tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55325754707784779482024-03-06T00:29:06.536-08:00From the Fork in the Road 2.0 David Richard TeeceDavid Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-34613807456221454682016-04-21T05:34:00.002-07:002019-01-06T10:03:01.798-08:00Zip-Lining, With Gibbons<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJxiGgvUkDKjHIH7XCGe0hUpxOa0alZ0GZTOgRZqdRK3v39zaP827xo0zpJIPF65HWdLX1wyI_xF7j_edRa1qjkkxQV2FANAmYwDg_sZOWJVMmEQebYF7ZmuJvSQyzWinE7H8ZozYKjgI/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJxiGgvUkDKjHIH7XCGe0hUpxOa0alZ0GZTOgRZqdRK3v39zaP827xo0zpJIPF65HWdLX1wyI_xF7j_edRa1qjkkxQV2FANAmYwDg_sZOWJVMmEQebYF7ZmuJvSQyzWinE7H8ZozYKjgI/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="237" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s about 6:30 a.m. -- let’s say a quarter past dawn -- and
I’m the last one out of my bedroll. At this hour I have no problem accepting
the title of Laziest Gibbon Chaser in the Jungle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I lift my mosquito net to see the other six occupants of
Tree House Seven – Paul, Danielle, Connor, Michelle, Jamie and Denyse -- poised
around the railing. No one is talking; hardly anyone is moving. It’s like a
mime convention, minus any actual miming. No one acknowledges me as I stumble
over to the railing, but I can read their thoughts: maybe some gibbons will
show up, now that this lazy bastard is finally out of bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6WuskY1WIoOpRptk8_dCLFy25v9TimQBXtOV9uka9wNFnJqBvLwZ0W3TZZJj5Vbm6zLdz_phqGe3H801OznE6pJUWcyOUeL-rQIiwEiQTmYeT2mxpKQHnOYKf7_CVSL3NE2UJToRqLk/s1600/IMG_1241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6WuskY1WIoOpRptk8_dCLFy25v9TimQBXtOV9uka9wNFnJqBvLwZ0W3TZZJj5Vbm6zLdz_phqGe3H801OznE6pJUWcyOUeL-rQIiwEiQTmYeT2mxpKQHnOYKf7_CVSL3NE2UJToRqLk/s320/IMG_1241.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Anybody see anything?” I whisper to no one in particular.
Connor and Jamie look up and shake their heads. Almost a full day into The
Gibbon Experience, and the gibbon count officially stands at zero.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I yawn, rub my eyes and move to get coffee, before
remembering that the only available coffee is thick, cold, and more than twelve hours old. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So here I am, then: Up at
dawn, coffee-less, standing in a jungle tree house, silently waiting for
monkeys.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Really didn’t see this one coming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I settle for the saddest of coffee substitutes in the form
of a tin cup of warm water, squat on a wicker stool alongside my cohorts, and
join the stare into the forest. After a few minutes I hear someone coming in on
the zip line. It’s a group from another tree house, invading our space at a
ridiculously early hour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6X7O1mvvClqmHcUgOqera6S1gD9e-sjcfZrK0kyUVLhN5A1R0tAncbVdvkp9wlL2exZWf9zKYiLG39kehqKHWuUpc2PV7zSQhX8vUqtACQmGchexWyGNXeqk9Zqg84CkWkrRIg6TEdg0/s1600/IMG_1244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6X7O1mvvClqmHcUgOqera6S1gD9e-sjcfZrK0kyUVLhN5A1R0tAncbVdvkp9wlL2exZWf9zKYiLG39kehqKHWuUpc2PV7zSQhX8vUqtACQmGchexWyGNXeqk9Zqg84CkWkrRIg6TEdg0/s400/IMG_1244.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Sounds like we have company,” Paul says. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“And I forgot to put out the good china.” Sorry, that’s the
best sarcasm I can muster at 6:30 in the morning. “What, they don’t have
gibbons on their side of the jungle?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;">Of course we don’t have any gibbons on our side of the
jungle either, my spiteful, non-caffeinated inner-voice starts to say, so ha-ha,
the joke’s on them. Interloping, tree house-invading bastards. But my inner
voice shuts up pretty quickly, because then we hear it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s a sound I can only describe as a cross between a French
ambulance siren from the 1960s, and car alarm going off in the middle of the
night in Brooklyn. Between a haunting whale mating call, and a giant cicada
stuck in your ear. It’s a noise few humans will ever get a chance to hear. And it’s
really, really loud.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’ll be damned. The gibbons really are singing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I liked the idea of the Gibbon Experience the first time I
read about it, although I would have been hard pressed to tell you exactly what
a gibbon was.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2sw-KRx1X7o2tzsdIcDhv5om_CebnruPYaoPjh-rh6HG3k6Jd5Nh2SN9bNzYC1yMfNCm051sBmg1jr2XBt2DxA5V_mXLk0nO_ShmzOFr3wfavR3BQ32f-muvZuHVUcD49FKUwxezS-uI/s1600/gibbon-treehouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2sw-KRx1X7o2tzsdIcDhv5om_CebnruPYaoPjh-rh6HG3k6Jd5Nh2SN9bNzYC1yMfNCm051sBmg1jr2XBt2DxA5V_mXLk0nO_ShmzOFr3wfavR3BQ32f-muvZuHVUcD49FKUwxezS-uI/s400/gibbon-treehouse.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A non-profit organization was set up twenty years ago in the
Bokeo Province of Laos to help villagers and local authorities fight illegal
logging, animal poaching, slash-and-burn land mis-management, and other 21<sup>st</sup>
Century sins that were slowly destroying the natural habitat of rural Southeast
Asia. In 2003 the group began building tree houses in the forest, with the idea
of raising money for conservation by bringing in “low-impact tourism.” It convinced
former poachers that they could make more money as guides for tourists looking
for gibbons than they ever could hunting and killing them. Five years later the
Lao government declared part of the Bokeo Forest to be a national park, the
tree houses were connected with zip lines, and The Gibbon Experience was born.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1zqZjGz8Izyr4IgurHNQtG5QAku0lChrRrg3JiBph4k1Kw3Kii7OatfuUdn973Xzhjx4wDVsp6mVr1lVdrwLasU30HiScH1-yysMjtc8gNh_HVVKPxN5zqmKEG1_HhxI5oFvwIV0KCE/s1600/Black-crested+Gibbon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1zqZjGz8Izyr4IgurHNQtG5QAku0lChrRrg3JiBph4k1Kw3Kii7OatfuUdn973Xzhjx4wDVsp6mVr1lVdrwLasU30HiScH1-yysMjtc8gNh_HVVKPxN5zqmKEG1_HhxI5oFvwIV0KCE/s400/Black-crested+Gibbon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The focus of all this attention, the black-crested gibbon (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nomacus Concolor</i>, for those of you
playing along at home in Latin), is a long-armed, critically endangered,
monkey-like primate now only found in parts of Laos, northern Vietnam, and
southern China. The gibbons eat fruit, live exclusively in the trees, mate for
life, and in the mornings, they sing. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s not like Adele has anything to worry about. But yes,
they actually do sing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At last estimate there were only 1,300 to 2,000 of these gibbons
left in the wild. Riding zip lines in the jungle to hear the singing gibbons seemed
like as good of an excuse to go to Laos as any I could think of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Just reaching the headquarters of The Gibbon Experience,
however, is somewhat of an accomplishment itself. The office is located in Huay
Xai (also known as Ban Houayxay, Huoeisay, or Houei Sai, depending on who’s
drawing the map that day), a dusty, otherwise-nondescript river town in
northern Laos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Huay Xai does have a
small airport, so in theory you could probably fly here. But I of course have
selected an overland route from Bangkok, which involves two trains, five
buses, a couple of taxis, an international border crossing, and about
half-dozen tuk-tuk rides of varying degrees of spleen-rupturing discomfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI85LRs5direNR470VgMOCzOCJ4__PW_mcKrkJmZkihO5CuM75afHfs4j8KlvQHpDvJr_bEh0fYZvoaiQoVVxJEr8LfXW_RhMCANUPRr2B3opMPn_kYAn73eMef7Q-5uklDvqZ5ijdX40/s1600/IMG_1199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI85LRs5direNR470VgMOCzOCJ4__PW_mcKrkJmZkihO5CuM75afHfs4j8KlvQHpDvJr_bEh0fYZvoaiQoVVxJEr8LfXW_RhMCANUPRr2B3opMPn_kYAn73eMef7Q-5uklDvqZ5ijdX40/s400/IMG_1199.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At 8:15 a.m. the day of departure, The Gibbon Experience orientation room is filling up, and I’m getting worried. It’s not
the idea of being driven into the jungle that unnerves me, it’s the question of
which of the fifty or so Gibbon chasers gathered in Huay Xai are going to be my
constant companions for the next three days.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I see a few women, and a couple of kids. But there seems to
be an excessive amount of testosterone surging around the room. A loud group of
Dutch kids the size of redwood trees are laughing and slapping at each other, occasionally
knocking off a backward ball cap. Two guys to the left of me are having a
conversation in Arabic. Behind me I hear German.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guy to my right is with a group of
fourteen male friends, traveling around Asia together after being discharged
from the Israeli army.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A Gibbon Experience employee has to shout over the car-crash
of guttural languages to announce that a short safety video will now be shown,
before we pile into the trucks and head off into the jungle. No one seems to be
paying any attention. In a few hours we will all be suspended from a wire,
flying at 60 miles per hour hundreds of feet off the ground. Maybe this is
something you learn how to do as an Israeli paratrooper. Personally I’d
appreciate a couple of pointers to avoid accidentally killing myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“You step into your safety harness like this,” says the smiling
demonstration lady on the safety video. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Like
you are stepping into a diaper</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Israeli guys understandably look each other like they
must not have heard correctly. My thought is, if you have any first-hand
experience wearing a diaper, this probably isn’t the trip for you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Attach the line <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like
this</i>,” demonstration lady continues. “Not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like this</i>.” A big red circle with a line through it flashes on the
screen. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Like this</i> is very dangerous.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Like what? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Like what</i>
is very dangerous?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t hear because the
loud German dad sitting behind me is still translating “diaper” for his
10-year-old daughter. By the time he shuts up we’re already on the closing
credits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The video ends and the lights come up. “Any questions?” the
employee asks. I’d ask if they could go over that “very dangerous” part again,
but nobody wants to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that guy</i>. “No
questions? Okay, everyone in the truck!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp06Swj9We-d7gz9GQueUaXh2paW-YCG0xC1kIlVzNp5s7NSCL8jqPiLRB2NiGB8OwqB_H5REZCRI87iAJXLrpspIlelwZgRQTCtaIvkf_nn250-S7b4PLjl2Jgxutm_1LMLoimN11aMM/s1600/IMG_1207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp06Swj9We-d7gz9GQueUaXh2paW-YCG0xC1kIlVzNp5s7NSCL8jqPiLRB2NiGB8OwqB_H5REZCRI87iAJXLrpspIlelwZgRQTCtaIvkf_nn250-S7b4PLjl2Jgxutm_1LMLoimN11aMM/s400/IMG_1207.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">While there are fifty people headed out into the jungle at
the same time, thankfully not everyone is going to the same place. There is a relatively
quick two-day tour, which promises more hiking with a higher degree of
difficulty. Something, say, for your recently discharged military personnel on
the go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A waterfall tour is offered that
goes farther into the jungle, also at the price of additional hiking. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then there is the three-day “Classic
Tour,” which promises less hiking, more tree house sitting, and (in theory) more
chances to meet up with a gibbon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Less hiking, more sitting. Sign me up for the lazy man’s
gibbon tour.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">By the time we split up there are about twenty two of us on
the three-day classic tour, packed into three trucks and headed for the Nam Kam
Forest. If you want to know how to get to the Nam Kam Forest, drive northeast
out of Huay Xai on a twisty road for an hour and a half, stop at a little
roadside shack that sells ice cream bars and whiskey with scorpions in the
bottle, head downhill on a dirt road, drive through (not over, but literally <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">through</i>) a small river, and follow the canyon-sized,
bone-jarring ruts for another hour, until you reach a small collection of
shacks with naked children playing in the creek.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We’re not there yet. This is only where we get out of truck,
and start hiking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The hike starts out promisingly flat, albeit through a sun-baked
rice field. It’s close to 100 degrees, and everyone is carrying a pack. By the
time we reach the shade of the forest everyone is drenched in sweat. Now the
serious hiking begins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_zQmcLWrqpgBo9TeMKt0UGRD-ADUNQ6ybOob3apYtVou164BhfhIZABKlKR9JztRz9TyiYkZHD_uotmaZh1lu4VWVq7xqGWlhQcyAI_hDGOVjOZNGcXY81f6pqucKuxs46DECLoet3o/s1600/IMG_1230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_zQmcLWrqpgBo9TeMKt0UGRD-ADUNQ6ybOob3apYtVou164BhfhIZABKlKR9JztRz9TyiYkZHD_uotmaZh1lu4VWVq7xqGWlhQcyAI_hDGOVjOZNGcXY81f6pqucKuxs46DECLoet3o/s400/IMG_1230.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I know it’s impossible, but the hike seems to be straight
uphill going, as well as coming back. Up over some rocks, up under some bamboo,
up around some fallen trees. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If this is
the easy program, I imagine the Israeli army guys on the two-day hike must be
dropping like flies. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Another forty five minutes to an hour of uphill hiking, and
we’re still not there yet. Now it’s time for the zip line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">No, of course I’ve never been on a zip line, and the proffered
five-minute safety video has done nothing to convince me that I’m in any way prepared.
Still, how hard can it be? You get hooked to a wire, you jump off of a tower.
So simple a gibbon could do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Unless you do it wrong, and a big red circle with a line
through it flashes over your life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxCZmnw8o7j13r1A9Fx2VGnaQzSV8s-LsHDwq0RxZawWd-NIz9wBLs8vJDcZY7KiRYHKLreGgKoI_9PINhCyrWs5MqJ9KDVgDDDyz_YK0Wl6h3yUrPUFoQ8vOXN0Z_PXNuot2NZK1QeU/s1600/image2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxCZmnw8o7j13r1A9Fx2VGnaQzSV8s-LsHDwq0RxZawWd-NIz9wBLs8vJDcZY7KiRYHKLreGgKoI_9PINhCyrWs5MqJ9KDVgDDDyz_YK0Wl6h3yUrPUFoQ8vOXN0Z_PXNuot2NZK1QeU/s400/image2.jpeg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Our guide hands me a tangle of belts, straps and clips that
is supposed to be my safety harness. It looks a bowl of pad see ew noodles I
ate in Thailand three days ago. I slowly untangle the straps until they fall
into a pattern I could plausibly identify as diaper shaped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">No one is helping in any official capacity, and it occurs to
me that this is the zip line equivalent of packing your own parachute. Put on
your own damn safety harness. If you put it on wrong, you have no one to blame
but yourself, do you? Didn’t you watch the safety video?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I step into my diaper/harness, pull a strap here, tighten a
buckle there, and as best I can secure my crotch area for a flight over the
jungle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The initial zip line run is a complete leap of faith, in the
same way I imagine it would be to bungee jump, or dive off a cliff in a flying
squirrel costume.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">high</i>. It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">long</i>. The other end where you will theoretically
land is nowhere in sight. One part of my brain tells me this doesn’t look like
it could possibly work. Another part says that if there had been a rash of
tourists plunging to their deaths from zip lines in northern Laos, I would have
heard of it by now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Not necessarily,” the first part of my brain replies. “You
saw how far the drive out here was. They could just roll up the bodies in
banana leaves and no one would find out for years.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Shut up. We’re already in the diaper harness. People are
watching. We’re doing this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih41UfPanDpuGpdzkJeH8uyznasgiAnS4BslkxJ2pLUA1qjq0i4kESUVNDcJDDCmVPpB3GNMTpxpiiLXJvq_ljM_vik53wBa2w9jBQqNqasuTLRL-3_BvIpB0C3MvDE_XnrvuO6MQhRe8/s1600/image15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih41UfPanDpuGpdzkJeH8uyznasgiAnS4BslkxJ2pLUA1qjq0i4kESUVNDcJDDCmVPpB3GNMTpxpiiLXJvq_ljM_vik53wBa2w9jBQqNqasuTLRL-3_BvIpB0C3MvDE_XnrvuO6MQhRe8/s400/image15.jpeg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“It’s our funeral.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I clip my harness to the zip line and step off the platform.
In a split second the wire starts to hum, the ground below disappears, and I
improbably find myself hundreds of feet above a jungle in Laos, sailing along
like a flying squirrel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I end up lucking out with my three-day jungle
companions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Israeli paratroopers
have wandered away on their own Bataan Death March. The Dutch teenagers are off
in another tree house, presumably snapping each other with towels. Back at Tree
House 7, my tree house mates and I are killing time after a day of jungle
zipping playing Dave’s Gin (taught by yours truly), waiting for our guide to
zip in with some food, and trying to figure out what the deal is with the bees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ah, the bees. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Forget man-eating tigers, poisonous snakes, or
malaria-infected mosquitos. The biggest hazard to living in the jungle in Laos,
improbably, turns out to the small swarm of bees inhabiting the tree house
bathroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOFP-jMCkb8TEZU7m19_cJ9BDfmbQgu9-WmFX5OPqLwnA4rywli43tghlyfAlgiJIN0TTqSO8bhRrGv9iFGRS59IHQqvuNtZJv7kt6YkZQ5Y_wq8xcpGi70IeIDeILmMeG4CiWlW0zqc/s1600/IMG_1253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOFP-jMCkb8TEZU7m19_cJ9BDfmbQgu9-WmFX5OPqLwnA4rywli43tghlyfAlgiJIN0TTqSO8bhRrGv9iFGRS59IHQqvuNtZJv7kt6YkZQ5Y_wq8xcpGi70IeIDeILmMeG4CiWlW0zqc/s400/IMG_1253.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The “bathroom” is not an actual room, but an open platform
located at the bottom level the tree house, directly across from the zip-line
entrance. The bathroom facilities consist of a sink, a shower, and a squat
toilet, all complete with a stunning panoramic view of the jungle. Because
there is no actual “room” there is no actual “door,” either, just a cloth
curtain that more or less blocks the view if someone happens to unexpectedly zip
into the tree house while you’re in the bathroom, you know, brushing your
teeth.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So here’s the thing about a squat toilet, located in a
jungle, 100 feet in the air. The Laotians are not big believers in toilet
paper; my impression is that they find the concept kind of disgusting. (And
let’s be honest: they do have a point.) Instead, what you find in lieu of
toilet paper – here and elsewhere in the country –is a spray hose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">All right, then. A little tough to get the hang of, but
okay, I’m on board. We are after all in a tree house in Laos, not the Ritz
Carlton at Half Moon Bay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoytwlLZQucBT0TtGR0ONetmUV5kKYfxXwStKJVrkKIYtlrAJ9vDlr9C9H7d_WD5ewM5C-huWF4_q3bZvhHdnsCFwVyxEDR0aJrg3MmofdqpgcZieQA-WVusqWuHNoOjyamSdCnDVsuY0/s1600/IMG_1250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoytwlLZQucBT0TtGR0ONetmUV5kKYfxXwStKJVrkKIYtlrAJ9vDlr9C9H7d_WD5ewM5C-huWF4_q3bZvhHdnsCFwVyxEDR0aJrg3MmofdqpgcZieQA-WVusqWuHNoOjyamSdCnDVsuY0/s400/IMG_1250.jpg" width="288" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The problem we discover is that the spray hose, by necessity,
has water in it. And for reasons I will let an entomologist explain, bees in
the jungle really like water. They seem to be particularly fond of water that
comes out of a squat toilet spray hose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Which prompts the question, each time the need arises: how
badly to I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> have to go to the
bathroom? Badly enough to risk being stung by a swarm of bees? You know, when
you put it that way, maybe not. Maybe I’ll hang on, and just explode when I
return to civilization. I think that sounds like a reasonable plan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s as if the folks at the Ritz Carlton ran a few volts
through the toilet seat, just to make things interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is the price you pay to hang with the gibbons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwWS9l4E5q8f7K8nN_2HE2ZvVX72vdSCmCb3u3maSJv2ik2X7cD23oCVxkK_7SPB1XcFy5uSyxGjLDDVLJRk4VI9yz_VFDTKync_laAgeWLXD85PhyPGY7HFfe2bth6_WWfVYjaVL1e8I/s1600/IMG_1234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwWS9l4E5q8f7K8nN_2HE2ZvVX72vdSCmCb3u3maSJv2ik2X7cD23oCVxkK_7SPB1XcFy5uSyxGjLDDVLJRk4VI9yz_VFDTKync_laAgeWLXD85PhyPGY7HFfe2bth6_WWfVYjaVL1e8I/s320/IMG_1234.jpg" width="242" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">After the first day or so the Tree House Seven become
seasoned zip line veterans, grading each other’s landings like Russian judges
at the Olympics. Come in too fast, you risk slamming into a tree. Come in too
slow and you sputter to a stop way out on the wire, forcing you to pull hand
over hand the rest of the way in, upside down like a spider monkey. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The spider monkey crawl is extremely humiliating, not to mention
the high humidity, upper-body workout you really didn’t sign up for. Much better to hit the
tree. Better still to glide in for the perfect two-point landing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There has been a lot of hiking, a lot of laughing, a lot of
sweating, and a lot of zipping about the jungle. But not, unfortunately, a lot
of sightings of actual gibbons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">On the day we first hear the gibbons sing, the guide points
to a broccoli-shaped tree, about 200 yards in the distance. I squint and see
some branches moving. Those can’t possibly be the gibbons. The siren-like noise
I’m hearing sounds like it’s coming from a public address system on the roof of
the tree house.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPamw2R0oSlZ-Om0kEDG00PUd7tpmqV-rPFVmuaBt_YsWd6IkJjP9TeA4nFOMZj3fhMR9ndZyByx1G9gbKsZ0AL-NDtCRq6ta78S97xFQRsEhONYZM-gufzrzs9ZG_ZCuJ0d54H3hY8A/s1600/conjuv_fan2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPamw2R0oSlZ-Om0kEDG00PUd7tpmqV-rPFVmuaBt_YsWd6IkJjP9TeA4nFOMZj3fhMR9ndZyByx1G9gbKsZ0AL-NDtCRq6ta78S97xFQRsEhONYZM-gufzrzs9ZG_ZCuJ0d54H3hY8A/s400/conjuv_fan2.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Someone hands me a pair of binoculars, and I look back at the
broccoli tree. Sure enough, there they are: long armed black silhouettes,
swinging back and forth on branches, and singing as they go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">About ten years ago, I went on a whale watching boat trip up
the St. Lawrence River in Quebec, Canada. After the tour boat had taken our
money and pushed off the dock, the guides immediately started hedging their
bets to tamp down any inflated expectations about actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">seeing </i>any whales on the whale watching boat trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“You know, zee humback and zee minke whales can be very
shy,” our adorable French-Canadian whale guide announced to the boat through a
portable microphone. “Sometimes we will not zee deese whales for many days.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Many days, huh? Oh well. For fifty bucks, I guess you still
get a nice boat ride.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTp3RorZEKjtQXUR76Vgo2K8hm0GZW5oZWTP_aSecq-CNxccmpg8ex2GHEDxpe8b-T5oN7J2JUY-u8EPeksGfiT8MOCIWy78ztZ82MBYQ5Ahpz-9ftJyxBmC-1N7cek1x8bhVjTqPM2tE/s1600/minkebreach_popup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTp3RorZEKjtQXUR76Vgo2K8hm0GZW5oZWTP_aSecq-CNxccmpg8ex2GHEDxpe8b-T5oN7J2JUY-u8EPeksGfiT8MOCIWy78ztZ82MBYQ5Ahpz-9ftJyxBmC-1N7cek1x8bhVjTqPM2tE/s400/minkebreach_popup.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yet despite the disclaimers, within a half hour a monstrous
tail fin flipped out of the water, less than fifty feet from the port side of
the boat. Geysers erupted out of blowholes on the starboard. People ran from
side to side, yelling and pointing cameras. Against all odds we had somehow hit
the minke whale mother load. Our guide began babbling in barely intelligible
Franglish, like Celine Dion had just won the Mega Millions jackpot.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“We never zee such tings like this,” she choked out, on the
verge of tears. “We are really, really, really, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very rotten spoiled</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I think about the minke whale explosion as I sit in Laos watching
the swinging silhouettes through the binoculars. No, the gibbons are not
exactly hanging out with us in the tree house. But I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> see them, albeit from a distance. And I damn sure can hear
them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So maybe we are only mildly rotten spoiled. But still.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There are less than 2,000 of these long-armed,
branch-swinging, monogamous, musically inclined primates left on the planet.
And I’m one of a handful of people on Earth that will ever be close enough in a
forest to hear them sing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have to think that alone is worth the price of the boat
ride.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We’ve spent three days in the jungle, hiking and zipping and
spotting the occasional gibbon in the distance. The prospect of the trip back
is disheartening, because after a bone-jarring hour over a rutted dirt road,
followed by a drive through a river, a stop at the ice cream/scorpion whiskey
store, and an hour and a half drive on a twisty Laotian highway, we’ll be back
in grungy Huay Xai, instead of on our way to meet the gibbons.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We stuff the Tree House Seven into the back of a single tuk
tuk, along with our back packs, and (for reasons never fully explained) several
bags of rice. There are liters of Beer Lao to lessen the pain of leaving, and a
satisfaction of knowing that, even if we do nothing else the rest of our lives,
at least we’ve done this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I have the feeling that in ten years time this road will be
paved,” Paul says, holding a bottle of beer as our tuk-tuk bounces us back
toward semi-civilization. “There will be a big neon sign at the turn off,
pointing the tourists toward the ticket booth at the entrance to Gibbon Land.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He might be right. Personally I could do without the hoards
of tourists, the neon signs, and even the paved road. But I do hope that in ten
years’ time the gibbons will be still here. Singing their bizarre car-alarm siren songs,
and swinging in their broccoli trees, hundreds of yards from the tree house.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-25670233395966916972015-07-26T09:18:00.001-07:002017-08-26T13:08:18.719-07:00The Lost City of Pisco Sours<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tessa and I have been climbing Mount Machu Picchu for more
than an hour. The view below us is obscured by clouds. The view above us is
obscured by clouds. You get the idea. Essentially we’re just climbing in clouds.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am in the Andes, hiking some 8,000 feet above sea level.
