went to the gym the other day and, while repping massive quantities of kilograms (whatever those are) I happened to look up at the television. I didn’t know what exactly was going on, but whatever it was, The Dark Lord was coming in second to Poohslittlepriestess. I was alarmed, initially, to see that he was so close to winning, but ultimately realized second is kind of his default position in the cosmos (we hope). I was, however, unaware of this Poohslittlepriestess religion. Good for him, I say.
It turned out to we were watching horse racing.
The Irish follies continue, of course. Three weeks ago, as I may have mentioned to some of you, the light over my sink went out. This wasn’t a big deal, except for some really bad shaves, but I felt like I could claim some credit for the refrigerator debacle in attempting to get swifter service this time around. Not so, it would seem. Three weeks of me contacting the accommodations department and being earnestly assured they were on the case. Two different people email me to tell me they have personally tracked down the issue, that repairs is just waiting for a new switch and as soon as they get that they’ll go ahead. I don’t have the heart to tell them it’s a pull lamp and doesn’t have a switch.
I try at one point to email the repairs people directly. They respond, politely but firmly, that they can’t log any issues directly, that it has to come from accommodations. I respond, politely but firmly, that it has by this point been logged by accommodations for fully two weeks. They respond, less politely, that that doesn’t matter. I kill their families. A few days later, a second light goes out. I have three, overall. I’m now crouching by the window to read books; the sun sets here around 4 pm. Not only are my shaves terrible, but I can’t even see my face anymore, and it’s the only mirror in the dorm. I begin to forget what I look like. I can’t see my clothes. I begin to dress even more poorly than usual. There are comments. It becomes clear Accomodations is the front for some vast sociological experiment of which I am the subject. I go back from class to my small dark room and cry bitter invisible tears.
Also three weeks ago, coincidentally—or perhaps not—fields of fertilizer mysteriously appear outside my room. I’m not kidding. The real thing. They stay there for two and a half more weeks, untouched. They’re just gross, powerfully smelling fields separating me from my classes. Why Ireland? Why? I voice my complaints, at a pub, to our student rep, who promises to get on the case. A few days later, yellow police tape surrounds the site. Fantastic. Now, I won’t accidentally stumble, in the dark, over something that could peel the paint off a house half a kilometer away. On Thursday, they begin, finally, to plant small trees and shrubs. This will be the smelliest garden of all time. And for the love of God it does not explain why it took them two weeks to do anything productive with it. Is fertilizer better aged? Couldn’t they have aged it elsewhere? Por que, Ireland? A RESOUNDING por que.
But enough complaints. This Thursday I went to Istanbul, the sort of thing that reminds me why I came here in the first place. There’s so much fantastically cool stuff there. A 1500 year old church, the Hagia Sophia, stares across a cobblestone road at a 400 year old mosque, both incredibly beautiful. In Hagia Sophia, much is gone…when the Ottoman Turks conquered the city in 1453, they turned the Hagia into a mosque…but much remains, hidden and preserved under layers of plaster till 80 years ago. I see murals of the most delicate artistic expression looking, presumably, just about how they did when Justinian commissioned them. I see, also, to my immense amusement, the grave of the captain of the forces of the Fourth Crusade, my personal favorite crusade. In the Fourth Crusade the Christian Forces, on their way to battle Muslims for the Holy Land, decided it’d be a lot easier to sack the Christian city of Constantinople since it was A) a lot closer and B) they’d totally have the element of surprise since, you know, they were supposed to be allies. How the leader of those forces got himself buried in the Hagia and not thrown into the sea, I don’t know, but so it goes.
Later that day we visit a cistern. It’s 1500 years old. We pay 10 Turkish Lira about (sadly) 10 american dollars. It’s a hole in the ground with a lot of pillars. Which are damp at the bottom. I am underwhelmed.
I announce to my three companions that for the rest of the trip I’m instituting the “Cistern Rule.” Given that we paid 10 bucks to see a damp hole in the ground, at anything that costs less than 10 bucks we’re not allowed to have more fun than we had in the cistern. For example, I would have sincerely enjoyed the Archaeology museum, which was six Turkish lira, except that I could only enjoy it 60% as much as I enjoyed the cistern. Rules are rules. After a surprisingly short amount of time, one of my crewmates informs me that if I mention the cistern again, I will be thrown in the bosphorus. Seems fair.
