe, and I could feel it. I grew up in the middle of the woods, surrounded by swampland, drinking water from a well in my front yard. I vaguely remember times when neighbours had to dig deeper wells, or times that I couldn't use as much water, but these were few at most, and, as mentioned, vague, therefore long ago.

I drank the tap water, which didn't taste incredible, but didn't make me sick at all. I drank it, however, in moderation, such that I wasn't peeing every two hours, because there wasn't a bathroom available except at lunch and end of day. Water, though, is apparently more like a drink that people, well, drink, and not like we treat it in the United States. I've never had anything in any of my water bottles save water; I would never walk around nursing apple juice all day (although I don't think that I'd complain). Juice!

There was no juice in Spain.

Okay, so I'm being hyperbolic. There was juice in the grocery stores, but it was water (which I had on me) or tinto de verano at meals, so I ended up drinking a lot of wine. I didn't hate it, because tinto de verano is tinto wine cut with sparkling water something, and it tastes sort of like juice, a bit, maybe... I miss juice, people.

Water in all of its aspects is saved. Shower-heads are not permanently affixed to the wall, and if there isn't a clip provided, then one has to hold the water to wash. Usually, I'd wet up, turn off the water, wash my hair and body, rinse, shut off the water again, condition and what have you, and then have a final rinse. Showers aren't in tubs, either, and they leak all over the floor, nomatter what. I did miss sitting in a warm shower feeling my fingers for once, but I like saving water and being all different cultural.

Ahem: you save more water by not eating one pound of meat than you do by not showering for an entire year.

I'll cite that if you complain. Veganism came up in a few lectures, but this group isn't necessarily the eco-granola water-saving bunch as much. It makes me wonder what motivated people to study in a water dialogue. Maybe I'm just being egotistical about it all, but water is, at the end of the day, something that interests me very much.

It killed me how pervasive bottled water is, and how people can be so--ignorant?--about it? 'It tastes better.' Well, so does arable land for places of the world who have not even potable water. Waste of resources, end of story.

The Expo itself centred upon water, and I did enjoy a few of the pavilions, and wish that I had paid more attention and seen more. Apparently, Zaragoza chose water as the topic to snub Valencia, which is trying to steal all of poor, rural Aragón's water to build and maintain golf courses and other touristy attractions. As we travelled the land of Aragón, too, I saw awkward irrigation and poor farmers. I saw empty, caved-in earthen shacks in fields overgrown. I began to understand how important the management of the Ebro water basin in this land is.

An interesting contrast occurs when one tries to Google US water basins or the like.

Water is managed differently, too. Basin authorities span regions and even country borders in order to manage the water effectively (although our sources on this were government and city officials, who are obviously somewhat biased, and I do wonder the truth about all that we were told). Something like this, although I'm sure that some are in place, in the US seems less likely to flourish due to different state laws and personal property rights. In a county in which most people's wealth is foolishly concentrated in their house and property, people are not likely to give up any bit of this, lest of all land and anything underneath.

This, though, is a different story for a different time. I will say in closing that Spain did not feel at all like a Mediterranean society, with the exception, maybe, of that in Barcelona. I did not feel connected to this great sea that provides the social and cultural definition for so much of the region.

Turkey is so different, and yet still the same.