Machu Picchu – the famed “Lost City of the Incas” – sits somewhere a thousand
feet below us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It feels like I’ve landed
in the opening scenes of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Although I have to say, I’m currently
much less worried about rolling boulders and poison darts than I am about
dropping dead of a heart attack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“The top <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has to be</i>
around this next corner,” Tessa says, as I huff my way up the ridiculously steep
stone steps a few yards behind her. I said the same thing twenty minutes ago. When
one of us repeats it again in a half hour we’ll still be wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I nod and wipe away a small river of sweat running down my
forehead. Tessa has a concerned look on her face, as if trying to envision
how she’s going to manage to carry my corpse down the mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tessa is a 20-year-old student from Denver, currently
studying in Buenos Aires. She had some free time so she decided to fly to
Bolivia and take a bus through the Andes to see Machu Picchu. I won’t tell you exactly what I was doing with my free time when I was 20, but it usually involved
a couch, a remote control, and a carton of Marlboro Lights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Maybe we should stop and rest a bit,” Tessa says. She’s
barely out of breath, so I know she is just being considerate of her somewhat
older hiking companion. She is also polite enough not to say, “Maybe we should stop and rest a bit, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grandpa.</i>”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I’m fine,” I say gamely. But there’s that look on her face
again. “Okay,” I say, leaning against the side of a rock. “Maybe just a few
minutes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Peru in general, and the area around Machu Picchu in
particular - is amazingly beautiful. Yes, I’ve seen mountains before. I’ve seen
high mountains before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the lush,
jungle covered peaks towering over the Urubamba River take stunning to an
entirely new level. It’s pretty easy to see why the Incas named this the Sacred
Valley, and decided it would be good place to set up an empire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I know none of this going in. Even though Machu Picchu is
world famous, like most Americans I am woefully ignorant about the country and
the culture. I vaguely recall something about llamas, pan flutes, and runways
built for ancient astronauts. And oh yeah, the Pisco Sour. Big fan of the Pisco
Sour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You are forgiven if you didn’t know that Pisco is a brandy
made in Peru and parts of Chile. You might be able to order a Pisco Sour in
certain American bars uppity enough to stock the main ingredient (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">i.e</i>., Pisco), but I doubt you’ll find it
on the laminated menu at TGI Friday’s.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In addition to Pisco, the Pisco Sour includes lemon juice, sugar,
and a little raw egg white. If you like your beverages without egg froth, or if
you are just a salmonella-phobe in general, this is may not be your drink. My
advice, however, is to get over it. You risk a lot more gastro-intestinal
distress for a lot less reward at the Taco Bell drive-thru.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I first encounter the authentic Peruvian version of the
Pisco Sour on the drink-special placards lining the main pedestrian gauntlet of
Aguas Calientes, a small town at the base of Machu Picchu. The battle for the
tourist dollar is fierce here, with hawkers jumping into the street and trying
every English word they know to suck you in to their restaurant. Every hour
must be happy, because the “Happy Hour Specials” go on all day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I see the restaurant directly outside my hotel offers two Pisco
Sours for the price of one. Not bad, but I think I can do better. Farther down
the hill I spot a place where the offer is three for the price of one. When I
eventually reach a restaurant where the going rate is four for one, I decide
it’s time to stop for dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I came to Peru with only a vague idea of how to even get to
Machu Picchu. After landing in Lima and sleeping a few hours I hop a small
plane to the city of Cusco, which, on the map at least, seems to be in Machu
Picchu’s general neighborhood. It’s still 70 miles away. I’m told that normally
you can take a train from Cusco to the base of Machu Picchu. Except during the
rainy season. And yes of course, it is currently the rainy season.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">However, if you can make it to the little town of
Ollantaytambo about 35 miles up the road, you can take the train the rest of
the way up the valley to Aguas Calientes. Getting to Ollantaytambo? The travel options
to Ollantaytambo are: a) a very expensive taxi ride, or b) a very cheap ride on
a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">collectivo. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">collectivo</i> is essentially
an unmarked white van that drives around a particular neighborhood of Cusco
with a driver yelling “Ollantaytambo! Diez soles!” I find the neighborhood, waive
down the white van and pay my ten soles (about $3.00), because I am that very
special combination of both “trusting” and “cheap.” After a couple of trips
around the block several locals and a few other backpacking foreigners hop on
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">collectivo</i>, my only assurance
that a kidnapping is not taking place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtKleWW49QVGgjwpIfUpKlbF4wt-CR3GRcSsT3Kf1u73GLd5UT1vGU3TREuuMk7Fq4-jIgydN9DTCR8mW78sxS2AkAKPSlsZ2RBUHw9rvvLgkYfYIJGdS9mUslyK5LDMOZfI-tEsQca4/s1600/IMG_2358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtKleWW49QVGgjwpIfUpKlbF4wt-CR3GRcSsT3Kf1u73GLd5UT1vGU3TREuuMk7Fq4-jIgydN9DTCR8mW78sxS2AkAKPSlsZ2RBUHw9rvvLgkYfYIJGdS9mUslyK5LDMOZfI-tEsQca4/s320/IMG_2358.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">After winding through the city, the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> collectivo</i> begins to climb a steep hill. We are on a road that
looks like it cannot possibly be the road to anywhere, other than to a good
spot to dump the bodies. The van weaves through a canyon of half-completed
houses, swerving around potholes, stray dogs, and several free-range chickens. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Finally we crest the hill and turn onto “the main road.” It looks
pretty much like the previous road, except that now there are four lanes
instead of two. What do you want for $3.00? I hold on to the door handle as the <i>collectivo</i> turns right, and drives me into the Andes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I finally reach Aguas Calientes by train the next day. I am
so lazy and indifferent to planning or research that I don’t learn until I
arrive that you have to buy a Machu Picchu ticket at an office in town before
going to the ruins. In the high season, they can actually sell out weeks in
advance. There is no such thing as a walk-up sale. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOnVsIy1zF24dFJQ8MP_h8EjuuOXCyWl_G3cE_sl3d0SWUxLalMIhlP0Hcjq73r8H1L7gvZ_aD_gid1GmwLT6wASd8gVd4cvzKDgLguplKjuihdks2e7FIX3Nqd63xXYBv7pCS-d1djkg/s1600/IMG_2470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOnVsIy1zF24dFJQ8MP_h8EjuuOXCyWl_G3cE_sl3d0SWUxLalMIhlP0Hcjq73r8H1L7gvZ_aD_gid1GmwLT6wASd8gVd4cvzKDgLguplKjuihdks2e7FIX3Nqd63xXYBv7pCS-d1djkg/s400/IMG_2470.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The tickets for Machu Picchu are multi-tiered and expensive,
ranging from around $75 just to visit the ruins, to $85 or more if you want to
visit the ruins <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>climb one of the
two mountains at the site. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Do you want to climb Machu Picchu Mountain? the woman at the
ticket office asks me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">For an extra ten bucks? Sure, why not. It’s just a
mountain, 9,000 feet up in the Andes. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">How hard can it be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEiAGaAix6crctHTjt4wzNdzKM85-bcikRxCgBcf3KsUWdwaWsR2ly4svsgliKMpDJ3Y66LB-MqB5RJk_aVUy-7vSLymhpgVfd1mJlt7KoAzJuTPjJ0SMKnYjNW10NcY8NY1YzJQzI954/s1600/IMG_2471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEiAGaAix6crctHTjt4wzNdzKM85-bcikRxCgBcf3KsUWdwaWsR2ly4svsgliKMpDJ3Y66LB-MqB5RJk_aVUy-7vSLymhpgVfd1mJlt7KoAzJuTPjJ0SMKnYjNW10NcY8NY1YzJQzI954/s400/IMG_2471.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Mount Machu Picchu is the highest of two peaks towering
over the Machu Picchu ruins, with a summit of 3,082 meters (9,276 feet). It is
the only mountain I’ve ever heard of that has actual hours of operation,
roughly equating to that of a bank lobby on Saturday. The mountain is only
“open” – in the sense that you can only start climbing it - from seven to
eleven in the morning. The logic is not initially clear to me, but I later
suspect this is done to give the authorities time to clear the bodies off the
trail before dinnertime.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In addition to the admission ticket, yet another ticket is
needed for a bus from Aguas Calientes up to the gates of Machu Picchu. A
round-trip bus ticket cost $24, which deeply offends my cheapskate sensibility.
I decide to get a one-way ticket for $12, and walk back down into town when I’m
finished. You can’t walk downhill? What, are your legs broken? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I meet my de facto hiking buddy Tessa for the first time on
the 7 a.m. bus from Aguas Calientes to Machu Picchu. At the entrance to the
trail up Mount Machu Picchu Mountain, we are required to sign a ledger that
lists our name, address, passport number, and age. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I see Tessa’s age when she signs in. The shoes I’m wearing
may in fact be older than Tessa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I actually have completed a few marathons in my day (none in
this particular decade, no), and I like to think of myself as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reasonably fit</i>, with reasonableness
being a relative concept. But climbing Mount Machu Picchu makes me feel like a two-pack-a-day smoker </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">at the Empire State Building </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">who decided to take the stairs. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1T8M0nCvHdJ2JYK_ntm9cKjLQWITLv6Cqr4fTYDguO18PaZhoDdKIHFnMfiiUX8wk8UbKb_RduAr1n156ktxgEyq99tw8_0Imv0q-D9gbW_7Q78FANE9PPH7ooeOCMt3WclaSefB3Ic/s1600/IMG_2389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1T8M0nCvHdJ2JYK_ntm9cKjLQWITLv6Cqr4fTYDguO18PaZhoDdKIHFnMfiiUX8wk8UbKb_RduAr1n156ktxgEyq99tw8_0Imv0q-D9gbW_7Q78FANE9PPH7ooeOCMt3WclaSefB3Ic/s400/IMG_2389.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Maybe the Incas were exceptionally tall, because the stone
steps of the trail seem twice as high as steps used by normal humans. We are
nearly alone on the trail. Even at one of the most visited tourist sites in the
world, there are very few others bold or stupid enough to be climbing this particular
mountain at eight in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It takes an hour and forty-five minutes to reach the summit.
We’re now above the clouds, but nearly everything below remains obscured. No
sign of Machu Picchu. When we arrive about a dozen other hikers are at the
summit, sitting and waiting. I am the oldest in attendance by a good 25
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A group of young Argentines we
passed on the trail arrive after us. They immediately plop on the ground and fire
up a doobie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVKNIHG3HmjNLIng-xycXXfFVGCc5z_4tB6nape9oRJk8WkOSHQ66X9M1Za1RM9YMLtTD4CeHyWOZrV6lgPH8ST9KYdjL10TW6lExXgV3MZOg16bldmtutVjkGyNDzRIgPVSoyxzL4Rs/s1600/IMG_2412.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVKNIHG3HmjNLIng-xycXXfFVGCc5z_4tB6nape9oRJk8WkOSHQ66X9M1Za1RM9YMLtTD4CeHyWOZrV6lgPH8ST9KYdjL10TW6lExXgV3MZOg16bldmtutVjkGyNDzRIgPVSoyxzL4Rs/s400/IMG_2412.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">An hour later the clouds are still there, and Tessa and I are
about to conclude that we climbed the mountain for nothing. But then it
happens. The clouds part - as if in a dream sequence accompanied by harp music
- and the ruins of Machu Picchu appear, a few thousand feet below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEiGS6SybomY0Sg4dn_F9Z-Kx_nnVdvcpcL3lsWZV-Kb8d6L70QPDu6zatMugK2qtEnx2Pjq80onZZjyhHLRBFldb-KDj20h0IpXlwup7iUBeEY6jChJyayaTgs7w1qscpmty5RsWiMjk/s1600/IMG_2427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEiGS6SybomY0Sg4dn_F9Z-Kx_nnVdvcpcL3lsWZV-Kb8d6L70QPDu6zatMugK2qtEnx2Pjq80onZZjyhHLRBFldb-KDj20h0IpXlwup7iUBeEY6jChJyayaTgs7w1qscpmty5RsWiMjk/s400/IMG_2427.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Not many people in the world will ever have this view.
Totally worth the threat of cardiac arrest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">After taking a few thousand pictures Tessa and I head down the mountain toward the ruins. As we start off, “down” seems like a magical word, the good ying
to the evil yang of “up.” But the steep stone steps begin to inflict a pounding
on my legs, first in the quads and then to my knees. Why do I have the sense
that I’m going to feel this later?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I also get another sense as we make <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;">our way down the
mountain. I’ve been drinking a lot of water, and I haven’t peed since, oh, I
don’t know, six thirty in the morning. It’s now close to noon. Granted, almost
all liquid left my body in the form of sweat during the assent a few hours ago,
but my bladder is letting me know that its patience is nearing an end.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“The first thing I probably need to do once we get down,” I
tell Tessa, “is find a bathroom.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">She nods, but imagine she is ticking off one more box on the
checklist in her head entitled “Reasons Not to Hike With the Elderly.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAyvrSXsajhb4b5qg6ioqehgveEV3HF5zmG7FwTG1h0BZa1S5nU6bRwR-53CnaSuhfk1QZgbJNqQ1Uf4rbhxXdrkqVKLk5YTa3bx-8nC495B_H3U8f7dBKzTXR_QsHrfeXtMJoKm2MuE/s1600/IMG_2459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAyvrSXsajhb4b5qg6ioqehgveEV3HF5zmG7FwTG1h0BZa1S5nU6bRwR-53CnaSuhfk1QZgbJNqQ1Uf4rbhxXdrkqVKLk5YTa3bx-8nC495B_H3U8f7dBKzTXR_QsHrfeXtMJoKm2MuE/s320/IMG_2459.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Here is one of the Mysteries of Machu Picchu that you
probably did not read about in your ninth-grade history book: There are no
bathrooms on the grounds of Machu Picchu. They do have llamas. Llamas, but no bathrooms.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I go another two hours exploring the ancient ruins with
Tessa and the other tourists, instructing my bladder to stop bothering me
because there’s not a damn thing I can do about it at the moment. I’m not
leaving, and no, bladder, I’m not taking a leak behind a thousand-year-old Inca sun
temple as you have suggested. Just hang on.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGYQbW_ABi7GiSe5DiZMNYKNqRKaHE4jvyDkfzEX_4tlaEdMOgmdmD_khwrtOED2AXKw8X5kXWH7pw99IJTKPLmCn1wFjmqqjDN5OoC-QV5mz2E_PX8PHGLC3OKERIK8MLwNhIywoHwg/s1600/IMG_2460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGYQbW_ABi7GiSe5DiZMNYKNqRKaHE4jvyDkfzEX_4tlaEdMOgmdmD_khwrtOED2AXKw8X5kXWH7pw99IJTKPLmCn1wFjmqqjDN5OoC-QV5mz2E_PX8PHGLC3OKERIK8MLwNhIywoHwg/s320/IMG_2460.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tessa and I eventually part ways and I head for the entrance/exit,
where bathrooms are mercifully located. It’s now well after 2:00 p.m. I make a
mental note to check later and see if I just set some kind of urine-retention
endurance record.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>* <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6gRRG6YS8jIKJ6BR2ejv0m7ZXktnLAL51Iyn0qJMnYzYjwyQhVgE8ooYoVRlF7ILGyRcDlQNpj4CewAAjKIV9easgfz8Rt_KpwKJGbxQO2ytWk6B2fzLzWKPx2vRYUYyT59gCQZCeXbE/s1600/IMG_2455.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6gRRG6YS8jIKJ6BR2ejv0m7ZXktnLAL51Iyn0qJMnYzYjwyQhVgE8ooYoVRlF7ILGyRcDlQNpj4CewAAjKIV9easgfz8Rt_KpwKJGbxQO2ytWk6B2fzLzWKPx2vRYUYyT59gCQZCeXbE/s400/IMG_2455.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The ruins of Machu Picchu truly are amazing, but my walk back
down to Aguas Calientes becomes my own personal Highway to Hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The feeling in my knees goes from discomfort
to stabbing pain. Every downward step feels like arthroscopic surgery without
anesthesia. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I start on the trail to Aguas Calientes with another hiking
buddy, a young Bolivian woman now living in Atlanta, but she abandons me
halfway down for two much-less-hobbled Colombian girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I send them off with an exhausted “Go on,
save yourselves” waive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’ve never had any problems with my knees, but I’m now afraid
that a single day at Machu Picchu has crippled me for life, the victim of some long-standing
Inca curse. Even as I reach level ground it’s still another half hour walk into
town. Yes, I do realize my error in judgment: a $12 return bus ticket probably is
less expensive than the wheelchair I’m likely to need for the next six months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Still, I drag myself into Agua Calientes a proud man. I
climbed a mountain at Machu Friggin’ Picchu, damn it. On a full bladder!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At least I’ll have that story to entertain my rehab nurses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>* <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEn-DzjN4DGsYrN8ebK89QApw5rKtYka94O8u3YyrVfAJJGQs3_nFVhuPF7uXcUCQXTkqUnDE7bEBoFDV1mcj54WXjMQBkJWZwSOWxoQeQKXLKMf-N_jA6O9mgIidjC_5yF70SSiIJwY/s1600/IMG_2320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEn-DzjN4DGsYrN8ebK89QApw5rKtYka94O8u3YyrVfAJJGQs3_nFVhuPF7uXcUCQXTkqUnDE7bEBoFDV1mcj54WXjMQBkJWZwSOWxoQeQKXLKMf-N_jA6O9mgIidjC_5yF70SSiIJwY/s320/IMG_2320.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You know what really relieves the aches and pains of a day
of climbing up and down Mount Machu Picchu? A four-for-one Pisco Sour drink
special!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Maybe a couple of drink specials.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s warm and steamy back in Lima, especially compared to
the mountain climate I’ve been living in for the past week. It took a few days,
but I am now walking again without whimpering or using a cane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have one day left in Peru before I take a ridiculously
early (or is it ridiculously late?) flight home at 1:45 the next morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In two weeks I have seen
stunning mountains and mind-boggling ruins and dazzling postcard sunsets over
the ocean. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2vylRYyI9ozW-kOH7gaJ_d0kLR_qaBRdHNpKEYG5ImMGn-ymSSCZgngw25E4jQG9hLjsXM4wsTIqct1AsnRnzJH0f_ZXHudlWRyOJDWSTurKK6qK02OA5CT-lwrD7cNSnEfYgihUTRc/s1600/IMG_2500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2vylRYyI9ozW-kOH7gaJ_d0kLR_qaBRdHNpKEYG5ImMGn-ymSSCZgngw25E4jQG9hLjsXM4wsTIqct1AsnRnzJH0f_ZXHudlWRyOJDWSTurKK6qK02OA5CT-lwrD7cNSnEfYgihUTRc/s400/IMG_2500.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I vow to spend my last day doing something equally auspicious.
I step out into the tropical humidity to locate the source of what I have
deemed to be Peru’s greatest contribution to modern society. I set out for Old
Lima, to find the birthplace of the Pisco Sour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The story goes that the Pisco Sour was invented in the early
20<sup>th</sup> Century by an American named Victor Morris, who came to Peru to
work on the railroad but ended up behind a bar instead. He took a Whiskey Sour
recipe, replaced the Whiskey with Pisco, and a hundred years later I’m buying
four of Victor’s drinks for the price of one at the foot of Machu Picchu. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I for one am thankful that the railroad gig didn’t work out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have it on the authority of two Lima taxi drivers (and that’s
pretty much all the authority that I need) that Morris invented his drink in
the bar of the Hotel Maury, located on the edge of the Old City. I envision a
grand, ornate, turn-of-the-century luxury hotel, with a bronze plaque
discreetly posted in an opulent, red-carpeted lobby marking the historical
significance of the site.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At least I got the plaque part right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9BuMUTGmKBFAKpNMpeD4Detvdw6fYkgX1vO1DiISxzlOwhJ1_d7_BjFe6i5MkSzNCQf9BevvFCX2wmB2EAciMNimkM684fE_QKZEUkHGZOUGveFnYtyjOPjPymI4oF0jytKjqCdK2t7I/s1600/IMG_2512.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9BuMUTGmKBFAKpNMpeD4Detvdw6fYkgX1vO1DiISxzlOwhJ1_d7_BjFe6i5MkSzNCQf9BevvFCX2wmB2EAciMNimkM684fE_QKZEUkHGZOUGveFnYtyjOPjPymI4oF0jytKjqCdK2t7I/s400/IMG_2512.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s 92 in the shade as I wind my way through the noonday
crowds toward the Hotel Maury. I see from my map that the hotel is a few blocks
up ahead on the corner of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jirón Ucuyali</i>
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jirón Carabaya,</i> just on the edge
of the Lima’s historic center. I put away the map, as I’m sure such a
venerable, historic attraction will be easy to spot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Instead, what I spot in the street ahead are metal
barricades, blocking the way in to the historic center. About a half dozen
helmeted police with stun guns and Plexiglas shields are standing at the
barricade, as if the shit is expected to go down before lunchtime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">What the hell?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I take a right, a left and another left, looking for a
non-barricaded way into the Plaza de Armas. It’s the same set up on the street
leading in from the east: barricade, police, riot shields, stun guns. The next
street I try is exactly the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I look over my shoulder for a hoard of protestors or
terrorists or disgruntled pensioners ready to storm the Bastille. With the
exception of a couple of street kids banging on drums for change, the anarchy
is non-existent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And despite the disproportionate show of force, I see the
police <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are </i>letting some people
through the barricades into the plaza. I shrug and decide to give it a shot. If
I can get through they’ll let anybody in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m expecting a question, or a request for an ID, or
something, but I’m waived through the barricaded gate without incident.
Apparently I don’t look sufficiently disgruntled to alarm anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXg7OzDr69Hn3qacLxPBrb69JaTnwmGCMYm4XZ0PVAnqERYmU2UwSE79-GXYGHJsIlh2bBWSgeio6Wh5WeHsWo-LkzDYEg_r_D1JMZHWpJ_iOrU1vTFkUd3t2md7l0-6BvggxgiOoYEKQ/s1600/IMG_2519.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXg7OzDr69Hn3qacLxPBrb69JaTnwmGCMYm4XZ0PVAnqERYmU2UwSE79-GXYGHJsIlh2bBWSgeio6Wh5WeHsWo-LkzDYEg_r_D1JMZHWpJ_iOrU1vTFkUd3t2md7l0-6BvggxgiOoYEKQ/s320/IMG_2519.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">After eating lunch and kicking around the Plaza de Armas a
while, I resume my interrupted search for the Hotel Maury. I find <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jirón Carabaya </i>and walk toward the first
police barricade I encountered, this time from the inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The barricade is still there, but no longer
guarded. The police appear to literally be Out to Lunch, Plexiglas shields left
leaning against a building unattended. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Apparently the riot has been canceled due to lack of outrage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pLDT2abpxGdQxB1i4VoYFMnvjwJQl7obfoOsqr2WjJBR41P3bZxXzOPKepXaHKRhkc5JXDYMtbg5uAzezuiIr6niJX7ZnFjvEPjdi8Nf-A1Wt_ivpvxLLbWfl0m1b2T0F5rEjWTT2Ao/s1600/IMG_2519.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pLDT2abpxGdQxB1i4VoYFMnvjwJQl7obfoOsqr2WjJBR41P3bZxXzOPKepXaHKRhkc5JXDYMtbg5uAzezuiIr6niJX7ZnFjvEPjdi8Nf-A1Wt_ivpvxLLbWfl0m1b2T0F5rEjWTT2Ao/s400/IMG_2519.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I look at the street signs. I am at the corner of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jirón Ucuyali</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jirón Carabaya, </i>exactly where the Hotel Maury is supposed to be. But
there is no grand, ornate, turn-of-the-century luxury hotel anywhere in sight.
What I see instead is a dusty, nearly abandoned looking building with an ugly
1970s façade. A dirty glass door and two darkened windows are shaded by black
awnings covered with bird shit and what looks like a good forty years of
accumulated urban grime. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlRCgJVefwQ2jY5O-5EcIiZ30wMr6xlN1OquaaYW1XOiOa26x1f79L9AvTyftxu0slvG6I7C4QEXhFCPf4RNnbsIY-liwjoXD1-C78IkDWEJ8afy48cssUxez0Crnr0yKQFOkJWywnkg/s1600/IMG_2518.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlRCgJVefwQ2jY5O-5EcIiZ30wMr6xlN1OquaaYW1XOiOa26x1f79L9AvTyftxu0slvG6I7C4QEXhFCPf4RNnbsIY-liwjoXD1-C78IkDWEJ8afy48cssUxez0Crnr0yKQFOkJWywnkg/s400/IMG_2518.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The windows are blocked with cardboard placards making it is
impossible to see inside. One placard proclaims “Pisco Es Peru!” The other
appears to say “Pisco Sour El Tro,” although the last word is essentially
unreadable. I now see the bronze placard next to the doorway. This is indeed
the side (and currently locked) entrance of the famed Bar Maury, birthplace
of the Pisco Sour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Hotel Maury’s main entrance around the corner is every bit as
sad, with about a dozen tattered international flags hanging limply over the
awning, as if the hotel is prepared to surrender in twelve different languages.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiKAVIhHQYb1xJDTiQKzdWioBtOMAoaCdRcqz4GJxMQ25VhEMQBZ5u3q7RF7O9dxabm__ym-_5YzGMxWz-KhVIswt_zwb21j2MmNONzaIYfJnX8RwMZQDFfiiI7qKpBCJCUDXnc_r4gOI/s1600/IMG_2523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiKAVIhHQYb1xJDTiQKzdWioBtOMAoaCdRcqz4GJxMQ25VhEMQBZ5u3q7RF7O9dxabm__ym-_5YzGMxWz-KhVIswt_zwb21j2MmNONzaIYfJnX8RwMZQDFfiiI7qKpBCJCUDXnc_r4gOI/s320/IMG_2523.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Of course I’m going in. Although I admit that part of me wonders
if during Happy Hour at the Hotel Maury every Pisco Sour comes with a
complimentary prostitute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The lobby inside is dark and apparently “under construction,”
for how long would be anyone’s guess. It’s hard for me to believe that anything
in the hotel is actually open for business, but sure enough, through the
darkness I see a doorway leading into what looks suspiciously like a bar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I head for the lighted entrance, halfway expecting the sound
of gunplay. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Remember in The Wizard of Oz when everything is in black and
white, until Dorothy crashes the house and opens the door to a fantastic Technicolor
world of singing flowers and dancing Munchkins? It’s a little like that walking
from the lobby into the bar of the Hotel Maury. Except in place of the Lollipop
Guild is a bartender named Alejandro.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9VgUkUiWlJ0llCVoQfmdCWdJax44fsjqG8gdJh2vpdkxUabaCxN0v5iv0BTr9N-EKZeo8sVIMSbZxu2DKupSC6EIU2TOtxTmrttdZyUjw9JtSgkN0iBlbLjIU8IMvV-G48a_WfeB8i4/s1600/IMG_2530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9VgUkUiWlJ0llCVoQfmdCWdJax44fsjqG8gdJh2vpdkxUabaCxN0v5iv0BTr9N-EKZeo8sVIMSbZxu2DKupSC6EIU2TOtxTmrttdZyUjw9JtSgkN0iBlbLjIU8IMvV-G48a_WfeB8i4/s400/IMG_2530.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Incredibly, the interior of the Hotel Maury bar looks as if
it has been transported straight out of a Hemingway novel, with a polished bar
top, brass foot rails, a carved wooden ceiling and a wall of large,
turn-of-the-century oil paintings. If Hollywood were to build a stage set of
the Birthplace of the Pisco Sour, it would look exactly like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">How something this amazing can possibly exist inside a
building that from the outside looks like a place you rent by the hour to shoot
up heroin is a greater mystery than the absence of bathrooms at Machu Picchu.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Thirsty and still in a bit of a daze, I ask Alejandro if he
can make me a Pisco Sour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQStZRl6Xlk40PVtEm6V8I3Fj36MYhiThsCz7TM8Q12-QN8yTVKUTQkkKmU2RfO8F0a-3xzyjubtX6kz2jKH_ZzxxYOppNz0qqEgxwIt8KUjo-9k8ncUKtaP8e3yZFv9aa-9FYcQ57y-w/s1600/IMG_2531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQStZRl6Xlk40PVtEm6V8I3Fj36MYhiThsCz7TM8Q12-QN8yTVKUTQkkKmU2RfO8F0a-3xzyjubtX6kz2jKH_ZzxxYOppNz0qqEgxwIt8KUjo-9k8ncUKtaP8e3yZFv9aa-9FYcQ57y-w/s400/IMG_2531.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Of course, he tells me in Spanish. They were invented here,
you know.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yes, I’ve heard that.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Just one more story they’ll never believe when I tell it
thirty years from now, again and again, down at the old folks home.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-57826763203554781412015-06-17T12:36:00.000-07:002015-06-25T12:08:23.077-07:00The Colombian Hat Dance<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is only one non-stop flight from Dallas-Fort Worth to
Bogotá, Colombia. For reasons known only to American Airlines, the flight
arrives in South America at one o’clock in the morning, just in time for
everything to shut down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKLCEthE3aD3L3UibgZ6XGRLQNunGV9xK_92zYRIVIe401T5Dm4Z-4tboWnNQ5U1YD2lEUmZRNIb-4NMFHQ8OjXBJhXEGl4V4-rIhmjwOAAp2uS2JSLdMk6CR1Zaa_LKTjAS03ToTNt1c/s1600/images-7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKLCEthE3aD3L3UibgZ6XGRLQNunGV9xK_92zYRIVIe401T5Dm4Z-4tboWnNQ5U1YD2lEUmZRNIb-4NMFHQ8OjXBJhXEGl4V4-rIhmjwOAAp2uS2JSLdMk6CR1Zaa_LKTjAS03ToTNt1c/s400/images-7.jpeg" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGv7hQ0SxV5L3XSxU29RkXAqp9q2INCeG30OpVljd8WnLYi4uDd2y9nP9vQKfXrQdm1pIKBBUBkj1v-bRi5ECk23CyrdjNq-0qDVnRCZxNSbTEIqlJzJLDYKmD7P73Q3sg75dKQXYvGc/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m already convinced that landing in Colombia with my
hipster hat, earring and beard that I have DRUG MULE written all over me. Now
they have me arriving on a flight when even the coke dealers are headed for
bed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“<i>Hola</i>!” I greet
one of the sleep-deprived cab drivers outside of the baggage claim. “<i>Como está esta noche</i>?” The driver nods politely but I see from the
look on his face that’s he’s sized me up as way more cheerful than any normal
person should be at 1:30 in the morning. Unless they’re on drugs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The driver loads my bag in the trunk and asks where we’re
going. I have specifically booked a hotel near the airport because I knew at
this hour I wouldn’t be up for a 45-minute taxi ride into the city. I tell him the
name of the hotel.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He’s never heard of it. Address? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I locate a printout in my bag and give him the address.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He puts the car and gear and starts driving, but I can tell
that he has no idea where we’re going. We turn from the main airport road on to
a deserted side street. At 1:30 in the morning it looks like it would be a good
place to dump the bodies. No one is on the sidewalks; no other car is in sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The cabby drives slowly, looking at street numbers.