I’m staying in the Big Apple Hostel, which is great. 10 euros a night, really clean, really friendly, free internet. Matt, one of my traveling companions, knows a guy at a nicer hotel up the road and got a nice deal for himself and the two other people in our group, Alexis and Amy. It was a nice deal, 30 something I think, but I rather like hostel living so I opt to save the cash. It’s no problem as my hostel is a 2 minute walk from their hotel and it consistenly works well throughout the trip as we often drink tea on their lovely rooftop balcony. That first, as I return to my hostel alone, it occurs to me that it’s 10 o’clock, and that actually I’m in a foreign country for the weekend and I can do whatever I want. I go into some place called the Backpacker’s Bar and instantly meet some great people. A young gent who just quit his job as a lawyer and took off across the world because it wasn’t making him happy. His friend, visiting from Canada, who studied at Trinity as an undergrad. Two girls, an Estonian undergrad and a Spanish one, who are studying in Bulgaria for the year. So it was a great time. But why did I really go in?
Because, my friends, it was Thanksgiving, and as I walked past the door I saw the Packers playing the Lions. At 2 am, in Istanbul, as I watched the Cowboys put the finishing touches on the Jets, I knew that my family was doing the same thing in Dallas and a nice warm feeling, having nothing at all to do with the 4 lira beers I’d been imbibing, buoyed me all the way home.
(On a funny note, as I got into my hostel bed, more than ready to go to sleep, the South African sleeping on the bunk below me apparently, as he told me later, inhales a blanket fiber. He begins to cough great tuberculosis-like coughs. It turns out he’s an asthmatic. He uses the asthma inhaler. It’s 2 am. He falls asleep and snores like a bear. He wakes up, coughs, and uses the inhaler. I, having no idea about the carpet fiber business at the time, nickname him Finn McPhlegm. I drift off to sleep around 4, and am woken at five by the Call to Prayer from the many mosques in the area. I wake up at 7:45 to shower and get ready for the day. Finn is neither moving nor coughing. I assume he is dead. I am too tired to deal with it. When I return to the hostel that night it turns out he is not dead, at which point he explains the blanket fiber thing to me. He apologizes for keeping me up, and I assure him, and remind myself, that I am young, that it’s a long weekend, and that being tired never killed anybody. That night I go to bed around 10, but when he comes in he has almost no tuberculosis at all).
The next day I meet an old friend.
Some of you might remember Paul Berry as a short-haired republican Californian. Others will recall him as a long-haired liberal Lebaneseish. The point is he’s doing great, teaching English in Ankara, and it was great to have him around again. He sends his love to the civilized world. Apologies to those of you who may be living outside the civilized world, I have not been authorized to dispense love in your direction. If there’s some left over at the end, we’ll see what we can do.
Paul joins me at the hostel at which I’m staying. He’s an admirable guide around the city, not NECESSARILY sure of where things are since, hey, he doesn’t work or live in Istanbul, but he always seems to get us there and knows enough Turkish to keep the street vendors away. In the morning, he takes us down to the docks, where I eat a hotdog with mayonnaise from a vendor for 1.5 Turkish Lira. I can hear my mother’s horror across two continents. Don’t worry mom. Nothing bad happened, and anyway, it wasn’t allowed to be more than 1/6th as enjoyable as the cistern.
We take a fantastic ferry ride around the bosphorus, and out past the bridges into the black sea. Beautiful castles and mosques dot the way. Istanbul is the only city that is on two continents—we have been staying on the European side. On the return trip, Paul and I go to rendezvous with his girlfriend, who lives in Istanbul though she works at the college with him, on the Asian side. Many wonderful things happen. More tea is drunk. Apple tea…elma cha in Turkish…is the most delicious carbonated beverage I’ve had in some time, besides slurpees on hot Texas summer days.
I lost my camera at some point, so there won’t be a facebook album for a while…I know, I’m an idiot, but of the things I could have lost, that’s the one I could do so and still be able to leave turkey (as opposed to my passport, plane ticket, wallet, etc). I’ve always wanted to go, I had a great time, and many other things happened but I think even for my friends I’m beginning to stretch the limits of what’s legible (I’m pretty sure I can provide an adequate etymology for legible so that it would have connotations of willingness to read in addition to capability of reading. Although I do also send this to some of my illiterate friends as a taunt). If anyone would like to know more, just ask and I’ll be happy to tell. I didn’t up in a Turkish prison and I was very glad to have the experience. It reminded me what traveling can be, where the whole day is your plaything, and you’re whatever you want to try to be. I grow in other countries because when I get the chance to get outside of myself I can finally begin to hear myself talk and, too, how can you look at home if you don’t know what it is. End speech.
Two bullets, and I’m out:
Overheard on a bus heading toward a plane in the airport in Turkey, one Irish man to another: “What is Jack Daniels anyway? Irish? Scottish?” You wish my friend. You wish.
I’m coming back to Istanbul in 2032 for the 1500th anniversary of the Cistern. Who’s coming with me?
Andrew