Eventually we stop at a corner and the driver points to a small building with a
tiny lit sign above the doorway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDBtRrY5A9qpiwsWEptGazkZ2H7TMGVUWngbNW2TkUaZrbUCuF0zSbS-SAXnOckhWtH_a77qIr7lBulc0APrcC3E-vKF9AH8KpbZVhDPGGce0kXAdVwIm3lVP6UPCoCGjDPgV39Hxs7I/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDBtRrY5A9qpiwsWEptGazkZ2H7TMGVUWngbNW2TkUaZrbUCuF0zSbS-SAXnOckhWtH_a77qIr7lBulc0APrcC3E-vKF9AH8KpbZVhDPGGce0kXAdVwIm3lVP6UPCoCGjDPgV39Hxs7I/s320/Unknown.jpeg" width="214" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Is that it? I ask in Spanish. I don’t think that’s it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The driver is also incredulous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“<i>Esta es la dirécción,
pero … es feo</i>!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My Spanish is not great but I’m pretty sure the driver just
called my hotel ugly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As the cab creeps closer I see the tiny sign above the door:
<i>Hotel Aces Del Dorado</i>. A tiny woman
cracks open the door and eyes us suspiciously. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">That must be the bellhop, I tell the driver. This gets no laugh, but, you know, it’s
getting early. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJR2KmzhohFsIBykw4DAUAduplRNuyEIlitiRCHI7-t68pNSWEuyqeUO02gku2L1OHxeCSljZ3yu_meWt_bgLoTJvK4DQZAkvcLYZQzA2fMGqUvABpJwfJwUC2xJQHC3qXQbmNl2IIvk/s1600/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJR2KmzhohFsIBykw4DAUAduplRNuyEIlitiRCHI7-t68pNSWEuyqeUO02gku2L1OHxeCSljZ3yu_meWt_bgLoTJvK4DQZAkvcLYZQzA2fMGqUvABpJwfJwUC2xJQHC3qXQbmNl2IIvk/s400/images-2.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As anyone who has been to Colombia lately will tell you, the
country gets a bum rap due to its long-standing bad rep. Yes, Colombia was more
or less synonymous with cocaine, cartels, and drug-related violence throughout
the 80s and well into the 90s. The government’s battle against the FARC and ELN
guerilla movements has lasted five decades. In the mid 90s, Bogotá was undisputedly
one of the most dangerous cities in the world, with 4,325 murdered in the city
in 1993 alone. Medellin – home to the world-infamous
Medellin Drug Cartel – was even worse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is not exactly the information you want printed up in
your tourism brochures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjot9QnNUgPQfkzeM841iIV2N35IvavNJcMsJGy_IkPV4ck_7o9StNj5wDWMnp7Cp7mxjrMsUGlatW7Fb0A2R_YDLwr8B9pTmavHFUThm2WCyO35DmcXImGaF_OJdR4TcWhFM3JFVLcIzQ/s1600/images-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjot9QnNUgPQfkzeM841iIV2N35IvavNJcMsJGy_IkPV4ck_7o9StNj5wDWMnp7Cp7mxjrMsUGlatW7Fb0A2R_YDLwr8B9pTmavHFUThm2WCyO35DmcXImGaF_OJdR4TcWhFM3JFVLcIzQ/s400/images-3.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But I had read enough before coming here to know that a lot
has changed in Colombia in the past twenty years, and I know from experience
that reputation and reality quite often are not the same. Today the guerilla wars are more or less
over, unless you wander into a remote jungle where you really shouldn’t be
wandering. And the Colombian cartels are just not what they used to be. By 2007,
the murder rate in Bogotá had dropped by more than 75 percent, and by 2014 in
Medellin the rate was its lowest in decades.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I didn’t think this would be like a trip to Disneyland. But
if you are over the age of 10, who really wants to go to Disneyland? All that
walking. I’d much rather go to Colombia, where I can invent my own version of
the Disneyland death march.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The <i>Hotel Aces Del
Dorado</i> is located almost within walking distance of the El Dorado
International Airport, in a neighborhood I would charitably describe as
“working class.” It is also unfortunately located next to the airport’s runways,
that seem to be working 24 hours a day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPn8cWHfPF68Ik8vjXLoQWTapUL6Vb09ZOTphqkQDmoI6TK4BmkVRBjaziXTuwL_O0IE8GjaUYXkyui7GAFs-LD-Czqq0zztN38tEjqMxhkp9BDKfq5dojghpqhXxCzW4X92fvDYTpki0/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPn8cWHfPF68Ik8vjXLoQWTapUL6Vb09ZOTphqkQDmoI6TK4BmkVRBjaziXTuwL_O0IE8GjaUYXkyui7GAFs-LD-Czqq0zztN38tEjqMxhkp9BDKfq5dojghpqhXxCzW4X92fvDYTpki0/s400/Unknown-1.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I don’t sleep during what’s left of my first morning in
Colombia, as much as I lie awake on the bed in a puddle of sweat, listening to
airplanes. The hotel is clean but short on amenities. For example, the air
conditioning system doesn’t seem to involve the actual cooling of air. The
bathroom sink includes a single faucet, cold water only. Wi-fi exists in theory,
but not actual practice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The hotel is staffed by a family of tiny, unsmiling women,
ranging in age from 16 to 86. Around 9:30 a.m. I emerge from my room and walk
down to the small lobby. When I ask a sullen 16-year-old girl reading a
magazine behind the desk if breakfast is available, she turns and looks at the
clock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Breakfast ends at 9:00, she tells me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Someone yells something in Spanish from the back room. It’s
grandma. From her tone I gather she’s telling the teenager to get off her ass and
make me some breakfast. It’s not like she’s busy with other customers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The girl gets up with a sigh and an eye roll and disappears
in the back. I take a seat at one of the two laminated tables, still
half-asleep. After a while Abuelita emerges carrying a plate with a small plain
omelet, with a couple of slices of cheese on the side. What I really need is some coffee, which I
ask for as I reach for the shaker to put salt on my eggs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmJyXactnJVWRgAeAANce9VZ7mGzrn_e1OnJNW-iS2KYymHiMD4X2wbuMZtoo3_-Nd-m1vhxieoXqnJO22VlwAb7Sdlays2UNxYEe_Je3yisB1g8Z3hmckkaESD0RcNtHBJ4avcEMUfA/s1600/Unknown-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmJyXactnJVWRgAeAANce9VZ7mGzrn_e1OnJNW-iS2KYymHiMD4X2wbuMZtoo3_-Nd-m1vhxieoXqnJO22VlwAb7Sdlays2UNxYEe_Je3yisB1g8Z3hmckkaESD0RcNtHBJ4avcEMUfA/s1600/Unknown-2.jpeg" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The old woman actually shrieks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“<i>Aye! No es sel! Es
azúcar</i>!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Just another crazy Gringo, scaring the elderly by trying to
put sugar on his omelet. I’m too tired to pretend that I did it on purpose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “GRACIAS!” I say to
grandma, raising my voice to be heard over a plane roaring down the runway
outside. The girl is staring at me from
her place behind the front counter, like I’m an exotic species in the reptile
house. Maybe she’s mesmerized by my hat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I smile and thank the girl for making me breakfast. She
doesn’t smile back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Bogotá is the third largest city in the Western Hemisphere (after
New York and Mexico City) with an area population of more than 13 million, but
has no subway or metro system. “Sprawling” and “traffic choked” don’t do it
justice. It’s as if Los Angeles and New Delhi had sex, gave birth to a South
American city, and named it Bogotá. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlm_BskCgQDrXnntJ_NhQl4iB8Fg559ORo-3UoVCjfNQcXeCwZye5T7GYlrmis08KHwui2o6t4DT36LNDpTzt-rpYCurPDP5SL4d5ftKh0gq2P4rI8-enJjxgLZopbxYXReWezgi-tDp8/s1600/Unknown-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlm_BskCgQDrXnntJ_NhQl4iB8Fg559ORo-3UoVCjfNQcXeCwZye5T7GYlrmis08KHwui2o6t4DT36LNDpTzt-rpYCurPDP5SL4d5ftKh0gq2P4rI8-enJjxgLZopbxYXReWezgi-tDp8/s400/Unknown-3.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">To travel from my new hotel (hot water in the sink and
nowhere near a runway. Score!) in the neighborhood of Usaquén to the historic
center, there is essentially one north-south route, Avenue Alberto Lleras
Camargo, running along the foothills of the Cordillera Mountains. This “main
artery” consists of an endless parade of honking cars and buses, sporadically
moving forward at two miles an hour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I see no point to paying for a taxi and sitting in traffic,
so I opt for the less comfortable but cheaper option of taking a bus and
sitting in traffic. Still, this is not as easy as it sounds. In Bogotá there
are dozens of privately operated bus companies trawling the streets, with their
ultimate destinations (sometimes) written in placards next to the drivers’
windshield.</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihhQpjpCrSzaFBZ3Ytx5QCyqoSWMjME23yMYqMQhETsTWKBahGPXpF0N-Djn3S4NWIaFeG4qcNg1wgRg316NE8bHBG98RwXvj5RsIhN20aucUmxAG3E58JkgxwHjB-f-aIAZTOxcaSXHw/s1600/images-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihhQpjpCrSzaFBZ3Ytx5QCyqoSWMjME23yMYqMQhETsTWKBahGPXpF0N-Djn3S4NWIaFeG4qcNg1wgRg316NE8bHBG98RwXvj5RsIhN20aucUmxAG3E58JkgxwHjB-f-aIAZTOxcaSXHw/s400/images-4.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">These placards might be difficult to read if the bus was
moving at a normal speed, but at midday on Avenue Alberto Lleras Camargo that
doesn’t present a problem. I wait on the side of the road looking for a bus
with a sign that says “El Centro.” Twenty buses creep by. Nothing says “El
Centro.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But hey, they’re all headed in the same direction, down the
same road. They all have to go to the Center, right? Or at least toward it.
That’s enough of a rationalization to get me off the street and out of the sun.
I wave down the next bus that lumbers toward me, hand over 2,000 pesos (about
80 cents), and join the slow parade into the city.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH9VfcdD_TbmkDHLtBaG_S0OJSEE5p17oWwHm_Xm9PnRJ52rMgsPQLsSM9oqKB0WgYajp28c30opvWYMRsImc2ATU2p4b1a26pjNY5u6orYQRo8RiRYru6Bb9aAW1v0a7CHWKcUsIsFos/s1600/IMG_1924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH9VfcdD_TbmkDHLtBaG_S0OJSEE5p17oWwHm_Xm9PnRJ52rMgsPQLsSM9oqKB0WgYajp28c30opvWYMRsImc2ATU2p4b1a26pjNY5u6orYQRo8RiRYru6Bb9aAW1v0a7CHWKcUsIsFos/s320/IMG_1924.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There may be other tourists somewhere in Bogotá, but if
there are, I haven’t seen them. On the
steps outside the Fernando Botero museum, I am approached by a group of
uniformed schoolgirls and handed a questionnaire. It’s a class project, they explain in
English. They have to find foreigners, and ask them questions about Colombian
fruit. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sadly, I score very poorly on the fruit quiz. I ask them how many other foreigners they’ve
found. A girl answers by holding out only two or three completed survey forms. I
wonder how long it took to get those.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-E3NEpIBJRjeG-4zMz5m5n21kK7rljOIBbp561q3GnSaZL1zuLpNkV19DZ9YPvMrlJJvhhxQmvAWITU7oXUVw_Ni_pWmTMiGyhmLYgfTOOIyls82L8Pls_UiuRp4yCHWP6nxTpWRMk8c/s1600/Unknown-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-E3NEpIBJRjeG-4zMz5m5n21kK7rljOIBbp561q3GnSaZL1zuLpNkV19DZ9YPvMrlJJvhhxQmvAWITU7oXUVw_Ni_pWmTMiGyhmLYgfTOOIyls82L8Pls_UiuRp4yCHWP6nxTpWRMk8c/s320/Unknown-4.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tourists seem equally scarce in Botero’s hometown of
Medellin. I suspect the Medellin Chamber of Commerce might need another slogan
other than “Former Cocaine Capital of the World!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The reputation hangover from the Drug Wars is a shame,
because Medellin is actually a beautiful city, lining the Medellin River and
nestled in a valley between a ring of tree-covered mountains. Unlike Bogotá – or any other place in
Colombia – Medellin has a clean and modern metro system that includes the
gondola cable cars that climb far into the hills. Giant billboards in the
business district are adorned with attractive models in expensive-looking
underwear – always a sign that times must be pretty good.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpg_ydRhIQS2QvaVH3kmpsDcyilc8Hrpud9MEaJqKbe2bvhGePYSlfTSNRRXkIqGLJLsverssAKVrwAamVN0niFqHHogHNsJRoOL0P9FUcIRjik4r9y1fVVB_Ok6YwCuiT_D0vDxtaWk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.25.01+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpg_ydRhIQS2QvaVH3kmpsDcyilc8Hrpud9MEaJqKbe2bvhGePYSlfTSNRRXkIqGLJLsverssAKVrwAamVN0niFqHHogHNsJRoOL0P9FUcIRjik4r9y1fVVB_Ok6YwCuiT_D0vDxtaWk/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.25.01+PM.png" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I rent a two-bedroom, two-bath suite in the Medellin
neighborhood of <i>La Floresta</i> with a
view over the hills for equivalent of $50 a night. The people at the hotel are
so friendly and happy to see a customer that, upon checkout, the hotel manager
offers to personally drive me 45 minutes to the airport.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On a warm evening I walk alone through Medellin’s <i>Zona Rosa</i> district. I suspect things
might get hopping later, but at 8:00 p.m. the bars and restaurants are nearly
deserted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGHk8972gJp9P1UIKBpeLViK0-cFHIAdR6_beoLKXkCnKiwlZSZ0hgGflkEcadItbf8VVK0Ve2jPDlKQUFjirNZRGViC2HPHc9GsET3839v6YeN8x6Z5WT9ztoDHAFtYRZZu0jrfN56g/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.29.56+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGHk8972gJp9P1UIKBpeLViK0-cFHIAdR6_beoLKXkCnKiwlZSZ0hgGflkEcadItbf8VVK0Ve2jPDlKQUFjirNZRGViC2HPHc9GsET3839v6YeN8x6Z5WT9ztoDHAFtYRZZu0jrfN56g/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.29.56+PM.png" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I choose a bar with outdoor patio and order a beer and a
plate of <i>Bistec a Caballo</i> (steak with
a fried egg and plantain. Big thumbs up). Aside from the waitress and me the
only people in the bar are two men talking in low tones at a nearby table.
After a few minutes one of the men approaches and asks in English where I’m
from. When I tell him, the man claps his hands and gleefully shouts back at his
companion.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“See? I told you, I told you!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The man’s name is Javier, and he’s the bar owner. Javier
just bet his companion Kenneth, a Canadian from Calgary, now living in
Medellin, that I was American. Kenneth
didn’t think so. Because of the hat.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFt_IWWnZDlkNPZDHyrWzxK15BjSqVpdonlPZPWG8dlxmETs7SpvTrORjmb63qfpkCP7nUacp2Qhm6GI_-mFI5S40eh1K-ekIZuO6hu9VSDkOmYMYtm-xyHjrmBIKKB9Vm6nnN-bQKYc/s1600/11025805_10153313782284928_1773175415838341637_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIFt_IWWnZDlkNPZDHyrWzxK15BjSqVpdonlPZPWG8dlxmETs7SpvTrORjmb63qfpkCP7nUacp2Qhm6GI_-mFI5S40eh1K-ekIZuO6hu9VSDkOmYMYtm-xyHjrmBIKKB9Vm6nnN-bQKYc/s200/11025805_10153313782284928_1773175415838341637_n.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“You don’t often see Americans wear a hat like that,”
Kenneth tells me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Frankly I don’t think Kenneth from Calgary really knows what
Americans are wearing these days, but I do my best to take it as a compliment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I finally find the Americans and other foreign tourists in
droves on the Caribbean coast in Cartagena, where the sun is hot and the
humidity is soul crushing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pxWRqAwEy7328_IE9ao4SY99GD6fBvlI7NCcXOxF9OniwQ8GCz5uN8hQGFfvE0wtT-VzpK9RyQwyKG6wriOZ__2nQXai-3mUD4QMPWLv_6Esl0yn0a4tSCafPfwSFhhYtjq53AwATZ0/s1600/IMG_1963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pxWRqAwEy7328_IE9ao4SY99GD6fBvlI7NCcXOxF9OniwQ8GCz5uN8hQGFfvE0wtT-VzpK9RyQwyKG6wriOZ__2nQXai-3mUD4QMPWLv_6Esl0yn0a4tSCafPfwSFhhYtjq53AwATZ0/s400/IMG_1963.jpg" width="300" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Make no mistake: the old city of Cartagena does have its
charms. It’s filled with vibrantly painted colonial buildings, with crumbling
stone balconies covered by dangling vines and shockingly pink bougainvillea
flowers. In the middle of the day people
move slowly and cluster on one side of the street, instinctively seeking out any
available shade. At night salsa music spills out of doorways, and sidewalk
cafes cool off the customers with mojitos, Cuba Libres, and ice-cold Colombian
beer.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I imagine this is what Havana will be like, when it is once
again frequented by sunburned Americans in cargo shorts and Old Navy T-shirts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But in the tourists’ wake comes the unavoidable flotsam and
jetsam of Capitalism: trinket sellers, beggars, street singers, guitar players,
restaurant hawkers, strip-bar solicitors, pre-pubescent pickpockets and third-rate
con artists. As a foreigner walking through
the Old City I might as well have a dollar bill tattooed on my forehead. Everybody
is selling something, and I am accosted on every corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9653hcD_iJZ-Y5CqViLTCEC6x9vsUb4o2WvUisJD_IFd3lLeX0_nClp4C08-NkpCwH9Xq1HUU28UvtuBvTVWneh54aX3q02xl9vL-nuPj-gzQWW0TVmjVihAa5_ZRZWnYHnSVUZDUYo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.37.40+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9653hcD_iJZ-Y5CqViLTCEC6x9vsUb4o2WvUisJD_IFd3lLeX0_nClp4C08-NkpCwH9Xq1HUU28UvtuBvTVWneh54aX3q02xl9vL-nuPj-gzQWW0TVmjVihAa5_ZRZWnYHnSVUZDUYo/s400/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.37.40+PM.png" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Trying to sit Cartagena’s Plaza Santa Domingo and drink a
beer is like being a naked fat guy sealed in an aquarium filled with hungry
mosquitos. In this particular analogy, I
am the naked fat guy; the trinket sellers are the mosquitos. I desperately try
to swat them away, but it’s only a matter of time before I’m eaten alive.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Returning to the hotel a skinny man wearing a fedora and
two-toned loafers steps in front of me on the sidewalk. He smiles and wags his
finger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I know you,” he says perfect English.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I don’t think so,” I respond, stepping aside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I do, I do,” he says, grinning and shaking his head. “I’ve
got everything.” He leans toward me, confidentially. “<i>Everything</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So far in Colombia I learned that I don’t look American, but
I do look a guy ready to buy “everything.” The price I pay, apparently, for the
long hair, earring, and of course the hat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3JlSDzsH6JwQNQhn0qK6_loSqlTk3v_Bt1hms3jaGrrWSrpbTD2jhURRYdwOIdw_GYMksX5k32l8RC-erW7GNuQVLu4dGh_sJr1twS-K6ohjfD6SvB0PmGXz2DVqGIGCtx6Wn1J1NvAM/s1600/IMG_1970.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3JlSDzsH6JwQNQhn0qK6_loSqlTk3v_Bt1hms3jaGrrWSrpbTD2jhURRYdwOIdw_GYMksX5k32l8RC-erW7GNuQVLu4dGh_sJr1twS-K6ohjfD6SvB0PmGXz2DVqGIGCtx6Wn1J1NvAM/s400/IMG_1970.JPG" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After the sun sets on Cartagena I head off in the direction
away from the Hard Rock Café and the Ferragamo shoe store. Bypassing the places
clogged with tourists, I come across the KGB Bar, an over-the-top ketch factory
complete with hammer-and-sickle Soviet flags, female mannequins dressed in Red
Army uniforms, looping videos of Kremlin military parades, and Colombian
waitresses with Barbie-doll dimensions, dressed in short shorts, tight T
shirts, and Russian fur hats.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bar is completely empty. Everything about the KGB Bar is
out of place and inappropriate for the old city of Cartagena, almost as if it
was specifically designed to drive away Americans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZomvcTKsLInRBeE5RQ0yaEUND2ZaxbHx5BnNn6k1draVdyC5ZImi-KlQ3U10FwLko7sKyqiL4X9LaODX1v_yNFkL97VqrFTJLtq83yq350UTz2L9cxpN8gNWvJcBUwugDZ3C1gGQERA/s1600/IMG_2001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZomvcTKsLInRBeE5RQ0yaEUND2ZaxbHx5BnNn6k1draVdyC5ZImi-KlQ3U10FwLko7sKyqiL4X9LaODX1v_yNFkL97VqrFTJLtq83yq350UTz2L9cxpN8gNWvJcBUwugDZ3C1gGQERA/s400/IMG_2001.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After a while a couple of sunburned guys speaking Russian tentatively
step into the bar and check out the décor. They point at the walls and solemnly
nod at each other, as if to say yes, they really have captured the flavor of
Old Leningrad here, haven’t they? They walk out without ordering a drink.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I’m finishing my beer a man and woman in their 60s come
through the door. The couple’s appearance screams HI! WE’RE FROM MINNESOTA, OR
SOMEWHERE AROUND THERE, YOU KNOW!!, pretty much as mine screams DRUG MULE. They
order two light beers, and are outraged when the bartender tells them that they
can’t use American money to pay for the drinks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “But they told us we
can use American dollars!” the man protests. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I don’t know who “they” are, but, um, we are in Colombia. And
this is called the KGB Bar. Rubles maybe, but American dollars?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bartender shrugs, and the disillusioned Minnesotans turn
and leave still holding their dollars, walking in the direction of the Hard
Rock Café. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">* * * <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Back in Bogotá I’ve been walking all day and I’m starting to
fade, as both dusk and Friday night rush-hour traffic settles in. It’s almost dark when I reach Avenue Alberto
Lleras Camargo, a few miles south of my hotel. I could wave down a cab, but
hey, no need for that. I figured this out the first time around: Buses run
north and south, and the cross streets are numbered. Hop on the bus, pay your
2,000 pesos, sit in traffic, hop off the bus.
So easy, it’s almost idiot-proof.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I did say <i>almost</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bus I wave down does in fact go north toward Usaquén,
for a while. But then I notice something strange. The bus seems to be going up,
while the lights of the city, conversely, seem to be going down. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Iirip1FIx9AbCfNF_GKxLEYWeupY8MoRvcT6r63PkuI_36b0xtGnzcukZbHMYkjLDGTPEOwHPJNQ1y9_ppoA7XU4A2cyuLqFZZhcB472EGDAG5RiAQb_8U9-pBPaQv3Nwlwlk0p424w/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.49.11+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Iirip1FIx9AbCfNF_GKxLEYWeupY8MoRvcT6r63PkuI_36b0xtGnzcukZbHMYkjLDGTPEOwHPJNQ1y9_ppoA7XU4A2cyuLqFZZhcB472EGDAG5RiAQb_8U9-pBPaQv3Nwlwlk0p424w/s400/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.49.11+PM.png" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is because I am no longer headed toward my hotel in
Usaquén but instead up into the Cordillera Mountains above Bogotá, headed for
God knows where. The bus passes a roadside restaurant and then climbs past all
signs of human activity, into the darkened, tree-covered hills. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">At this point, I see two choices. I could sit tight, not
panic, and wait until I reach a destination with some kind of civilization,
where I can figure out how to get another bus or taxi back into town. The
people on the bus have to be going <i>somewhere</i>,
right? The problem, I realize, is that I have no idea how far that somewhere
might be. This might be the bus headed to a suburb 20 miles out of town. For
all I know I’m on the bus to Venezuela. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The other choice I see is to pull the chord and bail as soon
as possible, before I get any farther from the city. The problem with this option is that the bus
now appears to be in the middle of nowhere, a dark road on a Friday night on the
side of a mountain somewhere above Bogotá.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Not real happy with my choices here, I have to tell you. I
take a deep breath and pull the chord.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is one (and I can only think of one) advantage to
being lost in the dark on the side of a mountain in Colombia: at least you know
that the correct direction to walk is <i>down.
</i>I start walking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have no idea how far I am from the city. I can <i>see</i> the lights of Bogotá below me, but
whether it’s two miles or ten is hard to guess. Occasionally I’m illuminated by the headlights
of a car or bus driving up the hillside. I don’t notice much driving back the
other way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I walk in the dark along the right side of the road, when
there is a side of the road to walk on. Occasionally the side of the road
disappears, replaced by a guardrail overlooking a precipitous drop down the
hillside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the daytime that must be pretty scary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdSprqRjJsdK5PVX2z03hnX9TP3QbEJZkLQbxsp7ETfvmvUydQnBjgXYfov10QsO8bbw4F8yVaSd-FE7yCSQNDPMMKH03zxEj4OqnZUgpAQMLWgCL6lGzIPF6NtUBh_IdaECOL2jxuWL4/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.53.17+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdSprqRjJsdK5PVX2z03hnX9TP3QbEJZkLQbxsp7ETfvmvUydQnBjgXYfov10QsO8bbw4F8yVaSd-FE7yCSQNDPMMKH03zxEj4OqnZUgpAQMLWgCL6lGzIPF6NtUBh_IdaECOL2jxuWL4/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.53.17+PM.png" width="229" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After about ten minutes I hear muffled voices down the road
ahead of me. I think the voices are headed toward me, but this makes no sense.
Who is stupid or crazy enough to walking up a mountain in the pitch dark? I
have my answer as the voices get close enough for me to see the silhouetted
outline of rounded helmets on the figures approaching me. Rounded helmets, and drawn
rifles.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can’t decide whether I should feel <i>safer </i>because there is an army patrol walking at night past me on
the side of a mountain in Colombia, or whether I should be concerned that
someone in a position of power decided that, for whatever reason, the road where
I’m walking in the dark needed to be patrolled by the army.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I move to the other side of the road to let the soldiers
pass. They walk on as if I’m invisible, which in the dark, I possibly could be.
If I look like a FARC guerilla, or a lost American tourist in a hipster hat, no
one seems to care either way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwxqRxKbPVq3A_sBXKLn4zGdXLQAqEjul4xOvPdGeIK3LYjKuBDWliqbC5D9bPthT6Co7ObE9Avepr25zz9V5iVICq3gos6_agbA33cxJanyEPq9em4SPKA1gvh2xIs6CP4hIQRdc5wg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.56.14+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwxqRxKbPVq3A_sBXKLn4zGdXLQAqEjul4xOvPdGeIK3LYjKuBDWliqbC5D9bPthT6Co7ObE9Avepr25zz9V5iVICq3gos6_agbA33cxJanyEPq9em4SPKA1gvh2xIs6CP4hIQRdc5wg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+1.56.14+PM.png" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I finally reach the restaurant mentally noted as The Last
Sign of Civilization on my bus ride up the hill. The restaurant is perched on
the side of a cliff overlooking the lights of the city, and looks like the kind
of place to which people will make a special trip to propose marriage or
impress an out-of-town client.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m not really in a position to do either. But I figure I will
eat a nice meal, have the restaurant call a cab, take a relaxing ride back to
the hotel, and put an uneventful end to my night on the mountain. Our crops are
saved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Or so I think. But I’m still in Colombia, and I still have
more hell to pay for being an idiot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJPMXfjs07HNxn-ZoMxOKtN4GsAJ0JddgmOGL0gy4J62gtiiDG4iJVp1PKRfZu1xa3RTTUPCW1lNkxpVtS32Uaj0y8ZByxa-0U3MEPJESTeybcHQGSBETKa80FIQKW88Sb5zh9OLMCzo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+2.08.56+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJPMXfjs07HNxn-ZoMxOKtN4GsAJ0JddgmOGL0gy4J62gtiiDG4iJVp1PKRfZu1xa3RTTUPCW1lNkxpVtS32Uaj0y8ZByxa-0U3MEPJESTeybcHQGSBETKa80FIQKW88Sb5zh9OLMCzo/s400/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+2.08.56+PM.png" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m tired and hungry, and I wait an excruciating amount of
time for actual food to arrive. In order to placate me in the interim, the
waiter brings me (as an appetizer? an amuse bouche?) a plate of unsalted popcorn.
Not a bowl, but a plate, as if I’m being served an exotic delicacy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s been that kind of night. I drink my wine, munch my popcorn, and look
at the lights of Bogotá, holding vigil for my overpriced meal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After I finally eat and pay the check, my request to the man
behind the restaurant’s bar – and the Spanish necessary to make it – seems
simple enough: Please call me a cab to take me back to the city. The bartender
looks at me, as if am a FARC guerilla or a lost American tourist in a hipster
hat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A cab to the <i>city</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yeah, you know. Down the hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Apparently a majority of the clientele here drive their own
cars to the restaurant, and when they leave, they drive their own cars home.
They don’t get dropped off by a bus, eat a plate of popcorn, and then request a
cab to go back to Bogotá. But as if to humor me, the bartender picks up the
phone with a this-is-crazy-but-hey-let’s-give-it-a-shot shrug of his shoulders,
and punches in a number. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bartender keeps the phone to his ear for a minute or two
while he goes about his bartending. After a while I watch him hang up, and dial
again. Maybe it’s another number, maybe it’s the same one. Either way, no one
seems to be answering. He looks at me and shrugs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Is a cab coming?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">No, it’s not coming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“¿Que? Por qué no?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8gXyM6xo27C4Eurgd0qO63rA4tb3VuntnPKtDENl6PrXGMkyDSTLOYu9feWRpZvIK6UIbEwE5DDPI3cBqpOwG0LI9GjrBNwPgZjY5S5zEH7DMafPCtuKmGu7IlXpFveuoPyyt_7tPaE/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+2.17.17+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8gXyM6xo27C4Eurgd0qO63rA4tb3VuntnPKtDENl6PrXGMkyDSTLOYu9feWRpZvIK6UIbEwE5DDPI3cBqpOwG0LI9GjrBNwPgZjY5S5zEH7DMafPCtuKmGu7IlXpFveuoPyyt_7tPaE/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-06-17+at+2.17.17+PM.png" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bartender explains. It’s a long explanation, all in Spanish
of course. From what little I can discern, it’s something about it being a busy
Friday night, and cab drivers’ reluctance to drive up into the hills when they
can make more money while not having to drive up into the hills. Still doesn’t
explain why they don’t answer the phone. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“<i>No entiendo</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bartender looks at me and shrugs again. The man is full
of shrugs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So. It looks like I’m walking home. I’m tired, my feet hurt,
it’s still dark, and I’m still on a mountain. But at least I’m full of popcorn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ujbeJNlDAUGOY2fw5ng0rzIaH8pb2nPZgPU1QYAHPIAQY53m-3zJ3FYiq7hviQR9tpjRa3-G7B68Zezw1qWjB0Vvu5tXN8d6AJfj9Cdxkc187qe1cqhgiDjtXkaVP13tW5891dCUkeI/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ujbeJNlDAUGOY2fw5ng0rzIaH8pb2nPZgPU1QYAHPIAQY53m-3zJ3FYiq7hviQR9tpjRa3-G7B68Zezw1qWjB0Vvu5tXN8d6AJfj9Cdxkc187qe1cqhgiDjtXkaVP13tW5891dCUkeI/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It probably takes me another thirty minutes or so to walk
the rest of the way down the hillside into Bogotá. Around the halfway point I discover a
concrete staircase, and decide to take it. It’s after 11:00 p.m. now, and I
encounter no one. What idiot would be out climbing steps at 11 o’clock on a
Friday night? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I mean besides me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Eventually the steps end and I reach Avenue Alberto Lleras
Camargo, the main artery back to Usaquén. It’s so late that the traffic is
actually moving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m guessing it’s still another 45 minutes to an hour walk
back to the hotel. I search in vain for a taxi. Maybe every cab driver in
Bogotá is taking the night off, or maybe headed to the airport to see if
anyone’s on the 1 a.m. flight from Dallas. I do see several buses drive by, but
I am far past the point of chancing another wayward bus, and another drive back
up into the hills.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I walk. And walk some more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s close to midnight by the time I reach my hotel in
Usaquén. I have been walking for so long that my blisters have blisters. I limp
and drag my feet over uneven pavement and up steps of the hotel. The look on
the night clerk’s face tells me he can’t decide whether I’m a garden-variety
stumbling drunk, or the beginning of the zombie apocalypse. The look on my face
tells him that it’s been that kind of night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Colombia really is not what you think. Forget about
guerillas, death squads and narco-terrorists. But watch out for those
self-inflicted Bataan Death Marches down the side of mountains in the dark because
you blindly jump on a bus that looks like it <i>should</i> be going in the right direction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A good hat might let you fool dim-witted Canadians and get
past army patrols. But it just can’t fix stupid.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-50959377487864346872015-05-01T18:05:00.000-07:002015-05-04T18:59:31.598-07:00You Don't Have to Eat Cuy, Roy<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJxfL5HjFtF0D9ABSyx5exfGzDpTlxBt2rHYfndexbPUNgEKZPn7h1jHJcBJYXJWNAXc3CUKu7ba0TxYKRiAEyfuvjj2_jYCobKwiTr6P-cEQQk19MRLijrHbvwlzeMYr0Br99NjHCFM/s1600/taxis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJxfL5HjFtF0D9ABSyx5exfGzDpTlxBt2rHYfndexbPUNgEKZPn7h1jHJcBJYXJWNAXc3CUKu7ba0TxYKRiAEyfuvjj2_jYCobKwiTr6P-cEQQk19MRLijrHbvwlzeMYr0Br99NjHCFM/s1600/taxis.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">The taxi driver and I have been speaking – yes, all in
Spanish, thanks - for the past forty five minutes as we drive into Quito.
Alright, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he’s</i> been speaking. I’ve
been throwing out responses like “Si,” and “No,” and “Claro!” and “Verdad?,”
because to do more would be pushing the boundaries of my linguistic skills. We’ve
talked about the new airport (yes, it’s really far from town), baseball (apparently
they do play baseball in Ecuador), traffic (yes, lots of traffic), and have now
moved on to food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Every taxi driver in South America, I continue to discover,
is an expert on food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Have you had the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>?”
my driver asks me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’ve only been in the country for a little over an hour, so
unless he’s referring to something you pick up at the airport baggage claim
men’s room, I suspect the answer here would be no. We are still talking about
food, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What’s cuy?” I ask him. “Is that some kind of fish?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I don’t think that’s such a bad guess. You know, like a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i> pond. Oh, that’s a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">koi</i> pond? So never tmind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">He laughs. “You don’t know about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, I feel stupid, but again: in the country all of one
hour. We probably should go back to baseball. “A vegetable?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This guy thinks I’m hilarious. He declines to explain
further, but gives me the name of a restaurant near my hotel in the Mariscal section
of Quito, where – the driver says – I’ll be fine if I avoid the drug dealers.
Make sure you go to this restaurant, he tells me, and ask for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“But not the vegetable <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>,”
he says. And he laughs and laughs and laughs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">There are women in my life of a certain predilection - and
they know who they are -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>who worship Anthony
Bourdain. Many possible reasons (the New York swagger, the 6 ft., 4 in. frame,
the distinguished grey) I’m sure, but I suspect it really boils down to one
thing: Anthony Bourdain has the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cajones</i>
to walk into any food shack in any unpronounceable, back-water village in the
world and eat absolutely anything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosK64xbW-J1braGBaKdrCfr8oiZrw5-dNY2EhVJyXny9xjtiiSj1ecp0CuL_Gpi8aaK8xQaqOItQW49_5SDCeiKZHxDlvbC4lrVEBaDO7yj8uGQ8-fC-WvDawZB-HQmx_bA02AodbUC8/s1600/bourdain_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosK64xbW-J1braGBaKdrCfr8oiZrw5-dNY2EhVJyXny9xjtiiSj1ecp0CuL_Gpi8aaK8xQaqOItQW49_5SDCeiKZHxDlvbC4lrVEBaDO7yj8uGQ8-fC-WvDawZB-HQmx_bA02AodbUC8/s1600/bourdain_01.jpg" width="320" /> </span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Brains, entrails, organ meat, horse heads cooked in dirt,
fried testicles, sautéed esophagus … if you can dream it up, cook it (or not),
and throw it on a plate (or not) he will eat it. He is the Super Hero of the
Foodie Generation: the good-looking rebel who plays by his own rules, travels
the world, hosts his own TV show, eats donkey eyeballs, and his spare time
whips up a mean cheese soufflé.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Of course I suspect Anthony Bourdain also spends a lot of time
throwing up off camera. But give the man his due: he has constructed a
larger-than-life persona around the courage to gamely sample the world’s most repulsive cuisines. The girls just eat it up. So to speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I can’t hope to compete with Mr. Bourdain in the Bizarre Food/Iron
Stomach Competition, but I do try to eat like the locals whenever possible. In
fact my final meal in Medellin, Colombia before arriving in Ecuador was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mondongo</i>, a thick, stew-like dish of
which the main ingredient (or at least the only one I’m cursed to remember) is diced
tripe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try ordering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>at your neighborhood Applebee’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8j1GfLcK894ietKdDfONYJSSYyODowrSfXAouY8dZwgE-nLW29buF-WnYZyQOR-7AhEKfNQI17Od79f8wRfSt8ves7r5C3IC45Tz02Gy2m9YmMWzC1dXOuMvHd54MiTMC1uLcrx_jzOA/s1600/IMG_2029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8j1GfLcK894ietKdDfONYJSSYyODowrSfXAouY8dZwgE-nLW29buF-WnYZyQOR-7AhEKfNQI17Od79f8wRfSt8ves7r5C3IC45Tz02Gy2m9YmMWzC1dXOuMvHd54MiTMC1uLcrx_jzOA/s1600/IMG_2029.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">So whatever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy </i>is,
I’m sure I’ll eventually get around to trying it at some point during my stay
in Ecuador. I mean, come on. You’re talking to a man who ate haggis in
Scotland, and only hours before polished off a steaming bowl of chopped pig
intestine soup. If in Ecuador what they eat is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>, I will eat <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s what Anthony would do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I get to my hotel room and connect to the Internet, I
Google <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh. I see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">So this is why no one in America has dared to open an
Ecuadoran restaurant at the mall food court.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">At least not near the pet store.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5NhisCjwZNXGWquslVHeZ53RtQ7DOb69ifqBc8houkl4RAo4t2_YXEBIEFnJHgYJKj4kPncaBRR05usck1aQo1-ogC7TSJp30TaIAmfVSVhOGLRTtv6_58HNGrvkTT-rYV5Trlb8vOVo/s1600/Guinea_pig.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5NhisCjwZNXGWquslVHeZ53RtQ7DOb69ifqBc8houkl4RAo4t2_YXEBIEFnJHgYJKj4kPncaBRR05usck1aQo1-ogC7TSJp30TaIAmfVSVhOGLRTtv6_58HNGrvkTT-rYV5Trlb8vOVo/s1600/Guinea_pig.png" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cuy, </i>or Guinea
Pig, as it’s known where I come from, shows up on the menu for the first time
the next evening, at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Petit Mariscal</i>,
a Belgian/Ecuadoran restaurant (no, that is not a typo: a Belgian– slash –
Ecuadoran restaurant) recommended by my hotel desk clerk. The clerk’s attitude
while sending me on a ten-minute walk through the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Zona Rosa</i> after dark could best be described as “casually concerned.”
Like the taxi driver, he cautions me about drug dealers on the street corners. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Eight, nine o’clock, you should be okay,” he tells me. “No
problem.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What about ten o’clock?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">He pauses and looks briefly at the ceiling. “Probably okay.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Probably?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Just watch out for the …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“… drug dealers on the corner. Like you said. After ten. Got
it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The drug dealers in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mariscal</i>
are pretty easy to spot, positioned about every other block or so like personal
greeters at the door of the neighborhood Wal-Mart. Except that they are
considerably younger than the greeters at Walmart. And they don’t smile, or
greet you. And you know, they’re selling drugs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yet walking down unfamiliar South American streets in the non-family
friendly side of the city, I don’t feel particularly uncomfortable. There are
plenty of people on the sidewalk as an early crowd lingers outside of
bass-thumping discos and sad little karaoke bars, and the cops in the center of
Foch Square more or less outnumber the drug dealers. Besides, I decide that I
really don’t have anything to fear from the boys on the corner. These are not
the guys who are going to mug me; they have business to do, and if I’m not buying,
they’d just assume I have a nice night and be on my way. God bless Entrepreneurial
Capitalism!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">As far as I’m concerned, the Special of the Day printed on
the restaurant menu is a lot more frightening than anything out on the sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEGwqM4EdIJAodS1o0eDVmFwzP3KtEl6sBhyphenhyphenbQWibK8zaHRYekofORGDDV7Rc5uRPrlZb3aph96SWFq0brHIufDCFCnEzGpWxqkxi9iqXJ76q0xHiPREl52sfIVBvGlfOe01h925snJ4/s1600/IMG_2082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEGwqM4EdIJAodS1o0eDVmFwzP3KtEl6sBhyphenhyphenbQWibK8zaHRYekofORGDDV7Rc5uRPrlZb3aph96SWFq0brHIufDCFCnEzGpWxqkxi9iqXJ76q0xHiPREl52sfIVBvGlfOe01h925snJ4/s1600/IMG_2082.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">GUINEA PIG
ROLL/ENROLLADA DE CUY<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">We serve it without
the bones; stuffed with vegetables and a sauce made from the cuy itself<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">There it is: Guinea Pig Roll. Like a South American version
of the Taco Bell Burrito Supreme. Guinea Pigs in a Blanket. With Guinea Pig
Sauce!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I send a text to P. to inform her of what’s on the menu in
Ecuador, expecting some solidarity in my hesitancy to eat the family pet for dinner.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Order it!” she responds emphatically. “I would!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I look at the text and then back at the menu.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Really?” I text. “Doesn’t this come dangerously close to
eating a rat?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t be afraid,” is the text that comes back, but I can
feel the subtext hanging in the air a continent away: “Don’t be afraid. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You wuss</i>.” I know when my manhood is
being challenged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Damn you, Anthony Bourdain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Guinea Pig. Guinea Pig <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roll</i>.
I’m wondering if this is served with a side of wood chips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The waiter is now hovering over me, order pad in hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Do you know what you would like, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">señor</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I let out a heavy exhale as I hand him back the menu. I
notice my palms are sweaty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll have the chicken.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Very good, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">señor. The
chicken</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The chicken, his expression tells me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For the chicken.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQw2XIl4rgkCe8zRL6jHziwCwRexGRDEmttZHg6RGs3NjuQzLFBBFOyCHbBdWRD54PS_GsyRlgaJI0C2Nr8XyiJpDSJmDpuAKYDqvASfYUm4ELjDtqxnCtl2eGcLlnLs5ZqAahSWW_7Sg/s1600/happy_camel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQw2XIl4rgkCe8zRL6jHziwCwRexGRDEmttZHg6RGs3NjuQzLFBBFOyCHbBdWRD54PS_GsyRlgaJI0C2Nr8XyiJpDSJmDpuAKYDqvASfYUm4ELjDtqxnCtl2eGcLlnLs5ZqAahSWW_7Sg/s1600/happy_camel.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">The next day I get a Facebook text message from the Ex,
currently located in Abu Dhabi. She tells me she’s headed out to the desert
soon, to ride camels. My God, life is strange.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“How’s the South America trip going?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Fine,” I text back. “Hey let me ask you a question. Do you
know what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i> is?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No. Do you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I do after Googling it. It’s Guinea Pig.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Ah.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“The question is, would you eat it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">She tells me a man at a cookout in Queens once offered her a
Guinea Pig on a stick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It wasn’t done yet,” she writes, “or I would have tried
some.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Come on. Really?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“But isn’t this like eating cat? Or rat?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, I would try it. It’s not like eating a rat. More like a
bunny.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVEZQ1YDMGRkJiiR2a9blSwEnAFwHwJMSxqw57jrlDYSfwHgOYTlPAkfT44rjx41clTJeAtF8PhYBmyBZiGgaiZwNB0TiMm1g9QEXcs66s2LUiR2-tXIbxE5cms_KS_x1dFGXtOC0lNmU/s1600/cute-bunnies-tongues-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVEZQ1YDMGRkJiiR2a9blSwEnAFwHwJMSxqw57jrlDYSfwHgOYTlPAkfT44rjx41clTJeAtF8PhYBmyBZiGgaiZwNB0TiMm1g9QEXcs66s2LUiR2-tXIbxE5cms_KS_x1dFGXtOC0lNmU/s1600/cute-bunnies-tongues-9.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">Apparently I am surrounded by indiscriminate, flesh-eating
carnivore women. What does this say about me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll eat anything,” she continues. “Except maybe brains.
But then someone told me they were really good, so …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Really?” I’m incredulous. “Cat? Dog?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You know, if it’s on the menu … I might try it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ate horse. I ate a rabbit. These are all
friendly creatures. Does that make me a terrible person?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m about to respond that, yes, that does kind of make you a
terrible person, but then I stop and think. I also have eaten horse <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> rabbit, which, I have to admit,
probably qualify as pets as much as a Guinea Pig does. In fact, I now remember
the Ex herself once had a pet rabbit. I even remember the damn thing’s name. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And yes, I’m sure there’s some kid out on a farm somewhere
that has a pet chicken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqe_E0-cVLAcEHkRyKFzNSDJQ7S_0LPQ_E5rzkyaA_R9zVR65TYb_RCt2vIRJztQmI5iJJFrz8AyKv5nkXZbnUOnFDze3OaF0lYkyRRzKArgVYlpykCFJnJrJeT0fGEl4BhiRyU3SO4U/s1600/the_seasons_winter_snow_chickens_e2bfb99f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqe_E0-cVLAcEHkRyKFzNSDJQ7S_0LPQ_E5rzkyaA_R9zVR65TYb_RCt2vIRJztQmI5iJJFrz8AyKv5nkXZbnUOnFDze3OaF0lYkyRRzKArgVYlpykCFJnJrJeT0fGEl4BhiRyU3SO4U/s1600/the_seasons_winter_snow_chickens_e2bfb99f.jpg" width="278" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Okay,” I type. “That actually kind of helps, thanks. Enjoy
your camel ride.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">By the time I get to Cuenca I am resolved to dive in for the
complete Guinea Pig Experience. None of this sissified, Belgian-influenced, de-boned,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i> burrito crap. If I’m eating <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>, I’m eating it like the Ecuadorans
do: rotisserie fried until that little sucker is cooked to a crisp. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I Google “Best Place to Eat Cuy in Cuenca.” The number one
hit is a block and a half from my hotel. I’m going in. And I haven’t even had a
drink yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMTtKHQVA6lOY8mdW6w-Zi0-pDp2y8FFv0y6ZnR-K47yevAkrnvQwmSrYWYHu2-_ZD48zzeSQ7Y9x6ZHYaPsMVr5RzS4U3dx_OeJR10m3Cwe6AsmJmRuDiypyY9RtpezJmYtasUQxm7s/s1600/2171g1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMTtKHQVA6lOY8mdW6w-Zi0-pDp2y8FFv0y6ZnR-K47yevAkrnvQwmSrYWYHu2-_ZD48zzeSQ7Y9x6ZHYaPsMVr5RzS4U3dx_OeJR10m3Cwe6AsmJmRuDiypyY9RtpezJmYtasUQxm7s/s1600/2171g1.jpg" width="225" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">The logo on the sign outside of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guajibamba</i> tells me all I need to know: a smiling cook in a
monogrammed apron and Chef Boyardee hat, proudly holding a Guinea Pig impaled
on a stick. Pretty sure I’ve got the right place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Like much of South America, dinner in Ecuador before nine
o’clock is like going to the Early Bird Special at Denny’s; you only go if
you’re over 65 or really, really hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At 8:00 p.m. the only others in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guajibamba</i>
are a scattering of tourists and a couple of Ecuadorans, obviously having a
late lunch. But the last thing I’m looking to be is fashionable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I inform the waitress that I want to try the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>, she tells me three things. First,
the only way to “try” the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy </i>is
to order it whole. This isn’t Boston Market, where you can get half a chicken
and a side of cole slaw. The whole <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>
at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guajibamba</i> cost $21, twice as much
as anything else on the menu. Fine; bring it on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Next, she tells me, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>
takes an hour to prepare. Not a problem, I answer. The last thing I want is
undercooked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, she tells me (I swear), that before I place the
order, she’s going need my name, hotel, and passport number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have my passport, I tell her. She
shrugs. Just your name and where you’re staying then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My Spanish isn’t good enough to ask why this information is
required. Are they worried that I’m going to chicken out during the hour-long preparation
time and walk the check? Or is it because in case of a medical emergency
involving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>, the restaurant by law needs
to notify someone at the U.S. embassy?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Some things are better left unasked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht26P8OOXbav_oD-aQ0ODFdBBv4phDhabbN7ai1OuCLWwWqPX9Os0KZL33xK1FTggCsMCLaIOjY0lory6yXT9HxqJNMD0jAVfsRkohwktchktYY6r9Tk0WfflV3TBRXqkQrkJJMZtoM7U/s1600/IMG_2790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht26P8OOXbav_oD-aQ0ODFdBBv4phDhabbN7ai1OuCLWwWqPX9Os0KZL33xK1FTggCsMCLaIOjY0lory6yXT9HxqJNMD0jAVfsRkohwktchktYY6r9Tk0WfflV3TBRXqkQrkJJMZtoM7U/s1600/IMG_2790.JPG" width="240" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">The hour-long Countdown to<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Cuy </i>has begun. To pass the time I have been given a bowl of salted
corn nuts, and steaming teapot of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">canelazo.
</i>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">canelazo</i> is<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">a hot mixture of sugar, water, lemon, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zhumir</i> – the rum-like, national liquor
of Ecuador that comes in at 80 proof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
takes all of about forty-five seconds for the buzz to hit me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s good. Really good. I suspect it would be really, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> good if you were delirious and in
bed with the flu.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I sip my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">canelazo</i>,
munch a corn nut, and check my watch. Thirty five minutes until the rat
arrives. I feel a death-row inmate, waiting for my execution at midnight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I text P. a status report.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Almost <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i> time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Aren’t you excited? Send me a pic as soon as it arrives!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I think about the question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I am excited,” I text. “I also feel like a contestant on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fear Factor</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The waitress comes by to ask me if I’d like any more corn
nuts. Didn’t Mom always used to say, don’t fill up on corn nuts; you won’t have
any room left for Guinea Pig?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">No, I’m pretty sure she never formed that particular sentence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Wow, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zhumir</i> is
really kicking in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No, gracias, pero un
poco mas de canelazo, por favor</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">She nods and yells back to the kitchen, something that I
suspect roughly translates as “Drunk Gringo at Table Six!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Canelazo</i>-fueled
courage. Maybe this is how Anthony does it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">As promised, after an hour the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i> arrives at the table, accompanied by a side of potatoes,
hard-boiled eggs, and a bowl of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mote</i>
(white hominy).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But am I really paying
attention to potatoes? I’ve seen potatoes. No. I’m pretty much riveted by the
Guinea Pig, literally standing on the plate in front of me. It is whole,
roasted, and poised with tiny claws on all fours, like a sprinter in the
starting blocks of a track and field event.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDZ5cRbLPVbrfo_HOAxvU2aPt75__xM0XSrYAKwAdYL5x4ErTAwmc0f0rXNUfGfnoteOY-ymj7dzXCrXmQc59rdV-EksmhKg-EKVkp31_Ayvi9ZcZmzXhDtzCfwsfeMvGA_RIQ7rcttQ/s1600/IMG_2788.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDZ5cRbLPVbrfo_HOAxvU2aPt75__xM0XSrYAKwAdYL5x4ErTAwmc0f0rXNUfGfnoteOY-ymj7dzXCrXmQc59rdV-EksmhKg-EKVkp31_Ayvi9ZcZmzXhDtzCfwsfeMvGA_RIQ7rcttQ/s1600/IMG_2788.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And there you have it: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cuy</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">But not the vegetable <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cuy</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The waitress stands by proudly, saying she wanted to show it
to me before they cut it up. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Por
supuesto</i>,” I say. Of course! How else would one serve a Guinea Pig? I snap
a picture and text it to P. Her response comes in five seconds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No!!!!!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, yes,” I reply. “Pictures don’t lie.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh … my … God!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj886RwAySVWRUqMLZJKLU_ecN0j-QFqt6P2XxQ_0M2UXr7xT1bQASgDD0scnSVqAX6ShtNKeyMQKntIRRspZXtsXG_wNz_RemK8b2RutnihVcbGpo2vWFiF9vNsuJ5G0ESMxaO2WRflU4/s1600/IMG_2587.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj886RwAySVWRUqMLZJKLU_ecN0j-QFqt6P2XxQ_0M2UXr7xT1bQASgDD0scnSVqAX6ShtNKeyMQKntIRRspZXtsXG_wNz_RemK8b2RutnihVcbGpo2vWFiF9vNsuJ5G0ESMxaO2WRflU4/s1600/IMG_2587.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">The waitress has taken my main course back to kitchen. I can
hear the echo from the butcher block as they complete the non-ceremonial Chopping
of the Guinea Pig.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The animal comes back
to my table in fifths: right rear, left rear, right front, left front, and
head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Of course you get the head. What, you think that goes in the
trash?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">With a smile and a “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">buon
provecho</i>,” the waitress leaves me to wrestle with my fried ratty. I pick up
one of the hind quarters, and take a bite. Tastes just like chicken, right?
Doesn’t every strange food we’ve never had before taste “just like chicken?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cuy</i> doesn’t taste
just like chicken. I’m not sure it tastes just quite like anything I’ve ever
eaten before. The skin is fried crunchy and salty, putting it somewhere in the
pork rind family of food products. Once past the crunchy skin, I have to work
to get at the meat. The bones are small. I try not to look at the tiny claws.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My phone vibrates with a text from P. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put down my rat leg.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can’t stop
laughing. How is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s difficult to eat, to get at the meat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Is it awful?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I answer honestly. “When you get it, it’s actually pretty tasty.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Get in there! You know I’d be picking it up!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Way ahead of you, sweetheart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I work my way through the two hind quarters and tackle the
front. There are some pungent internal organs (what, you think they took those
out?) that are a little organ meat-y for my taste, but I eat that, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m almost through the entire body, and I am stuffed full of
Guinea Pig. I may never be Anthony Bourdain, but I’m pretty proud of myself,
and, a little drunk. I look at the final piece on the platter in front of
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put down a claw and text P.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s not bad,” I report. “But I’m sorry. I’m not eating the
head.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">She can’t believe it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s going to be the best part!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">At least try an ear.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m not nearly drunk enough to nibble on a Guinea Pig ear.
But I can’t help but smile, and type out another text. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“This would be a lot more fun if you were here, you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Of course it would.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I can’t eat another bite. But I consider asking if they possibly
serve <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">canelazo</i> for dessert.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Someday,” I type out as the waitress clears my plate, “We’ll
come to Ecuador together. And we’ll share a rat.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I can hardly wait.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-23829331651594826792014-11-28T15:36:00.001-08:002014-12-04T08:52:45.783-08:00The Kids in the Upper Deck<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6anxBR1X3HXRB3k8b7BOitxcb4otnbFMUoC_n28d8cL721pBC6En93d4eL0sZ-n5_oPyQu6w7oZro0oNv2wipxczR9QyuRkNeOllJr6Wkiqgi3vtXu29cIMgh357dwwrUpNRnibiUig/s1600/IMG_1521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6anxBR1X3HXRB3k8b7BOitxcb4otnbFMUoC_n28d8cL721pBC6En93d4eL0sZ-n5_oPyQu6w7oZro0oNv2wipxczR9QyuRkNeOllJr6Wkiqgi3vtXu29cIMgh357dwwrUpNRnibiUig/s1600/IMG_1521.JPG" height="276" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I’m perched on a bar stool at El Parador <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Cervecería</span> across from Vicente
Calderon Stadium two hours before game time, nursing my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cerveza grande</i> in a giant plastic cup. The brunette next to me? Sipping
an orange juice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s decked out in the
trademark red, white and blue jersey of Atlético Madrid; I have opted for a only-slightly-less-gaudy
red warm-up jacket and matching team scarf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In many countries my outfit would be mercilessly mocked and
ridiculed, but here? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Muy, muy guapo</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The girl looks at my jacket out of the corner of her eye as
she opens her mouth and bites her sandwich. I smile and nod at her jersey. Clearly we’ve
bonded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her name is Paula.
She is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">big</i> Atlético fan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s six years old. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">These European soccer hooligans are just adorable.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtPn0YlZ7QnZwMMlH1zMSe09Xu_x6wy_XMkLXraTMGtcOn9JVpwDSmCUmztunGd0tqMLOg9XjxZGXhLdk3GkoLJhHG1C-rTa35GnzSqUIqYHOXHr6FdWzQGZREtZVq9TegZgtNvZ5dkY/s1600/IMG_1487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtPn0YlZ7QnZwMMlH1zMSe09Xu_x6wy_XMkLXraTMGtcOn9JVpwDSmCUmztunGd0tqMLOg9XjxZGXhLdk3GkoLJhHG1C-rTa35GnzSqUIqYHOXHr6FdWzQGZREtZVq9TegZgtNvZ5dkY/s1600/IMG_1487.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Do you know what time they open the gates?” Dad
asks me in Spanish, as he and his wife take turns steadying Paula on the
barstool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently I look like someone
who knows. “Three thirty?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course I have no idea but automatically assume my default
mode of faking it with conviction. “No, at three, I think,” Complete guess but
let the man dream. Mom gives me a worried-looking nod, calculating how they are
going to entertain a six-year-old in a bar for another 45 minutes. Paula doesn’t seem particularly concerned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They say that in Spain, soccer (or football, as anyone
outside of North America calls it) is a religion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If that’s the case, it looks like I just walked into the
early service Sunday School. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In eight days, an early morning, pre-arranged rumble on a bridge outside Vicente Calderon stadium between radical </span><span style="font-size: large;">Atlético and Deportivo</span><span style="font-size: large;"> supporters </span><span style="font-size: large;">will leave a man dead, after he falls - or is thrown - into the river during the fight. Twenty fans will be arrested.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But today I'm seeing none of this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Where are the screaming fanatics? Where are the drunken
brawls? With multiple families and kids under twelve, El Parador looks less like a
testosterone-infused sports bar than it does a tram stop at Disney World.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFL74vQ01XqHjsIgMRyiI9jm3tzd1qX7XYXbqjpMLjrVHFd_wUy68SoMF7wtaGkDxiJipn4YWX3q2G2er50FpnEvxVFfwphbZdXfwSpy0AsTOZhLplKmq5m0NGKyGkIipfjP0vxa9YKgw/s1600/IMG_1484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFL74vQ01XqHjsIgMRyiI9jm3tzd1qX7XYXbqjpMLjrVHFd_wUy68SoMF7wtaGkDxiJipn4YWX3q2G2er50FpnEvxVFfwphbZdXfwSpy0AsTOZhLplKmq5m0NGKyGkIipfjP0vxa9YKgw/s1600/IMG_1484.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve been hanging out here with Paula and her parents for
the past half hour, waiting for the start of the Spanish La Liga matchup
between hometown Atlético Madrid and the visitors from Malaga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An Oscar Mayer hot dog cooker (“The Genuine
Hot Dog of America!”) sits on the bar to the right of us, rotating a set of maroon-colored wieners. Fortunately no one appears to be eating them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dad asks me another question about the stadium that I can’t
really understand and I probably couldn’t answer if I did. I decide to fess up. </span><span style="font-size: large;">“Actually, this is my first game.</span><span style="font-size: large;">”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“</span><span style="font-size: large;">Ours, too,” Mom
tells me. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">She gestures toward Paula.
“She really wanted to come. She loves football.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Paula says nothing, but seems to be eying up the hot dogs. I nod and </span><span style="font-size: large;">take another swallow of cerveza. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Dad looks at his watch. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At this
point a drunken brawl looks extremely unlikely.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is true that in Spain, Sports is essentially synonymous
with Football. There is no other sport that really means anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Basketball occasionally gets a 30-second
mention on the TV sports report, but I suspect only because the Spanish Gasol
brothers (Pau and Marc) currently play in the NBA. After that, it’s ten seconds
of tennis, ten seconds of Grand Prix auto racing, and the motocross results. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That’s not a joke; they actually give the motocross results.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No, if you’re a sports fan in Spain, it’s all about
football.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in Spanish football, it’s
all about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Liga</i>, the top 20-team
division of professional football clubs. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La
Liga</i> translates simply as “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The</i>
League,” as in “What other league could you possibly be talking about?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">However, “Competitive Balance” – something to which American
professional sports leagues at least pay lip service – is not a concept that
translates at all to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Liga</i>, either
in language or spirit. In the 83 seasons of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La
Liga</i> (since 1929, with a couple years off for an ugly Civil War), the
league has been won 54 times by two clubs: Real Madrid, and Barcelona. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgcD5zgsU0812aDwmEmxsIPv6SGGhKE9bt7o7350t9SHXVO9aZ4jOiMy9h5PB8XWP5ycTHO7pA4tay24IXWfaviQsbkObsnyb9sxBEcnjMfbEBhXbEgiwHvWmhMRi2wSBsquJuG6tdw4/s1600/108413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizgcD5zgsU0812aDwmEmxsIPv6SGGhKE9bt7o7350t9SHXVO9aZ4jOiMy9h5PB8XWP5ycTHO7pA4tay24IXWfaviQsbkObsnyb9sxBEcnjMfbEBhXbEgiwHvWmhMRi2wSBsquJuG6tdw4/s1600/108413.jpg" height="280" width="400" /><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the past 10 years, either Real Madrid or Barcelona has
been crowned the champion all but once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The undisputed two best players in the world play for these two teams:
Lionel Messi for Barcelona; Cristian Renaldo for Real Madrid. Both clubs have a
worldwide fan base and by far have the most money of any team in the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like Apple and Microsoft, Nadal and
Djokovic, Presley and Sinatra. And then everybody else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the outside of this embarrassment of riches looking in is
Madrid’s “other” football team: Club Atlético de Madrid, or more simply, Atlético.
If Real Madrid are the Yankees and Barcelona are the Red Sox, then Atlético are
the Spanish equivalent of the New York Mets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxI-m2Meng-vre2ji-8ME_MviX_sKXq4GnHD0NwplNaKDmy2RdjPteKqZLlmpSY1eLxU6JPm23vJp-BP7xi5BJEneWbbyvRyJ6PaiARsfz8tnTjO2BIJZ1l6rhlkdF_gVLBZEmeL-g_A/s1600/IMG_1516.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxI-m2Meng-vre2ji-8ME_MviX_sKXq4GnHD0NwplNaKDmy2RdjPteKqZLlmpSY1eLxU6JPm23vJp-BP7xi5BJEneWbbyvRyJ6PaiARsfz8tnTjO2BIJZ1l6rhlkdF_gVLBZEmeL-g_A/s1600/IMG_1516.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Like the Mets of baseball, Atlético plays in the biggest
market in the country. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in comparison
to their rich cousins Real Madrid, who play their home games in an historic,
prestigious 81,000-seat stadium regally referred to as <i>El Bernabéu</i>,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Atlético plays in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Estadio Vicente Calderon</i>, a dowdy concrete stadium down by the
river, on the working-class side of town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s the only sports stadium I’ve ever seen that actually has a highway
running underneath it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_JQMWG72_Aoj_y0doSsz9DM_dbi41EBOS1REKaM-w5HOCaBR0j7N1gnnU3HMHWGTqIAtRycHV3I6raF87bhMDQIJJ4lqycht5PvFnHj0M38YmSGIJtR5pzs4Xe7Mi665vC544Dxq895E/s1600/IMG_1477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_JQMWG72_Aoj_y0doSsz9DM_dbi41EBOS1REKaM-w5HOCaBR0j7N1gnnU3HMHWGTqIAtRycHV3I6raF87bhMDQIJJ4lqycht5PvFnHj0M38YmSGIJtR5pzs4Xe7Mi665vC544Dxq895E/s1600/IMG_1477.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It’s like old Shea Stadium in Queens. Minus a toxic waste
dump or two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But like the Mets, Atlético historically (if not currently)
is not entirely hopeless. With less money and less prestige, they still try their best to
keep up with the Big Boys. Every now and then – say, once every couple of
decades – they actually go on an improbable run and win the whole thing,
leaving the spoiled fans of Real and Barcelona fuming with rage. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">One of those improbable runs happened last
year, giving Atlético the championship for the first time since 1996.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I moved to New York in the late Nineties, I turned my
nose up at the dynasty-building Yankees and became a Mets fan, ushering in
heartbreak for years to come. And of course when I came to Madrid - for reasons I will leave a psycho-analyst to determine - I knew immediately that, like the
Mets, Atlético was the team for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I previously had been to one European football match, 17 or
so years ago, in Belgium. But I’m not sure that really counts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidofX59nsem9jI2LJ1eReDYc0zdXhW6htywChIOwQ8u0qBCDM26OAmfGKwuRlxPbt_lTPb8USloIIl9Jx1p3ubQeAWim49oMoYHAqoNx4OJzNkaDhbeMyZmsBCGEEX3SnRU9wlHJoz8us/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidofX59nsem9jI2LJ1eReDYc0zdXhW6htywChIOwQ8u0qBCDM26OAmfGKwuRlxPbt_lTPb8USloIIl9Jx1p3ubQeAWim49oMoYHAqoNx4OJzNkaDhbeMyZmsBCGEEX3SnRU9wlHJoz8us/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I was taken to my first match by Geert – a silver-haired Belgian banker by day who after hours transformed into a leather-clad, earring-wearing,
beer-swilling, Iron Maiden-loving head banger. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Geert had invited me and my half-Irish friend
Jim to a game featuring Geert’s favorite club, Anderlecht, which at the time apparently
represented the best Belgian football had to offer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">While I’m sure he meant well, it was Geert who confirmed my
suspicion that a soccer game – in Belgium, at least – was nothing more than an
organized excuse to drink. As if they needed another one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We spent the hour leading up to the Anderlecht game with
Geert and his friends hitting as many bars around the stadium as possible, slamming
down a Stella and quickly heading out to find the next round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By kickoff time Jim and I - no strangers to
beer consumption, trust me - were being ridiculed as lightweight Americans
because we were unable to ingest a gallon of alcohol in 45 minutes or less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPGwbGc97Une3m9tB64VvUZgG6SHBeHAdGzWNEBBuAa42cx60Fq4pZd2c2yfMcEbAdaK9TIWsD2IfXNzXzPACP1UQFD43SJD_NofGp05x32H9XgHYXzN2P6inaJjdn0F3m68TdPFXrUY/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPGwbGc97Une3m9tB64VvUZgG6SHBeHAdGzWNEBBuAa42cx60Fq4pZd2c2yfMcEbAdaK9TIWsD2IfXNzXzPACP1UQFD43SJD_NofGp05x32H9XgHYXzN2P6inaJjdn0F3m68TdPFXrUY/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Predictably, the Anderlecht match ended in a 0-0 tie,
confirming the worst American stereotypes about European soccer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may have napped through most of of the
second half. The rest of the crowd, exclusively young men who looked as if they
had hit twice as many bars as we had, seemed lobotomized, impassively staring down
at the field waiting for the something to happen, knowing in their hearts
it was probably wasn’t going to.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWGCgdoPcmjzEiHT1MmFSKeWQ4mlx99_XnL6ukPAUWozJLGjAyaSoww5CicPaemG-6VKyq3XQwjB47Thl0LSjJ4DJNOolt9exChQwas5PAVTPds3f_44kT-Ye8kny2T1hbfPOQ_Ap5So/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWGCgdoPcmjzEiHT1MmFSKeWQ4mlx99_XnL6ukPAUWozJLGjAyaSoww5CicPaemG-6VKyq3XQwjB47Thl0LSjJ4DJNOolt9exChQwas5PAVTPds3f_44kT-Ye8kny2T1hbfPOQ_Ap5So/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">But comparing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Liga</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– one of world’s richest and most prestigious
professional sports leagues - to Belgian soccer circa 1997 is a little like
comparing the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord of the Rings</i>
trilogy to a community theater production of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Godspell</i>, performed free of charge in a church basement in Altoona.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the world of soccer<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, La Liga</i> is the big time. I knew that,
even if I wasn’t watching Barcelona or Real Madrid, a football game in Spain was
going to be different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had no idea the difference would involve kids, more kids, cigars,
air horns, scarves, vomitoriums, and molestation by a security guard. Just did
not see that coming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuowghyphenhyphenH_jiRMchgHMBRjiL3c2IH6HPq0J2DOrFiYZnRysvSRr2wxEa2NfzZ29fU5vaB80Z3VeiFnBfnjg2I639CDZQfHil3XoIxpVRh8EYro-ntJfARMN1fRis63MH0ZPvdLC1NylhM/s1600/IMG_1480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuowghyphenhyphenH_jiRMchgHMBRjiL3c2IH6HPq0J2DOrFiYZnRysvSRr2wxEa2NfzZ29fU5vaB80Z3VeiFnBfnjg2I639CDZQfHil3XoIxpVRh8EYro-ntJfARMN1fRis63MH0ZPvdLC1NylhM/s1600/IMG_1480.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I’m really not sure what’s up with the scarves. A ridiculous
number of red, white and blue team scarves hang from dozens of identical
souvenir stands lining the perimeter of Vicente Calderon Stadium, like ham
hocks at the pork store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can
also buy an Atlético flag or maybe a cap, but it seems to be all the about the
scarf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped counting at a billion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, <i>I </i>bought a scarf, but I’m the American neophyte at his
first Spanish soccer game. Who are the other 999,999 scarves for?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stadium only holds 52,000; how many
scarves can a person possibly wear? It’s not even cold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Leave it to the Spanish to combine sports paraphernalia with male fashion accessories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look, but
fail to find the matching Atlético cufflinks and cummerbund.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPqG05I6gJQ4sRtERQVaORHKV5oss27V1v2E6uoQL8Grfft5vfesHhvsk5crsGnI4x_Zg4wJEZsHMJCmyczLmRn8K5fmn0yHdX3dp8e4s3nVr4C1gI7Es44l5N9Dlzw1qCGBqwgraxGAo/s1600/IMG_1489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPqG05I6gJQ4sRtERQVaORHKV5oss27V1v2E6uoQL8Grfft5vfesHhvsk5crsGnI4x_Zg4wJEZsHMJCmyczLmRn8K5fmn0yHdX3dp8e4s3nVr4C1gI7Es44l5N9Dlzw1qCGBqwgraxGAo/s1600/IMG_1489.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">An hour before game time I spot a half dozen of
powder-blue-and-white-clad Malaga supporters milling around one of the gates. Unlike
the Atlético fans who all seem to have offspring in tow, the visitors from
Malaga are all guys in their early 20s, showing their unease in enemy territory
by talking a little too loudly and slapping each other on the back a little too
often. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhht47ndTsDzjQMWv_M1BWUa48aARD8NEw3FT-PQKxwB-vPZEMTGYbgczv8ZSgwP3hm2SqeLVNyQILFygvhW9qT18rqqOw8NHKyb9FVL2qCKRQzdit_IEVNoT6lIXEYMVELEa-0f2xrS3Y/s1600/IMG_1514.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhht47ndTsDzjQMWv_M1BWUa48aARD8NEw3FT-PQKxwB-vPZEMTGYbgczv8ZSgwP3hm2SqeLVNyQILFygvhW9qT18rqqOw8NHKyb9FVL2qCKRQzdit_IEVNoT6lIXEYMVELEa-0f2xrS3Y/s1600/IMG_1514.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Nearby an Atlético Dad is buying a bag of something that looks like
caramel corn for his three-year-old daughter, while her eight-year-old brother
stands to the side, brandishing a rolled-up Atlético flag on a pointy
poll.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Police cars – just slightly larger
than those utilized by clowns at the circus – are deployed in the street.
Tension hangs in the air; my finely honed journalistic instinct tells me this
place is a powder keg ready to explode.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfmGk-ZFloNEGEzvu8WGggJZInDkQ1hKf9nSnmLa0OXzxlxE_cQ-Pq1t74YdrPJaholMAvms23endH_XKvR068kYpo9X8k5YmBGTAVPaHiA-suTEc5r2WxiciwEtvucLH5x_LmUxtQivY/s1600/IMG_1499.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfmGk-ZFloNEGEzvu8WGggJZInDkQ1hKf9nSnmLa0OXzxlxE_cQ-Pq1t74YdrPJaholMAvms23endH_XKvR068kYpo9X8k5YmBGTAVPaHiA-suTEc5r2WxiciwEtvucLH5x_LmUxtQivY/s1600/IMG_1499.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">As if on cue, a battalion of police with batons and riot
helmets hustle past me double time, as if they all just ate a plate of bad chorizo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re joined by two helmeted
policemen on horseback, trotting around the end of the stadium toward the
highway underpass beneath the stands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
is it! I run after them with my camera, trying to listen for anyone yelling
“DRUNKEN MELEE!!” in Spanish. Whatever that would be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQO7MOiGYT6EeeFdb8H-3VL4nHgFp1Fk4lz3Y5AFmpXNz4P2EL-K-j5GBVQXWiSa6hvCS7DTPqxqwNfSRvU7odW1RD2EyQ43NBFiW-79bGh9318D25WlfNW6wR4idp1hRWPnDqY66QFk/s1600/IMG_1503.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQO7MOiGYT6EeeFdb8H-3VL4nHgFp1Fk4lz3Y5AFmpXNz4P2EL-K-j5GBVQXWiSa6hvCS7DTPqxqwNfSRvU7odW1RD2EyQ43NBFiW-79bGh9318D25WlfNW6wR4idp1hRWPnDqY66QFk/s1600/IMG_1503.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I reach the underpass, lights are flashing in the
tunnel and the police are shooing picture-snapping Atlético fans away from a
red, white and blue bus parked under the stands. The Atlético team, apparently,
has arrived at the stadium. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Disappointingly, no one in the tunnel appears
to be fighting, and/or drunk. Not even the players.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrARnS80jkHg8j1-OJiqp6iIWdjflVFjkthi-jTf6xHFnRpN-fkR_VrgAXpFjdQ9P2iNrfW2pAgcso3VwZVmEJjqpZEStv-Tsl2W11rOMjzsehc8-4enjbkTHMTPoXQ3WEFWzdlQxZ5Fo/s1600/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrARnS80jkHg8j1-OJiqp6iIWdjflVFjkthi-jTf6xHFnRpN-fkR_VrgAXpFjdQ9P2iNrfW2pAgcso3VwZVmEJjqpZEStv-Tsl2W11rOMjzsehc8-4enjbkTHMTPoXQ3WEFWzdlQxZ5Fo/s1600/images-2.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">As I enter the stadium, the security guards give me renewed
hope that the authorities at least believe chaos is just a smuggled-in smoke
bomb away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a far cry from the
half-hearted bag check at American sporting events, where they seem most concerned
about unauthorized umbrellas or a contraband bag of Dorito’s. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m not carrying a bag, purse or backpack, so instead I get a
full-body pat down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the perfunctory
pat down you get at the airport if you set off the metal detector; I suspect this
is closer to what you experience when you check in for your first day at prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another couple inches further up my leg and
I’m going to ask the guard if he plans to buy me dinner.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, that is a cell phone in my pocket. And no, I’m not just
happy to see you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisGVxYwy_dI5uxXV3yzNV_56B3dtm7IdxP8Ushq-tq91LOjC4FT6V84ERZ4ALlaSDDc1YwMyd2x1vM2jMZIWB0nldXKMcws0AYPfSIXRO_UxOtDtA0igvNKG7ADLg6YpEY4PiMrX9MBog/s1600/IMG_1517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisGVxYwy_dI5uxXV3yzNV_56B3dtm7IdxP8Ushq-tq91LOjC4FT6V84ERZ4ALlaSDDc1YwMyd2x1vM2jMZIWB0nldXKMcws0AYPfSIXRO_UxOtDtA0igvNKG7ADLg6YpEY4PiMrX9MBog/s1600/IMG_1517.JPG" height="227" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I look at my ticket to figure out where I'm sitting. I see that my seat,
apparently, is located in Vomitorio 34.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which means there are at least 33 more vomitorios. Should I be concerned
that my seat is located in a vomitorium? Is this somehow connected to the Oscar
Mayer hot dogs they are selling across the street? Did I pay extra for this?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My seat, it turns out, is almost as far away from the field
as it can possibly be without actually being located outside of the stadium. When I enter Vomitorio
34 and show the usher my ticket, she just laughs and points up the concrete
stairs. As in “WAY the hell up there, Pal. Just keep climbing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Vomitorio 34, Section 519, Row 16, is in the second-to-last
in the stadium, just under the press box. It might be in the shade, on some
other day. But with the 4:00 p.m. start time I will be staring into a blinding
sun for at least the first half of the game. I am baking in my warm up jacket
and my scarf. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXGn9HXxXJCddXX0id7n77iJzQ0kbGpsbbyhNvAmwXB8cE6hHw_PD_sS81lEIFH8289JNPM3PoHJpI3MkYj_3f8fmERFdHHNa9HDRpl1N0w11SasCZE20O36k6bn141YJqMRk41ceyBvU/s1600/IMG_1527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXGn9HXxXJCddXX0id7n77iJzQ0kbGpsbbyhNvAmwXB8cE6hHw_PD_sS81lEIFH8289JNPM3PoHJpI3MkYj_3f8fmERFdHHNa9HDRpl1N0w11SasCZE20O36k6bn141YJqMRk41ceyBvU/s1600/IMG_1527.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">But by American standards, the seat is … not really that
bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I paid 40 Euro for the ticket, about 50 bucks. At an American football game, I’d be sitting at about the
40-yard line, and paying what? Three or four times this price? And vomiting
probably wouldn’t even be allowed, let alone encouraged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I lean back, drape my arms over the adjoining chairs, and
prop up my feet in the still-empty row in front of me. I feel like I’m living
large, soaking in the sun and the scene through my Ray-bans in the vomitorio under
the press box of Vicente Calderon Stadium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">That is until the kids arrive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Three things of note that have not yet been banned in
Spanish football stadiums: cigars, children under the age of 12, and air horns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thankfully they have not yet imported the
vuvuzela.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s an odd sensation, having cigar smoke blown in your
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kind of like being stuck on a
motorcycle in the Holland tunnel in the middle of summer, behind a diesel
tractor-trailer with a bad muffler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like
I’m at a poker game, taking place in 1958.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidaAXqwMPVOyWsYYvmLZ1HLH3rsj4l_UNq3gEoO2IrIGM9wTh2s0vA6xMl1u-ufbiaV3dRilcTKiefvB1ZGg4UfkGJcdsUTIueOjAlHf-bTbEY2OZM1W-rayW9WEyJ_6JVjuwJ1IibgjY/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidaAXqwMPVOyWsYYvmLZ1HLH3rsj4l_UNq3gEoO2IrIGM9wTh2s0vA6xMl1u-ufbiaV3dRilcTKiefvB1ZGg4UfkGJcdsUTIueOjAlHf-bTbEY2OZM1W-rayW9WEyJ_6JVjuwJ1IibgjY/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The cigar smoke in this case comes from three seats down, billowing out of an 80-year-old man who apparently decided to treat his 27 grandchildren to
a Saturday afternoon soccer game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two of the kids – Kike and Pepe, I learn – are in the seats to the left of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Honestly</span> I have no idea whether Kike and Pepe have any connection to the cigar-puffing, Fidel Castro impersonator. All I know is there otherwise seems to be a dearth of supervising adults in the general
vicinity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqDZ21o0IhgCD_W9GnqE82UyR-0xJyz_womeBnFihALL_Tz6pMtR5nE2luhrpF8367JVc71Aak9IzqIJLO6uHBkA5pMFiC_nt1mhX1GEn2bo_l_Y05jS2xkgGb48ebJgW6LLdIRYtbBE/s1600/Unknown-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqDZ21o0IhgCD_W9GnqE82UyR-0xJyz_womeBnFihALL_Tz6pMtR5nE2luhrpF8367JVc71Aak9IzqIJLO6uHBkA5pMFiC_nt1mhX1GEn2bo_l_Y05jS2xkgGb48ebJgW6LLdIRYtbBE/s1600/Unknown-2.jpeg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Kike and Pepe are at that age – I don’t know, 5? 6? – where
they don’t really give a crap about the actual sporting event taking place on
the field. <i>Yeah there are a bunch of guys running around kicking a ball yadda yadda
yadda okay we got it whatever.</i> It’s much, much more fun for a boy at that age
to throw peanut shells in the hair of the people in front of them, giggle and hide,
and then puncture an eardrum by blowing an air horn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Paula would never do this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Hey!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kike and Pepe have just blown their air horn into the ear of
a visibly pissed Russian with a crewcut in the row in front of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Russian kid apparently speaks no Spanish,
so he begins yelling in broken English. To the delight of Kike and
Pepe, who know just enough English to giggle and hurl back the insults of a six
year old that transcend all cultural divides.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What is your name?” Kiki asks the Russian slowly in
English.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Me, I am Nikolai.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kiki and and Pepe both laugh. “You’re stupid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Nikolai’s eyes bulge to the size of pies. For a moment I
believe his head might actually explode. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
</i>STUPID??? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> STUPID?? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">YOU</i> STUPID!! YOU!!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The kids love this. They laugh and laugh and laugh.
Meanwhile on the field, Atlético has scored its first goal. Kiki and Pepe could
not possibly care less. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">While the game so far may not have quite reached the level
of a religious experience, I do notice about halfway through the first half
that Jesus is sitting in front of me.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguq8TWJXO5VQEBnf7aF925zvUepDQbfY1cj_SdQwU8oh93xQwp4q0qW9oYkV2Y1oFb1dCETlVWB6T75b_ECvUlzKAVC7PD9JG_EVQHQzsN6ytfPoHsxKFnqLU6sEAhKVxatkg-BRjt10k/s1600/IMG_0588.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguq8TWJXO5VQEBnf7aF925zvUepDQbfY1cj_SdQwU8oh93xQwp4q0qW9oYkV2Y1oFb1dCETlVWB6T75b_ECvUlzKAVC7PD9JG_EVQHQzsN6ytfPoHsxKFnqLU6sEAhKVxatkg-BRjt10k/s1600/IMG_0588.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Turns out he’s an Atlético fan. I wonder how that<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>is going to go over in Barcelona, and at
the stadium across town.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JGHuVc6NG6xwjdXwub9pMwhqGkAWG-3wZvva_PZr0CYDVz2jEud9e5rqVvGr6KwK-fLK_6rF-PBSSEmNhYdihvBh-9N8tl7bi6WV4oC2Qwz3Wq8-17X1gx8TywdN6Wam2A3hg-oUqgM/s1600/IMG_1536.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1JGHuVc6NG6xwjdXwub9pMwhqGkAWG-3wZvva_PZr0CYDVz2jEud9e5rqVvGr6KwK-fLK_6rF-PBSSEmNhYdihvBh-9N8tl7bi6WV4oC2Qwz3Wq8-17X1gx8TywdN6Wam2A3hg-oUqgM/s1600/IMG_1536.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Like the denizens of the Dawg Pound in Cleveland or the
Cheeseheads in the end zone of Green Bay’s Lambeau Field, the serious fans –
the inebriated ones with painted faces and life-long season tickets - sit at
each end of the field behind the goal posts, with arguably the worst view in
the stadium. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uEkW4aoRU7Av39cOipwysfZOHOmGu1Psh0VvCl3YopuP3xacJ6SS8cEf89GTtDGiI6Ahkspwkpj8uJP5w8aHtKvqy37Os0dK02slqFG7FSQGcxmQlLbPt2UXGHtvRxs5i9g137yaTNg/s1600/Unknown-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uEkW4aoRU7Av39cOipwysfZOHOmGu1Psh0VvCl3YopuP3xacJ6SS8cEf89GTtDGiI6Ahkspwkpj8uJP5w8aHtKvqy37Os0dK02slqFG7FSQGcxmQlLbPt2UXGHtvRxs5i9g137yaTNg/s1600/Unknown-3.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Regardless of whatever is happening on the field, it appears
that the primary activity behind the goal posts is to sing and chant in unison.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All kinds of chants, all kinds of songs.
I can’t decipher a single lyric, but so far I have heard chants sung (or,
perhaps, songs chanted) to the tune of “My Darling Clementine,” Scott Joplin’s
“The Entertainer, and “Da Doo Ron Ron” by The Crystals. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Evidently the playlist at Vicente Calderon has not been
updated since a decade or so before Franco died.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">A few minutes before the end of the half, Atlético scores
its second goal, further depressing the contingent of Malaga supporters
relegated to the ghetto of a single section in the far corner of the
stadium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Atlético fans stand and
wave their scarves, as the end zone chants something to the tune of the Polovetzian
Dance No. 2 by Borodin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Back in Vomitorio 34, Nikolai continues his debate with Kike
and Pepe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You stupid!!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No, you are.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No, you!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus looks on impassively,
and opens a bag of peanuts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Midway through the second half. The Atlético fans are
growing nervous, as Malaga kicks in a goal almost as if by accident, narrowing
the score to 2-1. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb7KBHGfGOR3z2GXBZkWhgz0HsRqx-ftrd3mQw92RamVZqI8mjq9-FeqiOQw5SMTbiDrCNDE0brHTjWTzz_U2hzG6-Z8uquF5ekjhFIEpnNOjRemUVNcPkTzMEqI7FdaSbZtaNi0pTTjU/s1600/IMG_1530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb7KBHGfGOR3z2GXBZkWhgz0HsRqx-ftrd3mQw92RamVZqI8mjq9-FeqiOQw5SMTbiDrCNDE0brHTjWTzz_U2hzG6-Z8uquF5ekjhFIEpnNOjRemUVNcPkTzMEqI7FdaSbZtaNi0pTTjU/s1600/IMG_1530.JPG" height="282" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s as if everyone is just waiting for a tie to ruin
their afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who wants to leave the
stadium chanting “Yay! We didn’t lose to each other!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are the drunken-brawl chances in that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Here under the press box, the <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">niño</span>s are also antsy, but it has nothing to do with the game score.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are, after all, only so many peanut
shells you can throw and Russians you can annoy before boredom sets in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kike’s Dad finally makes himself known from the row behind
us and steps in to try to put an end to the tormenting of Nikolai. My personal
opinion is that anyone who argues with a six year old at a football game for 45
minutes pretty much gets what he deserves, but I’m also ready for the exercise of a
little parental control. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kike,” </i>Dad says,
confiscating the air horn, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mira el partido</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch the game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The look on Kike’s face switches from unbridled joy to the
grimace of a crushed soul, as if Dad just announced that there is no Santa
Claus. Or whoever it is that delivers Christmas presents in Spain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Watch the game? Am I
being punished for a war crime? Why do you hate me?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">After being prohibited from torturing foreign nationals, Kike
initiates the sporting event version of Are We There, Yet?,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>swiveling around every five
minutes to ask Dad when the game will be over so they can get the hell out of
there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Veinte minutos, Kike.”
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Quince minutos, Kike.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Diez minutos, Kike</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pepe on the sly tries to coax his friend into re-instigating
hostilities with Nikolai, but Kike’s heart is just not in it anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you can’t deafen an innocent stranger with
an air horn what’s the point, really?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">With six minutes left to go Atlético scores another goal,
making the game 3-1, the soccer equivalent of an emphatic beat down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Scarves are waved. The end zone chants. Kike asks Dad how
much time is left. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Jesus sits quietly, eating his peanuts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">When the final whistle blows, Atlético walks away with a
tidy victory, keeping them within striking distance of Real and Barcelona in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Liga</i> standings. In all likelihood they
won’t pass either of those teams, but stranger things have happened. Hell, they
happened last year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiFTjjuzkjE97tfhyphenhyphenqvjQ0ze_uFWBvWiUATJJirbZJ40uxUq27djJJWFAYDBsz3I4Dyp2lhBte1ZtViPr8Jh8MbuLJR1gR7xaXLt1XLQzOUfhnVpcdvyBLaRZPCo2lZCo-6XVfn4mkkOE/s1600/IMG_1528.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiFTjjuzkjE97tfhyphenhyphenqvjQ0ze_uFWBvWiUATJJirbZJ40uxUq27djJJWFAYDBsz3I4Dyp2lhBte1ZtViPr8Jh8MbuLJR1gR7xaXLt1XLQzOUfhnVpcdvyBLaRZPCo2lZCo-6XVfn4mkkOE/s1600/IMG_1528.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">With the 3-1 route I hold out hope that humiliated Malaga
fans will charge the field or set off a smoke bomb, something to provoke the
riot police with the horses and clown cars. But defeat is accepted in a
disappointingly civilized manner, as the boys in their blue and white jerseys obediently
file from their segregated upper deck corner and out of the stadium.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The riot police look bored. The horses the police are riding look bored. The
kids being dragged home may not necessarily be bored, but most of them clearly need a nap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">A fine Saturday afternoon in Madrid, unless you’re a Malaga
fan. The drunken brawl is still a week away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-4691866733503155282014-10-23T12:05:00.000-07:002014-10-25T11:45:42.106-07:00The Littlest Hobo<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The man at the passport control window at Gatwick Airport
does not want to let me into the country. Really does not want to let me in.
The questioning astoundingly has been going on for a full fifteen
minutes. Can facial hair and the lack of a real job be that grave of a threat
to national security?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“What is the purpose of your visit to the United Kingdom?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I smile innocuously as possible. “Just passing through.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZ_927LX4Q8H7FcQ5bAOOxIy4_1vXJCl1lpuVVGFmLOCHLaiwHKFh-gyz6J8jHHQzCwh7xhPVDFarhbKCKOReLqITD31_qB-ZIoGtbYDW2pIC4tj1-FcmDtVSv89_YNC_HkQDAXdRW1I/s1600/Passport-control-at-Gatwi-011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZ_927LX4Q8H7FcQ5bAOOxIy4_1vXJCl1lpuVVGFmLOCHLaiwHKFh-gyz6J8jHHQzCwh7xhPVDFarhbKCKOReLqITD31_qB-ZIoGtbYDW2pIC4tj1-FcmDtVSv89_YNC_HkQDAXdRW1I/s1600/Passport-control-at-Gatwi-011.jpg" height="240" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can tell instantly this not an acceptable answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Business or pleasure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Pleasure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Somehow this comes out sounding dirty, confirming his
suspicion that I might be a deviant, or some kind of free-lance pornographer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“What is your … <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">occupation</i>,
exactly?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tough one. I think oh, what the hell, and tell him I’m a
writer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“A writer,” he repeats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I see the look on his face. I might as well have told him I
was a free-lance pornographer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The European Tour began in Madrid, but has since on moved to
Barcelona, Lyon, Munich, Belgium, Denmark, and Sweden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fueled by offers of free accommodations from
Malmo to London, the trip has metastasized into a full-fledged tour of the
continent, like a third-rate rock band perpetually searching for its next paying
gig. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s good to have friends. It’s even better to have tolerant
friends who will put up with an American ne’er-do-well flopping on their couch for
a few days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDC4wkcTZV4VyCkD-X4xe7RI4VA0WVdVWxIJBjEYHbLuGGroNmf5jzVgVgAhWQQEDCHSto8BXp-26kgi3mWloUbXhziAAPGOgvt9Ztk0jbGyUB-cncqbedgnddE5TwRH2hTvJAB8sHGQ/s1600/IMG_0544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDC4wkcTZV4VyCkD-X4xe7RI4VA0WVdVWxIJBjEYHbLuGGroNmf5jzVgVgAhWQQEDCHSto8BXp-26kgi3mWloUbXhziAAPGOgvt9Ztk0jbGyUB-cncqbedgnddE5TwRH2hTvJAB8sHGQ/s1600/IMG_0544.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The old town of Lyon, France is surprisingly charming, being
in a city best known for a variety of potatoes and sauce you pour over steak. There’s
nothing here to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">see</i>, necessarily, in
the tourist collector-card sense (“I got Pompeii <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>The Leaning Tower of Pisa!” “The Eiffel Tower? Oh man, I have
doubles of that!”), but that’s fine with me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I actually stopped collecting cards a while ago. This is not
my first European rodeo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I came to Lyon because it’s on the way to Munich from
Barcelona and Madrid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is on the
way to Brussels, which is on the way to Copenhagen, which is on the way to
Malmo. Sort of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, I wanted to be
able to tell people at cocktail parties for the rest of my life that I once
drank a Cote du Rhone while sitting on the Cote du Rhone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Pretty much shows you where my shallow priorities lie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Would you like to try some of our regional specialties, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">monsieur</i>?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRL19Yj_qTHtdKoqpQVSH4nOyH5tjkoAMr9F-ZAYXHR4IR7bUUO4o9qu_NfBED1SWjzknAPZBZf_hjaXRs3GfS94niaMIdo4EAA-36x9De8TP0fdsJoFuBiEwHlBfiszsW4ttErBDw_lU/s1600/IMG_0538.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRL19Yj_qTHtdKoqpQVSH4nOyH5tjkoAMr9F-ZAYXHR4IR7bUUO4o9qu_NfBED1SWjzknAPZBZf_hjaXRs3GfS94niaMIdo4EAA-36x9De8TP0fdsJoFuBiEwHlBfiszsW4ttErBDw_lU/s1600/IMG_0538.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The waitress at the outdoor cafe says this to me in French,
followed by litany of food dishes I’ve never heard of. Or at least I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> this is what she says to me. Honestly
my French is so bad these days she just as likely could have been complimenting
my sweater.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“</span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oui, bien sur</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is my usual answer in French, because it serves as a
coherent response to both food order questions <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>sweater compliments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
goal, as always, is to pretend like I know what I’m doing and hope that others
believe it. The waitress smiles and nods as she walks away. Mission temporarily
accomplished.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The downside to perpetually faking it is that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- here, for example - I have absolutely no
idea what I’ll be having for dinner. But how bad can it be, right? I’m in
France, for God’s sake. It’s the Culinary Capital of the World. I sip my wine,
impressed with my growing skills as an International <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bon Vivant</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">No one told me, however, that in addition to the Lyonnais
aptitude for potatoes and steak sauce, they are also apparently quite fond of
their organ meats. Ah, I see. The regional specialty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The chicken liver salad that arrives first is doable. Yes,
the livers are whole and yes, the taste is overpoweringly pungent and yes, I
have trouble not counting the obscene number of chickens who had to surrender
their livers to make this one single appetizer, but I can do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not my favorite, won’t willingly order it
again, but I’ve eaten worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Speaking of
which, here comes the main course …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFEAo6NkHoNLQvglkOg30vza6-7k8EJFoHQNW0h6QgiFxVCF_1t7Z2dl2gk8pL9p9OJXqdC2hXM43ju-ZohU79HSBbX8opkP5x5gfdmynX348YvE3XfnkEmNfRYA_YSvjQhCNIA7wxp0/s1600/TripesMaison-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFEAo6NkHoNLQvglkOg30vza6-7k8EJFoHQNW0h6QgiFxVCF_1t7Z2dl2gk8pL9p9OJXqdC2hXM43ju-ZohU79HSBbX8opkP5x5gfdmynX348YvE3XfnkEmNfRYA_YSvjQhCNIA7wxp0/s1600/TripesMaison-.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’ve eaten tripe once before in my life, also (not
coincidentally) in southern France. But the tripe I had before was stuffed into
a sausage and deep fried and otherwise unrecognizable as an animal digestive
tract. (As some connoisseur of fine dining once said, you can deep fry an old
shoe and it would taste pretty good). The regional specialty of Lyon, on the
other hand, is tripe in a tomato-based stew. With each chewy bite, you are
keenly aware of exactly what you are eating. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You know how they say every weird food “tastes just like
chicken?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frog legs? Tastes just like
chicken. Iguana? Tastes just like chicken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This doesn’t taste just like chicken. Well, maybe rubber
chicken. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I call the waitress. I’m going to need another bottle of
Cote du Rhone to choke this down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Where will you staying while you're visiting the
UK?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Tonight I'm staying with my friends Lynda and John."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Your friends ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lynda
</i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John</i>.’” Made-up names if he
ever heard them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If only I had friends
with exciting, exotic, believable names like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sapphire</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trevor</i>. “And
what is the home address of ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lynda </i>and
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John</i>?’"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYhWz3AfKBz6c5eep7i8hIgMNu0thfhh909uIAqUa4CS4WZQ32qri5LQNeDrniMBxRtJYBsw8bmcbk02UuWwusTBCVtYBQDoMuYyNgUBAKLk4cOLE56EeY-O4x5s6yySXdrLnv7bLlKA/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYhWz3AfKBz6c5eep7i8hIgMNu0thfhh909uIAqUa4CS4WZQ32qri5LQNeDrniMBxRtJYBsw8bmcbk02UuWwusTBCVtYBQDoMuYyNgUBAKLk4cOLE56EeY-O4x5s6yySXdrLnv7bLlKA/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My inquisitor is a fat-faced man in wire-rimmed glasses,
who, I suspect, may have ended up at the passport window as punishment for
being an incompetent weasel in some other department. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I just don’t get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are they on some heightened state of alert?
Has there been a recent rash of middle-aged American men sneaking into the
country via Scandinavia, to live as squatters and suckle illegally from the
teat of the British welfare state?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I have no idea. Somewhere in North London."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"You have no idea.” He smirks at me. “How are you going
to get there?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The look on his face tells me he thinks he is about to catch
me in my own web of deadbeat/terrorist lies. I blink twice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> "I'm going to call John and meet him in the city,” I
say slowly, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“and he’s going to take me
to his house."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"You're going to call ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John</i>’ and meet him in the city,” he repeats, “and he’s going to
take you to his house.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is the tone of voice a person uses if the next words
out of their mouth are “Oh this is rich! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rich</i>,
I say!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All I want to do is get my
passport stamped. Instead I’m trapped in a bad Noel Coward play. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s not something I’m proud of, but I admit that every time
I travel into Germany, I subconsciously begin to whistle the theme song to
“Hogan’s Heroes.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The German businessman in the dining car on the train from
Strasbourg is not amused. I have to turn to the window and pretend like I’m
choking on my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">spaetzle</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJU4h7EJbfg4uWJp3BsCHG6xbHUqPEPBaEJ1zw2lTVZtxhrVUl-Xf98x6xcD2rGMtVhyrDHSiCOWi8PpKOZfCYha0ISrVC3YwnDM7m91Kcz9Y-dQULGRMQTdOQjpCSyzezUKXrdqV0zE/s1600/IMG_0583.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJU4h7EJbfg4uWJp3BsCHG6xbHUqPEPBaEJ1zw2lTVZtxhrVUl-Xf98x6xcD2rGMtVhyrDHSiCOWi8PpKOZfCYha0ISrVC3YwnDM7m91Kcz9Y-dQULGRMQTdOQjpCSyzezUKXrdqV0zE/s1600/IMG_0583.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The next day I’m wandering the streets of Munich when I come
across a Mexican wedding on the steps of the National Theater. A four-piece
mariachi band is playing “La Bomba.” To the best of my knowledge, I am not
psychotic or under the influence hallucinogenic mushrooms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I guess times have changed. At least the band has
temporarily driven “Hogan’s Heroes” from my brain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“What, are you touring like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the Japanese</i> now?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This insult regarding my current travel practices is casually
tossed at me at a restaurant in Brussels’ Place Flagey, a few blocks from where
a decade and a half earlier I lived in an a one-room, tree-house apartment as a
cheap, lazy graduate student. The more things change, right? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZYO9cnSKxeF_FtrWnGKL2Qp78Gh_ssdSh3jh5P8g6q2S__MkodnMvnn1zjzWBDf9yN0ATJA5u9_63DkXHO3o5SdR3p7DrzM8RuRY8vYwsdD1_LyiThp8VwfW_Y5HXTtYIvuQXJrkR44A/s1600/IMG_0614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZYO9cnSKxeF_FtrWnGKL2Qp78Gh_ssdSh3jh5P8g6q2S__MkodnMvnn1zjzWBDf9yN0ATJA5u9_63DkXHO3o5SdR3p7DrzM8RuRY8vYwsdD1_LyiThp8VwfW_Y5HXTtYIvuQXJrkR44A/s1600/IMG_0614.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Of course at least then I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> an apartment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My caustic dinner companion is a short, dark-haired woman
from Barcelona now living in Belgium, who once played a role in my life more
pronounced than anyone in my direct acquaintance could reasonably fathom. To
protect identities, I will refer her simply as Crazy Maria.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I was never able to ascertain if Crazy Maria was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">certifiably</i> crazy, or simply just
Spanish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end, I found this to be
a distinction without a difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After the countless emotionally overwrought, insane conversations with
Crazy Maria, I was always left closing my eyes and rubbing my temples, as if trying
to ward off a massive migraine, or head-bursting aneurism. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tonight would be no different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I should have expected, the emotional
ammunition is being fired across the table with no regard for the safety of
innocent bystanders. Some things never change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“You are always the one who leaves. Aren’t you, Dave? I knew
you would leave me, Dave; I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knew </i>it!
So yes, I was forced to leave you first.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I last spoke to Crazy Maria four years ago, after she stood me
up on a long-planned trip to Ireland less than a week before departure. I went
to Ireland anyway and had a great time. Trust me, if there’s any place to tour
alone without a crazy Spanish girlfriend in tow, Ireland is place to do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“You were so cold to me, Dave. So cold.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yes, how dare I get on with my life after you dumped me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel the vein in the side of my head
beginning to throb. I decide to change the subject.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“So tell me about your trip to America. You said you went
there last summer with your boyfriend?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Crazy Maria begins the account of her recent trip to the
U.S. by telling me of the beautiful vistas of the Golden Gate Bridge in San
Francisco. The majesty of the drive down Highway 1 through Big Sur. The
excitement<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and glamor of Los Angeles.
The spectacular lights of Las Vegas rising out the night desert. The
awe-inspiring, natural wonder of the Grand and Bryce canyons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4f9hZjgvOw__nmPiLHDGQdCMrNlWHN8clsmJrJq49cl9vOp6a7rRht8dZCLtQzbanGXdO8Sl2FT_N4Fga8CmuR-DSNUXKdV08Ii_v56sabk3hWHUFWBuRCHICujjKvcvW7xbCRS6yOY8/s1600/grandma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4f9hZjgvOw__nmPiLHDGQdCMrNlWHN8clsmJrJq49cl9vOp6a7rRht8dZCLtQzbanGXdO8Sl2FT_N4Fga8CmuR-DSNUXKdV08Ii_v56sabk3hWHUFWBuRCHICujjKvcvW7xbCRS6yOY8/s1600/grandma.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She follows this 45 seconds of praise with a twenty minute
diatribe of how the country I come from is a sick, cruel, twisted,
“uncivilized” society, where homeless people clog the sidewalk, private
individuals are allowed to own beachfront property, grandmothers in pickup
trucks carry Kalishnikovs, and employees at a Wendy’s in some unnamed town in
Arizona “looked at us as if we. Were. From. Mars! From <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mars</i>, Dave!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I close my eyes and rub my temples, waiting for my head to
explode. “Maria …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Do you deny it, Dave? Do you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">deny</i> that you live in a Darwinian society?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What country am I in again? That’s right; Belgium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We speak French here. At least some of us do.
I look around and signal to the waitress, wondering when the next plane leaves
for Copenhagen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">L’addition, s’il vous
plait</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"How much Pound Sterling are you carrying?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I'm not carrying any Pound Sterling."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"You're not carrying any cash? How do you plan to
support yourself while in the UK?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I blink at the passport inspector again. "I'm going to
go to an ATM machine, and take money out of my bank account."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Another likely story. He looks suspiciously at my ATM
card.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv_QvQUIWovhRWEt0kcWzJh4lkUiD1IYAuvjl3Tg3c_dO0haw8z0f4lgZXDiGynz-ygBxxwYTopxWwxNgCheJfc8gvVdRo1t1LvnFmehmSHURzHL1uV6BPfI9jPh77LywXzBHzpzPbOLw/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv_QvQUIWovhRWEt0kcWzJh4lkUiD1IYAuvjl3Tg3c_dO0haw8z0f4lgZXDiGynz-ygBxxwYTopxWwxNgCheJfc8gvVdRo1t1LvnFmehmSHURzHL1uV6BPfI9jPh77LywXzBHzpzPbOLw/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Do you have any proof of how much money is in your
bank account?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I look at a sign above the booth of the passport control
window. "WE WILL TOLERATE NO ABUSE! VERBAL ABUSE OF EMPLOYEES WILL BE
PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW!" I suddenly wonder what
conditions are like in the British prison system. Food may not be as good as
the Italian or the French. Probably don’t serve tripe, though … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> "You mean am I traveling internationally, carrying
copies of my bank statements?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Yes."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I bite my lip. "No."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"No?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"No."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> He peers at me with little piggy eyes over his glasses and
makes a note of this on the List of Grievances he is compiling, apparently containing
my qualities as an Undesirable. I try to read upside down. No … Proof … Of
… Assets … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Do you have any credit cards?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Yes. I do have credit cards.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“May I see them, please?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I pull out and hand him Visa and American Express.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“What is the credit limit on these cards?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Don’t be a smart ass … don’t be a smart ass … “Thirty
thousand dollars, and unlimited.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
would think that would last me for a week in the UK, but hey, I may start
buying people drinks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He looks at me sideways as he rubs his chin. “Do you have
any <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">proof</i> of those credit limits?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’ve never been attacked before by a tree, but I guess
there’s a first time for everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Makes sense it would be a beautiful, stately, harmless-looking shade
tree in the middle of Hyde Park.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What’s up with all this British hostility?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLv5je9r1uODxhW1KFvyQPO0QMy8CQcV5OlNCL9Bqi0H_bOQl4J3Aj_wON5G5QZvhGh2fFzIH4w3Tldxbb08icfcC1HKiUb9TKzwtI4Pnsm-08Kw5OEFAx7vheHWINUPFwAIamqgBvFgI/s1600/IMG_0749.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLv5je9r1uODxhW1KFvyQPO0QMy8CQcV5OlNCL9Bqi0H_bOQl4J3Aj_wON5G5QZvhGh2fFzIH4w3Tldxbb08icfcC1HKiUb9TKzwtI4Pnsm-08Kw5OEFAx7vheHWINUPFwAIamqgBvFgI/s1600/IMG_0749.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m sitting in the park on a warm and sunny Sunday afternoon
(“Don’t get the idea that London weather always like this,” John tells me) with
John, Lynda and Vicky, as Vicky’s two kids alternate between playing games and
proclaiming their boredom. My English friends mention offhand that we’re currently
camped under something they call a “conker tree.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">conker</i> tree?” I
say. “That’s a bizarre name. Why do they call it a conker tr … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As if on cue, a round, green, spiked projectile the size and
weight of a billiard ball drops out of the sky and bashes me on the
shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another six inches to the left
and my head would have exploded like a watermelon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WKbbblM5GqiFExqn1WpKcT08VXa0BlOCGDMO-UkF8lxO8v3MGKmWnOb6mB74WmyPqj7vMscfH-yER85Vany4ncSpZAkiNEfGwyqah3L7ydp8NjF88EzE6M4ZqFdMmT3Qx189xdkDVWg/s1600/images-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WKbbblM5GqiFExqn1WpKcT08VXa0BlOCGDMO-UkF8lxO8v3MGKmWnOb6mB74WmyPqj7vMscfH-yER85Vany4ncSpZAkiNEfGwyqah3L7ydp8NjF88EzE6M4ZqFdMmT3Qx189xdkDVWg/s1600/images-4.jpeg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“JESUS HOLY F …!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
manage to bite off my expletive as I look to see eight-year-old Sasha looking
down at me. “What the hell … I mean, what the heck was that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“That’s a conker,” Sasha informs me matter of factly, as if
I am an amazingly slow-witted foreigner who needs to have the obvious repeatedly
explained. The kid immediately loses interest and turns away as I message the
bruise on my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Mummy,” Sasha whines, “I’m so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bored</i>!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently killer
trees are no cause for alarm or even mild interest among the young here in
Britannia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“So tell me again,” Vicky asks after handing out Chinese
paper kites to distract the kids for a few minutes, “what is it you’re doing,
now?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“You mean in addition to recovering from my recent near-death
experience?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She ignores the smart-ass answer. “You were in Brussels
staying with Porter, right? Then Peter and Kamilla in Copenhagen and Ola in,
where, Malmo? And now you’re here in London with John and Lynda. Where to,
next?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Edinburgh, I
think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then back to Madrid to live for a
while.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“You’re going to live in Madrid?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Why Madrid?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I shrug. “I like the tapas?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Vicky was tops in our grad-school class back in Brussels,
and she’s way too smart to let me weasel my way out an actual answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, she’s looking for an explanation that
I have no real ability to provide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Yes but, what is it exactly that you’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">doing</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Lynda leans toward Vicky and points at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“He’s The Littlest Hobo!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">John and Vicky laugh and Vicky nods, as if it all makes
sense now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“You’re right. He <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i>
The Littlest Hobo.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I look around in confusion. Everybody gets it but me. “I’m
the littlest what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-HZxlhBcvOa4D8i9BYrLgcV-TFORGSrarUDZmH1pSFZOkVe-sERT4SsHYOkEcz-HF0JvVCFznwoMWU8O2fUkCWMVrhsrGjVxe4hc6oXlEzbqClhuGw_v5HGbYMtMixj7eP0lI6OgfCA/s1600/IMG_0496.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-HZxlhBcvOa4D8i9BYrLgcV-TFORGSrarUDZmH1pSFZOkVe-sERT4SsHYOkEcz-HF0JvVCFznwoMWU8O2fUkCWMVrhsrGjVxe4hc6oXlEzbqClhuGw_v5HGbYMtMixj7eP0lI6OgfCA/s1600/IMG_0496.JPG" height="400" width="280" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I subsequently learn that a certain generation of British
kids in the 70s and 80s were entertained on Saturday mornings by a TV show called
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Littlest Hobo</i>. Hobo, it turns out,
is not an under-sized homeless person as the name suggests, but a stray German
Shepherd “who wanders from town to town, helping people in need.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Despite the attempts of many people whom he helped to adopt
him,” Wikipedia tells us, “[Hobo] appeared to prefer to be on his own, and
would head off by himself at the end of each episode.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am neither little, nor a German Shepherd. And I can’t say
I remember ever actually helping anyone in any town, outside of passing a bowl
of pretzels down the bar. But otherwise, if the collar fits …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Wait,” Vicky says. “How does it go? How does it go?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Oh, good. They remember The Littlest Hobo theme song.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe tomorrow, I’ll
want to settle down!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Until tomorrow, I’ll
just keep moving on …!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Do you have a return plane ticket out of the UK?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Train ticket?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Address of hotels you will be staying in Edinburgh?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Proof of regular income?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Proof of Insurance?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m on the world’s slowest train returning to London from
Edinburgh on a Saturday afternoon, somewhere west of Newcastle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The train moves thirty feet, then stops for
thirty minutes. Thirty feet; thirty minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All morning like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOfB1g2QVUxluFaybYX5IN2eTlsFm6rlMLL6fewHR17nV05b0uBsVXL2AXn5f7jrGb1dfYPAhjBnvRKcPXYI51Y0BxEu9HXi2gaZPZmwdRguvTF7FCffJAq2x3Wj8UsCu3Cq34DKZE2Fw/s1600/images-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOfB1g2QVUxluFaybYX5IN2eTlsFm6rlMLL6fewHR17nV05b0uBsVXL2AXn5f7jrGb1dfYPAhjBnvRKcPXYI51Y0BxEu9HXi2gaZPZmwdRguvTF7FCffJAq2x3Wj8UsCu3Cq34DKZE2Fw/s1600/images-3.jpeg" height="247" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally a
semi-audible explanation/apology is mumbled over the loudspeaker, something
about “switching problems” due to “water on the tracks.” It’s true; it had
rained the night before. Apparently water falling out of the sky is a
contingency East Coast Rail was not prepared for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Two coaches away is a
large pack of beer-guzzling football fans, traveling from Scotland to a 1 p.m.
match in Newcastle. They’re not going to make it. When I walk through the car
to get some food a couple of hours before it looks like a frat-party kegger on
steroids, empty tall-boy cans multiplying like tribbles. Everyone is trashed,
and it’s just shy of ten in the morning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect the drinking started sometime before
dawn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I keep looking at my watch, which is moving much, much
faster than the train. I’m counting down to one o’clock, waiting for the
drunken melee to begin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Scotland is beautiful, cold, windy, and wet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You quickly understand the appeal of
hunkering down in a pub and drinking until the rain lets up. Except that it
doesn’t let up. Hence, lots of drinking in the pub. Until you no longer care
that it’s raining.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg60CXY2BdJsUWKCVmvMP755db52Oo4gTN1kLA77HJAOlLkmQd5I6A5R3QF3736a5TyR5ujgsnbZx39uF8iQ_hKuGI9EJMAEbypqElUXAvDv6x7hLbBNBMowMjhcdFinMRKZf3Uo6IaJc/s1600/IMG_0916.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg60CXY2BdJsUWKCVmvMP755db52Oo4gTN1kLA77HJAOlLkmQd5I6A5R3QF3736a5TyR5ujgsnbZx39uF8iQ_hKuGI9EJMAEbypqElUXAvDv6x7hLbBNBMowMjhcdFinMRKZf3Uo6IaJc/s1600/IMG_0916.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On one such rainy evening I’m in a pub on Edinburgh’s Rose
Street called Dirty Dick’s (a historical name from the 18<sup>th</sup> Century,
they insist) when I feel compelled to order the haggis, tatties, and neepes.
The fact that this compulsion arises within living memory of the Lyonnais tripe
incident is a testament to the power and influence of cheap and plentiful Scotch
whiskey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have only a vague idea of how they make haggis, although I
believe it involves sheep, and internal organs. I can’t even venture a guess on
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tatties</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">neepes, </i>which turn out to be innocuous potatoes (tatties) and
turnips (tur-neepes).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m ready to choke
down whatever comes my way for the sake of a good story. Yet when my order
comes out from Dirty Dick’s kitchen, the food on my plate looks … surprisingly
not awful. And I swear it actually tastes pretty damn good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuspBizalKAxeoewrVvCbMsZSBll-kzI03obxXe7N5QqppEtD8_-l_d_9f11hkWx9ns1GjpQS2uz1erwONNIStELkx7lMrHjhs939aD41t7USaoVYFaFDaTRvpvuptvu0dqlpCdOhyphenhyphenBZk/s1600/IMG_0925.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuspBizalKAxeoewrVvCbMsZSBll-kzI03obxXe7N5QqppEtD8_-l_d_9f11hkWx9ns1GjpQS2uz1erwONNIStELkx7lMrHjhs939aD41t7USaoVYFaFDaTRvpvuptvu0dqlpCdOhyphenhyphenBZk/s1600/IMG_0925.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Let’s put it this way: in the Organ Meat Olympics, Scottish
Haggis completely kicks the ass of Lyonnais Tripe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize it’s not a particularly high honor,
but at least let’s give the Scots credit for knowing how to serve up a sheep
lung. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Back on the train, during the past hour we have managed to
move another 90 feet or so and crawl into a town somewhere on the outskirts of
Newcastle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s past 1:30; the soccer
game in Newcastle is well underway. I watch with absolutely no surprise as a
half-dozen police in yellow vests board the train and jog down the isle past me
toward the Car of Drunken Discontent. Let the melee begin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The fat-faced, little weasel at the passport window is just
about out of questions. He’s pursued every conceivable line of inquiry to
expose me as the free-loading/terrorist scum he knows me to be, outside of asking
how many pair of underwear I’m carrying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Eight? How do you expect to live for a week in the UK with
only eight pair of underwear?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Unable to come up with any more questions, Weasel Man grudgingly
takes my passport and slides it under some kind of electronic scanner. Of
course it doesn’t scan. Or beep, or whatever the hell it’s supposed to do. He
slides it a second time, then a third.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He looks down at the passport, then up at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Where did you get this passport?” he asks me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Where did I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">get </i>it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Yes. Where was it issued?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Unbelievable. “It was issued in San Francisco, California.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Where in San Francisco?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where </i>in San
Francisco?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Are you asking me if I know the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">street address</i> of the passport office in San Francisco?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Like the worst and least-funny Abbott and Costello routine
ever performed, this has gone on for so long that a backup of hopeful émigrés
has developed at the passport window and attracted the attention of the apparent
supervisor of my pig-faced friend. She comes to the booth and discreetly
inquires about the holdup. Weasel Man shows her his List of Grievances, along
with my obviously forged passport that doesn’t scan in the machine like it’s
supposed to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The supervisor closes her eyes and nods, as if she’s been
through this many before and is trying her best to be patient with an autistic
child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Remember it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only </i>a
problem if the name has been changed, or does not match the other forms of
identification,” she tells him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Yes, but …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“It’s fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“But …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fine</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Weasel Man looks up at me and sneers as he flips through the
passport for an empty page to stamp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH4Yo6XK0hwk1UrKqLj0RpFA4RCN7szYBNNmMCIEkF0pfQF1oXmfj-OoFSwv6IaR5yWHUZaoDwhh1ZZlijk9pK4cKLQ1jPd7NrfhHsIU78YnOuG_i9BgFmAd9XmKq-MdkghC_AnLMVelU/s1600/IMG_1140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH4Yo6XK0hwk1UrKqLj0RpFA4RCN7szYBNNmMCIEkF0pfQF1oXmfj-OoFSwv6IaR5yWHUZaoDwhh1ZZlijk9pK4cKLQ1jPd7NrfhHsIU78YnOuG_i9BgFmAd9XmKq-MdkghC_AnLMVelU/s1600/IMG_1140.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You got through this time, Hobo. But I’m on to you. Don’t
think you can just come into my country and sit under a conker tree and ride
trains and buy beer and haggis without a real job or return ticket and get away
with it. We don’t want your kind here!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So if you want to
join me for a while<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Just grab your hat,
come travel light<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">That’s hobo style! …”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">By the time the World’s Slowest Train reaches London it’s
too late to do much of anything other than forage for food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John and Lynda are out of town but have graciously
given me the keys to their house to spend one more night in the guest bedroom,
also known as the Finding Nemo Room (due to the cozy, anemone-like twin beds
and leaping cartoon fish pasted on the walls by a previous owner). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Too tired and/or lazy to go very far, I walk along the main
drag near their house in Stoke Newington, looking for a late dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it’s Saturday night most places are
packed with drinkers who moved past dinner several drinks ago. The restaurants
that aren’t packed with drinkers are mostly Turkish, as Stoke Newington apparently
has evolved into the UK’s own Little Istanbul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But having spent a year and a half in the real Istanbul, I just can’t
bring myself to eat <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shish kabab</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">et doner </i>on a street in North London.
Been there, ate that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I walk a bit further and see a non-Turkish possibility. I
look at the menu posted at the door. They serve tapas. As I’m headed off the
following day for an extended stay in Madrid, I can’t really see eating tapas
in North London, either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I finally come across a small, dimly-lit place still serving
food. It is not quite enough of a bar to be packed, and is neither Turkish nor
Spanish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The menu is not extensive or
particularly exciting, but also does not appear to involve organ meat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will do just fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I place my food order with an earnest-looking waiter with a
wispy mustache who may not be as old as the socks I’m wearing, and ask if they
have a beer list.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Actually, we only have one beer at the moment,” the young
man says apologetically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find it
astounding that any restaurant in the world (let alone in the UK) is serving
only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one </i>kind of beer, but I guess
stranger things have happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“And what would that be?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“It’s an import called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anchor
Steam.</i> Ever heard of it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Little Skippy apparently is unaware that I honed my drinking
skills while perched on a barstool as a regular at Kezar’s at the corner of
Cole and Carl streets in San Francisco. Have I ever heard of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_WKc6XOqyU4H2OCSR5-sQ4aDQBH-RcdfXPO4BoegJIFuyVcz5SLwk6yWWwQD56bwCRK_dcwqLk-fCirNOH3ehU_lujoMSTpbhKgs9G6K0ZwdkcEeyU3XLAwlM4GxGsxlZQjOwd2-5Jw/s1600/IMG_0943.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_WKc6XOqyU4H2OCSR5-sQ4aDQBH-RcdfXPO4BoegJIFuyVcz5SLwk6yWWwQD56bwCRK_dcwqLk-fCirNOH3ehU_lujoMSTpbhKgs9G6K0ZwdkcEeyU3XLAwlM4GxGsxlZQjOwd2-5Jw/s1600/IMG_0943.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Yes,” I assure my waiter. “I am familiar with that
product.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Oh, the irony. You can run, Little Hobo, but you can’t hide
from the past, can you? It always knows where you are, whether you like it or
not.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I order the Anchor Steam, and contemplate the next town I
will head to at the end of this particular episode.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“<i>Maybe tomorrow, I’ll
find what I call home<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Until tomorrow, you
know I’m free to roam!</i>”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-36748664772061848662013-03-29T02:44:00.000-07:002014-08-04T14:17:59.895-07:00Notes from the Farewell Tour<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I've been driving for about an hour from the Kayseri airport straight into the heart of Cappadocia when the scenery shifts from standard-issue, rolling-hill farmland into something straight out of Middle Earth. High cliffs and bizarre rock spires suddenly spring up around me in a landscape that looks like it was co-designed on a dare by Salvador Dali, Frank Herbert, and Dr. Seuss - after they dropped acid and followed up with a three-day drunk.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeRsj5VSs7o9_UpaaElU5k0KEZZ1PHd5inWZFI_w3tzRNUGtNix-kESA-x5JpK2xeevoRkjT7wq3k0jEL6LvU0Yf82aYCBK9IDs63LGf-bNKGdZwDS-mTpF5Z2JGQ-L80KHv46r10JhKQ/s1600/IMG_20130304_114606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeRsj5VSs7o9_UpaaElU5k0KEZZ1PHd5inWZFI_w3tzRNUGtNix-kESA-x5JpK2xeevoRkjT7wq3k0jEL6LvU0Yf82aYCBK9IDs63LGf-bNKGdZwDS-mTpF5Z2JGQ-L80KHv46r10JhKQ/s320/IMG_20130304_114606.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Wow!" I say out loud, like a five year old let loose at Disney World. As there is no one in the car to hear me, I seem compelled to keep saying it again and again. Wow.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I stop the car on the side of the road. "Look!" I say out loud to no one, pointing up the side of a cliff. "A cave!"</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Look, a cave? I sound like one of the Hardy Boys.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuYJwor5KBS1x8Zffda9BFfbPhiR5j_axQeOTGbn72nGJ35IihdSoowEYh9uzg9zYyeE1uz_auEBeOlFsphOx3552ol4JDXUYT5lkaw7-50ptqF1tuu_xodCXIBp1g9acBAulIgz8kffY/s1600/IMG_20130304_115000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuYJwor5KBS1x8Zffda9BFfbPhiR5j_axQeOTGbn72nGJ35IihdSoowEYh9uzg9zYyeE1uz_auEBeOlFsphOx3552ol4JDXUYT5lkaw7-50ptqF1tuu_xodCXIBp1g9acBAulIgz8kffY/s320/IMG_20130304_115000.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I will shortly learn that saying "Look! A cave!" in Cappadocia is the functional equivalent of driving into Iowa and saying "Look! Corn!" There are literally thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Carved into cliffs and rocks and underground caverns and lived in for centuries. People still live in them. Nearly every hotel room in Göreme where I'm headed is carved out of rock, including my own.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But I have been in Cappadocia for less than an hour, and right now I know none of this. I have located <em>a cave</em>! And I'll be damned if I'm passing up a chance to climb inside of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It's still winter and tourists are scarce; there are no other cars in sight.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> A cold misty rain is falling and the ground is slick. I'm not dressed for hiking or rock climbing. But I leave my car on the side of the road, hiking across the field and climbing over the rocks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The rocks at this particular site are cone shaped, like the hoods of Grand Wizards at a Ku Klux Klan meeting. As I weave my way between the bizarre formations toward the cave, I would not be surprised by an appearance by the <em>Star Wars'</em> Sand People.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">At first the cave looks impossible to reach, carved high into the cliff. But I spot a side entrance, accessible by a vertical climb that only looks quasi-dangerous. Yes, the shoes are all wrong; yes, the rocks are wet; yes, there is a quite a bit of scraping and sliding. But I make it up the side of the cliff, crawl through a short tunnel, and emerge into area that was once somebody's living room.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBqhMu_Ilb-_1bmBIGh0ZXvTGHAmV9-XvfhISxnofCAaJ9iD9vteS0lOM3vxpwvAaKxrfJSzPfBFCHqaMCO1c06OmaCyze6LcU9JyFfkbLtwa1aJ4xExYZ3_7HzMIFraOo1ES34ZoBdwY/s1600/IMG_20130304_120454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBqhMu_Ilb-_1bmBIGh0ZXvTGHAmV9-XvfhISxnofCAaJ9iD9vteS0lOM3vxpwvAaKxrfJSzPfBFCHqaMCO1c06OmaCyze6LcU9JyFfkbLtwa1aJ4xExYZ3_7HzMIFraOo1ES34ZoBdwY/s320/IMG_20130304_120454.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">A flat rock sits in front the of the mouth of the cave, overlooking the valley below, like a giant bean bag chair in front of the biggest of big screen TVs. In the ceiling of the cave is an opening to another level, with more tunnels between more rooms like Habitrails for your pet hamster.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTW6Y_tzrvaSbXO9tc3qutnjo-yF-t50t70UA7S8-twvrYmh15EnZ-DQpq1ffMwqT4TnCI9KPee6tRYj0QG6ELtdpEjfapuEyuDfTmWZbia1mlUlWuMQ3gZQ2bAzSSzi6mBBdyJ_qtoEo/s1600/IMG_20130304_120526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTW6Y_tzrvaSbXO9tc3qutnjo-yF-t50t70UA7S8-twvrYmh15EnZ-DQpq1ffMwqT4TnCI9KPee6tRYj0QG6ELtdpEjfapuEyuDfTmWZbia1mlUlWuMQ3gZQ2bAzSSzi6mBBdyJ_qtoEo/s320/IMG_20130304_120526.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On the wall of the main room someone at some point in the past two thousand or so years has carved a symbol. It could be some long forgotten religious designation; it could be the Tree of Life. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Hell, for all I know it's the family crest of the Flintstones.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know what it is, but I take a picture of it anyway, because I find it amazing that such a thing exists. This won't be the last time that happens.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I have lived in Turkey for nearly a year and a half now, but it's time to go. My residence permit is nearly expired, and I have an unquenchable desire for certain things that Turkey can't give me. Namely edible Mexican food and affordable Irish whiskey.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As I'm leaving in less than two weeks, this trip to Cappadocia will serve as my Turkish farewell tour: one last chance to see the countryside, drink <em>rakı, </em>smoke <em>nargile</em> and mangle the language before heading home.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As I literally may never get the chance again, I'm planning to make the most of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The list of things I will wake up for at 4:30 in the morning, however, is a short one. The only ones I can readily think of involve my bed being on fire.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmiGkFnBL37AGHZQINYM0AbJkvjiYDJuvZDrQiTj99xiaFFS6y6_xBycz2WLHPXS_zn7qMrNpfUoBAQgI-VF6FVrPPDuKX5Ci5XAbZo1xlhPXUw2i95Tst2Ycbh0Qz96Yyj-UOg-dGFKY/s1600/IMG_20130307_062933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmiGkFnBL37AGHZQINYM0AbJkvjiYDJuvZDrQiTj99xiaFFS6y6_xBycz2WLHPXS_zn7qMrNpfUoBAQgI-VF6FVrPPDuKX5Ci5XAbZo1xlhPXUw2i95Tst2Ycbh0Qz96Yyj-UOg-dGFKY/s320/IMG_20130307_062933.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">But if you want to go ballooning in Cappadocia, there is exactly one time slot available: sometime before dawn. I'm told this has to do with the lack of wind, but I'm not buying it. I think the Turks just secretly enjoy torturing tourists by getting them out of bed before the chickens wake up. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">They arrive at my hotel at 5 a.m. to take me to the balloon ride. Given the ridiculous hour, the high cost of the ticket, and the fact that I'm being shoved into a van, I feel a little like the target of a kidnapping. Fortunately there doesn't appear to be any duct tape involved. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Not yet anyway. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The van drops me and a small group of sleepy, disoriented tourists at the offices of Voyager Balloons, joining what looks like a few hundred other sleepy, disoriented tourists. From what I can tell, other than me the only tourists willing to be rousted out of bed for a pre-dawn balloon ride are four and half foot tall Japanese women, and a few of their compliant husbands. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Voyager Balloons is serving breakfast, which consists of some hard rolls, a little cheese, and a few slices of unidentifiable, pink-colored meat. Even if the meat wasn't frightening, my stomach isn't awake yet; I opt for a cup of tea. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I notice one of the Japanese women has brought her own supply of ramen noodles to Turkey, apparently in case of just this kind of food emergency. She distributes the Cup o' Noodles to her friends, who receive the gift like manna from heaven.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">After about a half hour we are herded back into the vans to be shuttled to the balloon launch site. It's light enough now that as we drive up we can see the balloons, lying on their sides like partially inflated beached whales. Baskets about the size of a Volkswagen bus are tied to each one. The Japanese ladies jump out of the van and begin snapping pictures. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinOoWHVimblnkZajxtC-6tUlQbx-AfpeKlfuPnLEqnHpCnOwOgxQd78hd74BLxd8FgyzYz74zZw25XM1bvf1_M3XsqeSgba38TqfmMyBuJHsKePFe6qvBlZJdtisLiYOo5KeLHvloj8NI/s1600/IMG_20130307_061530.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinOoWHVimblnkZajxtC-6tUlQbx-AfpeKlfuPnLEqnHpCnOwOgxQd78hd74BLxd8FgyzYz74zZw25XM1bvf1_M3XsqeSgba38TqfmMyBuJHsKePFe6qvBlZJdtisLiYOo5KeLHvloj8NI/s320/IMG_20130307_061530.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We are directed to our designated bus baskets and beached whale balloons. Each basket is divided into four compartments (plus room for a pilot, I'm relieved to see), and each compartment holds up to five people. My assigned basket compartment-mates are a young Japanese couple, now assigned by his company to live in India; and Adam and Dana from Orlando, Florida - perhaps the only other non-Japanese participants on the balloon tour.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"So, India," I say to my Japanese basket mate, Yoshi, to make conversation as we wait for the balloon to inflate. "That must be interesting."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"No!" he answers. "India is a terrible place! The electricity goes off in the middle of the day! The food is too spicy!" </span><span style="font-size: large;">His wife, who seems to understand little else, nods emphatically at the India bad-mouthing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"We leave India every chance we get," Yoshi continues as we climb into the basket. "This is why we are now in Turkey."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I think of telling Yoshi of the times the electricity in my Istanbul apartment has gone off in the middle of the day, but think better of it. The food is not spicy in Turkey, so I guess he kind of has a point.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The balloon pilot is explaining our "landing position" instructions to Adam, Dana, me, and the 17 Japanese people the basket. The instruction are in English. I'm wondering if "crouch down and grab the rope handles" possibly can't be translated.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The sun now is up and we stand waiting in our giant basket. Suddenly and without further instructions, I find myself floating in the air.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09u8KceDEynQkrowtBw2bj3WbQVQg118Jzswf_59cK8y9VOiV2Yxztv_1NQKRJsD3uBwZJAFOfKb4_9NIzRtdg_Sna2UJfVDij3QC7NuayX9hXqHd-rFFvNBp7_LHhBySEIsEoQrU2hk/s1600/IMG_20130307_070454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09u8KceDEynQkrowtBw2bj3WbQVQg118Jzswf_59cK8y9VOiV2Yxztv_1NQKRJsD3uBwZJAFOfKb4_9NIzRtdg_Sna2UJfVDij3QC7NuayX9hXqHd-rFFvNBp7_LHhBySEIsEoQrU2hk/s320/IMG_20130307_070454.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe one of the biggest surprises living as an ex pat in Turkey </span><span style="font-size: large;">was how ordinary and unoriginal this decision turned out to be. There are literally tens of thousands of (mostly European) foreigners living in the country, and you run into them everywhere: Germans, Russians, Italians, Brits, and more Americans than you might think.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For the most part, I and the rest of the <em>yabancı </em>do our best to blend in. But there are notable examples of the contrary.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Last fall a German acquaintance was nice enough to offer to let me stay at her currently-empty apartment for a week in a town in southwest Turkey called Didim. She had bought the apartment as "an investment," she told me, but 11 months out of the year she was elsewhere and the place sat empty.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As I could see on a map that the town was located on the Aegean Coast, it sounded too good to be true. I set off in a bus to Didim, with thoughts of - who knows? - maybe I'll move there.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It <em>was</em> too good to be true. Didim turned out to be far and away my least favorite place in all of Turkey. Perhaps the entire world. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1364409325623_17910">Imagine Corpus Christi, Texas but not even a nice part of Corpus Christi, Texas. Like North Beach without a beach. Or an ocean. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5W4j0LGwCIXl9WfGetTGeAwAv8kPjagN963UeFpUSk_pI502el80WXXHR6KWKlL3smi1iGMonhnPZGVQ0Ltda93KEB8av_ZtvL1ACR4n2UVP3sswEy6Zsg2npqUY9Dyo0jCwKb654uvA/s1600/IMG_20120920_105706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5W4j0LGwCIXl9WfGetTGeAwAv8kPjagN963UeFpUSk_pI502el80WXXHR6KWKlL3smi1iGMonhnPZGVQ0Ltda93KEB8av_ZtvL1ACR4n2UVP3sswEy6Zsg2npqUY9Dyo0jCwKb654uvA/s320/IMG_20120920_105706.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The sea, in fact, is miles away. Didim itself is inland, consisting of long, flat, treeless, shadeless, desolate stretches of land and an endless number of cookie-cutter, concrete apartment/condo developments. Many developments sit half finished, investors apparently taking their money and moving it somewhere less depressing. Abandoned complexes are spread throughout town, separated by empty, weed-filled lots. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The actual Turks in this city seem to be in hiding, replaced by a </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">population of loud, pasty, overweight, non-Turkish-speaking, middle-class British people, who apparently are so desperate for sunshine that they will soak it up wherever they can, no matter how god forsaken. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8tXvRTSRiJ-anMVX-X72ltdyU1km8JuGXPC4pww4LKtHsi7pgh2Z5GIKyboPXo7V0xGIYqBNJ7Ia2s29gXDeWq6GCf_7KKwNcftjv3QJSKc6AK4_kI7nYiYehHvSyZiVZ__O1SFqC4Y/s1600/IMG_20120920_124734.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8tXvRTSRiJ-anMVX-X72ltdyU1km8JuGXPC4pww4LKtHsi7pgh2Z5GIKyboPXo7V0xGIYqBNJ7Ia2s29gXDeWq6GCf_7KKwNcftjv3QJSKc6AK4_kI7nYiYehHvSyZiVZ__O1SFqC4Y/s320/IMG_20120920_124734.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">The restaurant choices near the flat consist of </span><span style="font-size: large;">two British pubs, and an "Italian" pizza parlor. I check out the pubs. Every customer is a Brit well past their 55th birthday. Most appear to be drunk; all appear to have eaten their share of shepherd's pies. Rod Stewart's Greatest Hits plays from a speaker over the bar in a continuous loop.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This doesn't feel like I am in Turkey. It feels like I am trapped in somewhere between "The Benny Hill Show," and one of Dante's Seven Circles of Hell. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Back in Cappadocia the ex pats are not nearly as conspicuous, but I still have no trouble stumbling right over them. In the little town of <span dir="auto">Göreme </span>I walk down the hill from my cave hotel straight toward an establishment called "Fat Boys," politically incorrect down to its fat boy logo, which appears to be a white-washed version of Fat Albert from The Cosby Kids. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYeZPbTHliufXxXlsdsj0KgzuOsOi5-P4Ssupfr2_kJfCIG6SKhxGozBKQp_iQ_2pZui3rVmg_Hg_kz9iHLZRyRPDQ2wyrBN2pL-Xyu4Veqvih2hm4_wnZmLJu3toM9xM_cgSaeUytzu0/s1600/fat-boys-restaurant-goreme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYeZPbTHliufXxXlsdsj0KgzuOsOi5-P4Ssupfr2_kJfCIG6SKhxGozBKQp_iQ_2pZui3rVmg_Hg_kz9iHLZRyRPDQ2wyrBN2pL-Xyu4Veqvih2hm4_wnZmLJu3toM9xM_cgSaeUytzu0/s320/fat-boys-restaurant-goreme.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Inside a group of men banter in English around a pool table. One of the men is large enough that I incorrectly assume he must be the bar's namesake. In two of the four corners of the room there are couches and chairs grouped together like the faux living rooms of a furniture store.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On the wall I see the flags of Tibet, Brazil, Australia, and - inexplicably - Minnesota. Two women sit at a table in the middle of the bar, loudly lamenting the price of gasoline with cockney accents straight out of "My Fair Lady."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I wasn't looking for the ex pats, but it looks like I found them anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm greeted in English by a man whom I spot immediately as a local. He seems pleasantly surprised when I answer and place my order in Turkish. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I later learn that this is Yılmaz Şişman, the owner of the bar along with his Australian wife, Angela. Yılmaz's name, roughly translated into English, means "Indomitable Fat."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And that's how you legitimately get to own a bar in <span dir="auto">Göreme, Turkey</span> called Fat Boy's.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The billiard tournament continues and Eliza Doolittle and her friend are still yammering on about gas prices. But Yılmaz is friendly and lets me practice my Turkish without shame. The beer is cold, and the soccer match will be starting soon on the big-screen TV. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I decide I can live with a little English yammering in the background. I fluff up the cushions of my couch and - in Turkish, of course - order another Efes Dark from Mr. Indomitable Fat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimCfvez70oolSy5J83K5Mw3cTxJDSpx6VZnhOR_mCaMNZBVywyYYfscjSDLoHB2HP8XZkd8S7Qdn9WW9UEx0ti7U23SvT5ixkama90sUmcdUcCU1XSW0EWpWBy2nxyCfgroDYtoatBY6M/s1600/IMG_20130305_090523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimCfvez70oolSy5J83K5Mw3cTxJDSpx6VZnhOR_mCaMNZBVywyYYfscjSDLoHB2HP8XZkd8S7Qdn9WW9UEx0ti7U23SvT5ixkama90sUmcdUcCU1XSW0EWpWBy2nxyCfgroDYtoatBY6M/s320/IMG_20130305_090523.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Day Five of the Cappadocia Farewell tour. Winter has returned and the day is grey, snowy and cold. I decide this is as good a time as any to check out some of Cappadocia's 36 famed underground cities. If nothing else, I reason, the Underground People knew how to get out of the wind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I drive to the town of Kaymaklı (inexplicably translated into English as "creamy"), where unfortunately the Japanese tour buses have arrived before me. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Apparently it is Spring Break in Japan, and the underground city is filled with gaggles of young Asian women, giggling and making peace signs as they endlessly pose for pictures next to every possible underground archway.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It's like a clothed, less-drunk, Japanese version of Girls Gone Wild.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwpH_T5FejorCUe3qfh1pDOQfcqWwZ2L3BWvcX9rSHri4ZwUoJSZ6FF_jLzInFiDa0lSQlN4TzlrjYiTY0WM1SvTDQDxIy7cII77KGEWA_nlRLyotxA4NObgHUWpiYx2vrVe3L4wbgaU/s1600/IMG_20130305_094758.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwpH_T5FejorCUe3qfh1pDOQfcqWwZ2L3BWvcX9rSHri4ZwUoJSZ6FF_jLzInFiDa0lSQlN4TzlrjYiTY0WM1SvTDQDxIy7cII77KGEWA_nlRLyotxA4NObgHUWpiYx2vrVe3L4wbgaU/s320/IMG_20130305_094758.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">After my second underground city in Derinkuyu I've decided that I pretty much get the idea: people lived underground, and crawled through a lot of tunnels. My back hurts from bending and stooping. Here's one place I have discovered where being a tiny Asian woman has a distinct advantage over being a tall middle aged white guy. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm cold, tired, and hungry, and - call me what you will - what I really want is a big steaming bowl of caffe latte. </span><span style="font-size: large;">But seeing as the nearest Starbucks is several hundred miles away, I leave the underground city and wander into a nearby business that seems to be a combination tea house/souvenir stand. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Inside I see only two older Turkish men, and a head-scarfed woman. </span><span style="font-size: large;">There is not a tourist in sight. But there is a fire in the pot-belly stove in the middle of the room, and right now "warm and dry" looks pretty good to me. I take off my coat and order a tea.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The men resume speaking in Turkish after taking a moment to look me over. One resumes his apparently ongoing complaint about the general dearth of tourists, other than the buses full of Japanese who apparently don't frequent his tea house. I interject from the neighboring table, in Turkish, that maybe it's still a little too cold. They both look up at me in surprise, as if by some miracle the child long believed to be deaf and dumb has finally spoken.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You speak Turkish? one of the men asks me. Where are you from?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I see he is a religious man, wearing a skull cap and fingering a string of prayer beads.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm American but I've been living in Istanbul, I tell him. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Your Turkish is very good, he says to me. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I know he's just being polite but I thank him anyway. It's not nearly as good as he thinks it is as he begins pontificating in Turkish, assuming that I understand what he's saying. I'm catching maybe 40 percent of it. Maybe.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He seems happy to have someone different to talk to; maybe his wife and friend have heard it all many times before. He's telling me about the weather and the history of the underground cities and all the different people who have lived throughout the centuries in what is now Turkey: Hittites, Romans, Jews, early Christians, modern Muslims. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm getting a little worried as his monologue turns to religion. He is still fingering the prayer beads, the vocabulary is moving out of my range of ability. But he has a point he wants to make.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There are four great books, he tells me: the Torah, the Bible, the Koran, and one other I either can't understand or never heard of. But all of these books, he is telling me, come from the same place.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Do I know<em> Adem</em> and <em>Havva</em>? he asks me. I look at him confused, thinking maybe these are friends of his from Istanbul I might have come across. I shake my head. Adem and Havva, he repeats. <em>From the bible.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=6uqDnySGLn9ijM&tbnid=VMrPl7tWepZbnM:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fvisiblelove1.blogspot.com%2F2013%2F02%2Fadam-and-eve.html&ei=sL1UUbeEMaeViQLJmYEg&bvm=bv.44442042,d.cGE&psig=AFQjCNF4GPYGUEyMwAwj0it0sA6MFJTiJQ&ust=1364594447191951" id="irc_mil" style="border: 0px currentColor; clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLu6N_3MSG1pog-SHl_JV6Da6mnz4qq-lNt2LvhKC_32Emc7y_6VFl38cDo43uBUzN3ZU9Dqumnzf-qH6S3IgpOb5e-0oZxOeKhW1YXIPX3eEex4bU94C7UnOMeIpLNh8oLFMYPmcpynk/s1600/adam-and-eve.jpg" height="393" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="299" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The lightbulb goes off. Adem and Havva. Adam and Eve. Got it. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Adem and Havva are the parents of all us, he tells me. Arab, Turk, American. Muslim, Christian, Jew. This is why I don't understand wars, he says. We are all the same family. Why are we killing each other? Why are we killing our own family?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I smile, because I understand and agree with his point. But I don't know the answer to his question, and I tell him so. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He looks at my empty tea glass and asks me if I would like another, this one is on him. A glass of tea costs about the equivalent of 55 cents. I thank him and accept the offer, happy that I wandered off the path in this unexpected direction.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was back in the States in December my friend Mark bought me a knife for Christmas. To fully appreciate how absurd this is, you'd have to know me, and my friend Mark. I'm not sure what a "Knife Guy" looks like, but I'm reasonably sure he doesn't look like either one of us. Outside of the kitchen cutlery drawer, I'm not sure I ever owned one. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQnFZXkAtMHciCsBRO-OVkEy5idWnvGluztxIGp06Oy7o5uIYs-Hw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" class="rg_i" data-sz="f" name="ME1AgcvyAbG7jM:" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQnFZXkAtMHciCsBRO-OVkEy5idWnvGluztxIGp06Oy7o5uIYs-Hw" style="height: 179px; margin-top: 0px; width: 239px;" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The gift knife was way beyond the wimpy Swiss Army variety. With a wooden handle and a four-inch flip blade, this looked more like something I'd take with me to a rumble under the Interstate. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I had to look at the address on the label twice after opening the package to make sure it wasn't some kind of UPS shipping mistake.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I have one just like it," Mark later told me, explaining the gift. "I take it hiking, and use it to cut up apples." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">See, if I'm out on a hike and I want to eat an apple, I'm probably just going to bite it with my teeth, but okay. Thanks, Mark, I said, and Merry Christmas. I threw the knife in my checked luggage and headed back to Turkey.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Upon returning to Istanbul from Cappadocia to pack up my life, I have the bright idea to put all the heavy things in one carry-on bag. This way, I tell myself, they won't me charge me for exceeding the checked baggage weight limit! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I am so, so, so smart. I mindlessly empty the "heavy things" from my office and desk drawer into the carry-on luggage.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The morning of my departure I'm feeling pretty good about myself for getting to the Istanbul airport with three heavy-ass bags, checking into British Airways while incurring only a $60 bag charge, and easily clearing passport control. The good feeling, unfortunately, lasts only until my carry-on bag goes through the x-ray at the security checkpoint.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Sir," the female security agent says, stopping me. "Is this your bag?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Before I originally left for Turkey, multiple smart-ass friends with even less knowledge about the country than I gave me some version of the following: "Turkey? How could you go to Turkey? Didn't you ever see <em>Midnight Express</em>?" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">How ridiculous, I would reply. You're judging an entire country based on a 30-year-old prison movie? It would be like saying "How could you go to America; didn't you ever see <em>Silence of the Lambs </em>or<em> Beach Blanket Bingo</em>?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Besides, I proclaimed confidently in my very first blog entry: "I have promised all concerned to avoid the issue entirely by not having heroin strapped to my body as I arrive at customs."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Good plan. It's a shame I didn't say the same thing about knives.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"You have a knife in your bag?" the security officer asks me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"A <em>knife</em>? I answer, in the same tone I would if she had asked me if I had a marmot in my pants. "No! No, of course I don't have a ..." Oh crap.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She unzips the bag and paws through the desk detritus before pulling out Mark's Christmas gift, holding it out in front of me just in case I wanted to deny it again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Oh. <em>That</em> knife."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Okay quick, I say to myself: try not to look like a terrorist, try not to look like a terrorist, try not to look like a terrorist ... Dammit! Why did I grow this beard? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She unfolds the four-inch blade from the wooden handle and brandishes it toward me. It's pretty clear that Mark's apple slicer is several steps beyond the prohibited box cutter.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Sir," she says to me, "this is a problem."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This has turned out well, I think to myself. I joke in my first blog entry about <em>Midnight Express</em>, and I'll get to write the last one from inside an actual Turkish prison! Now there's some irony for you. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'm sorry," I say to the officer. "I thought that was in my checked luggage. I had no idea ..." I wonder if I'm going to be forced to explain the Christmas gift/apple slicer story in Turkish. "Really really really sorry."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She continues to hold the knife out in front of me, now grasping it between two fingers like evidence in a murder trial. I wait for her to tell me follow her to the interrogation/beating room, and hold my breath.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"We're going to have to take this," she says finally.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I exhale. Yes please, take it! I'm sure I can find another way to eat apples in the wilderness without violating international criminal statutes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Thank you," I say as I pack up my crap and slink off toward my gate. I say it more than once, I'm sure.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I take this as a sign that it really is time to go home.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Hadı görüşürüz</em>, everyone. See you again soon.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="false" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowliftCaption" class="spotlight" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/538646_507069522640698_1646541548_n.jpg" style="height: 407px; width: 543px;" /><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-12634267155932013082012-09-16T12:30:00.000-07:002015-08-06T09:46:29.740-07:00 Stevie Wonder, Live from the Hole in the Fence<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Don't tell anyone, but there is a gap in the fence on the hill separating a remote section of Istanbul's Maçka Park and the <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">Küçük</span><span class="hps">çiftlik Park concert grounds. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps"></span></span></span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNwMWsMyA1d_0YdEF_GFl7_M1ZBgPMX8B9eYHZb6ejpjpkbEOfkt_JPpu3IK0udeEqoKfVc8viEbIR0BNjSeaMpFpz12vEwZhvro0Njgsg07uqwv_0zLiqNZj8bsz8xXS1TXMWSZ4-oo/s1600/IMG_20120916_135103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNwMWsMyA1d_0YdEF_GFl7_M1ZBgPMX8B9eYHZb6ejpjpkbEOfkt_JPpu3IK0udeEqoKfVc8viEbIR0BNjSeaMpFpz12vEwZhvro0Njgsg07uqwv_0zLiqNZj8bsz8xXS1TXMWSZ4-oo/s320/IMG_20120916_135103.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">This being Turkey, someone probably intentionally tore this portion of the fence down a while ago. And this also being Turkey, of course no one has gotten around to repairing it yet.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">I noticed the gap in the fence one day as I was jogging through the park, which seems to be in a perpetual state of reconstruction. If I was a responsible person, my first thought probably would have been, "You know, they really need to fix that. Somebody might get hurt." Being an <em>irresponsible</em> person, however, my first thought was actually quite different.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">"Finally," I thought to myself, as I jogged past the fence and back up the hill. "A ticket to the Stevie Wonder concert I can actually afford."</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/fd/Three_Rivers_Stadium.jpg/300px-Three_Rivers_Stadium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/fd/Three_Rivers_Stadium.jpg/300px-Three_Rivers_Stadium.jpg" height="132" id="il_fi" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Let me state for the record that I am not a fan of the outdoor festival/stadium concert. At least not any more. The last time I attended one was to see U2 at Pittsburgh's Three Rivers Stadium, a concrete, AstroTurf-covered monstrosity so horrible for viewing anything that it was imploded and bulldozed more than a decade ago. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Arial; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I remember spending that U2 concert in one of the stadium's mezzanine seats, located approximately four and half miles from the stage. My seat also was unfortunately located behind a large, drunken woman in an ill-fitting tank top, who stood the entire show with her arms in the air hollering "WOO-HOO!! BONO!! UP HERE, BONO!! WOO!! WOOOO!!" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Yeah, like he can hear you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"I LOVE YOU, BONO!! MARRY ME, BONO!!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">And like you've got a shot. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Sit your ass down. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"WOOO!!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">And for God's sake: Shut. Up! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">After this experience I decided that as far as live music was concerned, I'd rather go listen to an unknown jazz trio in a small night club than to see the Greatest Stars in the History of Recorded Music in a cavernous football stadium. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Yes, this ruled out seeing out a lot of mega-acts that don't perform live unless fireworks can be set off during the show, but frankly I was old enough not to care any more. I'd seen Springsteen, I'd seen The Rolling Stones. Lighters over the head, exploding drum sets, lines at the outdoor chemical toilets ... yeah, thanks but, I think I'm done.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Yet the idea of seeing Stevie Wonder in Istanbul - playing in a large, outdoor concert venue - </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">was something else entirely. More of a concept than a concert, really. This was a chance to say for the rest of my life, whenever the subject came up at cocktail parties: "Stevie Wonder? Oh yeah, he was great. <em>When I saw him in Istanbul."</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The chance to say <em>that, </em>forever? You tell me, what are the odds that someone at the cocktail party is going to top that?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The chance to say something like that is so good, it's almost worth paying for. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I said almost.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Honestly, I had no clue whether the hole in the fence scam was going to work at all when I headed out the door on Friday night. There were all kinds of reasons to believe it wouldn't. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Cops patrolling the park? A tarp over the fence? Security guards waving people away and saying "there's nothing to see here," in Turkish? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I really wasn't even sure that from the angle you could actually see performers on<em> </em>the stage. (Yes, I probably should have looked into that.) No matter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I had already packed two frosty bottles of Efes into my computer bag. I figured the worst that could happen is that I would miss the concert, but still have the chance sit in the park and drink beer by myself like a hobo. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Except that, damn, I forgot my brown paper bag.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVGthMx5xZ9nyR4hdkph0CrqflzC-A6Ax3cQCxECCTpUZ5NwSRpHEMjvhB2QufAqiDuVEXgGWxpruz6LSBD96-ayP3f4hipJBlt8isBbPnMlMcML3TUkKkIk7J1kUgzjfAMPtzycL82o/s1600/2012-09-14+20.28.49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVGthMx5xZ9nyR4hdkph0CrqflzC-A6Ax3cQCxECCTpUZ5NwSRpHEMjvhB2QufAqiDuVEXgGWxpruz6LSBD96-ayP3f4hipJBlt8isBbPnMlMcML3TUkKkIk7J1kUgzjfAMPtzycL82o/s320/2012-09-14+20.28.49.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">By the time I walk to the end of the park and reach the gap in the fence it is about 8:30. Already about a half dozen people have planted themselves in front of the gap. An older man is sitting on what looks like a tree stump. Several adolescent boys have staked a claim to a front-row seat on a wooden pallet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">True, no one was going to mistake this for one of the luxury boxes at Cowboys Stadium. But looking at the view through the fence, I'll be damned if from this spot you don't have a pretty good shot of the stage, at a distance that is not really that far at all.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmduh3Kh6lsvnRVH-3zqiHFAi8D6KLE6yFli2yBPTTvZ9Xr7mVFBAxNM9eIxphfhrDmwxwElW8XO3uHoNYG09c3i5GJdVEKPWn-tMUMbJM3D1IbYnNBqNtfgrrZBMvnft4oGWutglLuk/s1600/IMG_20120914_220339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmduh3Kh6lsvnRVH-3zqiHFAi8D6KLE6yFli2yBPTTvZ9Xr7mVFBAxNM9eIxphfhrDmwxwElW8XO3uHoNYG09c3i5GJdVEKPWn-tMUMbJM3D1IbYnNBqNtfgrrZBMvnft4oGWutglLuk/s320/IMG_20120914_220339.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Honest to God. If this was a U2 concert in Pittsburgh, these seats would be going for $75 a pop.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">On the downside, I notice the people there when I arrive have stopped talking and are looking at me suspiciously, like I just walked on to the wrong gangs' turf. In the dark it's hard to tell whether this an enterprising group of Stevie Wonder fans, or nothing more than a well-located gypsy camp.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Is there another place to sit, maybe?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I look behind me to see a hillside, recently re-sodded during the on-going park restoration with lush, thick, green grass. I walk away from the fence and up the hill, then turn and sit to survey the scene. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">This is it; I have struck freeloaders' gold.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">While the concert has yet to start, I can hear the pre-show recorded music perfectly. There is no one around me, and from this high spot I have an absolutely clear view of the stage below. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">This is unbelievable, I think to myself. Why I am the only person in Istanbul to have figured this out?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">As I lie back on the grass, reach for my beer and wait for Stevie Wonder to appear, I have concluded that I truly must be The Smartest Boy in the World.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">That is until maybe 30 seconds later, when the Istanbul Parks Department turns on the lawn sprinklers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I would be lying if I told you I was born a Stevie Wonder fan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I grew up outside of Cincinnati, Ohio, in the WASP-iest, whitest of white, Wonder Bread suburbs. Our idea of exposure to "ethnic culture" was watching the Catholic families from Guardian Angels go to mass early in the morning and eat fish on Friday. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">For this reason Stevie Wonder and Motown was not really the music the kids at my school were listening to. In fact anyone caught listening to anything with more soul than Sammy Davis Jr.'s "The Candy Man" was immediately sent home from school and placed on three days' suspension.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But when I was 11 years old, I bought a 45-rpm record of Stevie Wonder's song, "Superstition." Of course the funky drum beat intro pulled me in, but it was the riff with the electric clavichord that really hooked me. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I'd never heard anything like it before, and if I think about it, I'm not sure I've heard anything like it since. Then you throw in the pulsating three-piece horn section, and Stevie's iconic wail after the bridge? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I played the grooves off of that record.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">To this day, I think "Superstition" is one of the coolest, hippest, most unique-sounding pop records ever made. As is the mark of all great songs, it never sounds dated. In the game where I'm cast away to a desert island and get to take ten records with me? This definitely makes the cut.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">After about 1980 or so, honestly I think a lot of Stevie Wonder's music became sugary and a bit over-commercialized. "Part-time Lover," "Overjoyed," and "I Just Called to Say I Love You," for example, have been banished from my iTunes play list, as I am worried about the risk of developing Type II Diabetes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But the Stevie Wonder of the late 60s and early 70s, IMHO, was absolutely cooking. Download "Talking Book" or "Innervisions" sometime and you'll see what I'm talking about. This guy had already earned his place in the Pantheon of Popular Music before I had made it to junior high school, and he wasn't going anywhere. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Yet in a career that literally spans 50 years (he started in 1962, when he was 12), Stevie Wonder had never once performed in Istanbul, or any else in Turkey, u</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">ntil now. And as luck would have it there was a hole in the fence, just above where he was going to do it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">My shirt has almost dried out by the time Stevie takes the stage around 9:30. I managed to survive the lawn sprinkler incident losing only my dignity, as I ran down the hill serpentine, dodging water jets and clutching my beer bag like I was in an Indiana Jones movie. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">A crowd of about 20 to 30 people has now gathered at the hole as the concert starts. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I have staked out a spot on the ground several yards away, between a scraggly tree and a large pile of yet-to-be installed paving stones. I decide to just sit for a while and listen before trying to jostle for a spot at the fence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">As the show opens both Stevie and the Istanbul crowd seem genuinely delighted that he's here. He gets halfway into his first song (Marvin Gaye's "How Sweet It Is") before telling the crowd that he wants to say "hello in your language." Someone apparently whispers in his ear, and Stevie repeats an imperfect but still understandable "<em>merhaba!"</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em>"Merhaba!" </em>the crowd shouts back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Stevie says it again. "<em>Merhaba!" </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"<em>Merhaba</em>!" comes the response.<br />He does it yet a third time. "<em>Merhaba</em>!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Okay, this is cute and all, but I'm starting to get a little uncomfortable, realizing this is how the conversation would sound anywhere in Turkey if you were training your parrot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"<em>Merhaba</em>!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Jeez, not again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"<em>Merhaba</em>!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"<em>I love you</em>!" Stevie says in English. Someone on stage feeds him the line in Turkish: <em>Ben seni seviyorum</em>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"Been ... sinning several of 'em." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Oh, Lord. Stevie please just sing.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsiSfaWph1mNKLi1MV3GdQWXwMEkN-9NJkA_mAKJpESTNjLZP40WbIxhcIV4Pw3Z2J2uy4sEEBe2Gbh4zbxGVYzJXLeZoc3nK9RDqJSjI07YjFaxvCd-neoEw-aDCuFy-J5TL5BHjELc/s1600/1345997104875.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsiSfaWph1mNKLi1MV3GdQWXwMEkN-9NJkA_mAKJpESTNjLZP40WbIxhcIV4Pw3Z2J2uy4sEEBe2Gbh4zbxGVYzJXLeZoc3nK9RDqJSjI07YjFaxvCd-neoEw-aDCuFy-J5TL5BHjELc/s1600/1345997104875.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I get up now and walk to the fence to join the rest of the freeloading crowd, which I notice is starting to grow a little restless. Several have turned away from the stage to light cigarettes or play with their dogs. What's going on right now is, you know, not particularly easy to dance to.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"<em>Merhaba</em>!" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Okay, Turkish banter is not the man's strong suit. Fortunately it doesn't need to be. He leaves behind the Marvin Gaye cover and shifts into his own reggae-flavored classic, "Master Blaster," then takes it up a notch with Innervision's "Higher Ground."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">After an unfortunate deviation with a tribute to Michael Jackson and the aforementioned "Overjoyed" (or as I think of it, the Air Jordan shoe commercial theme music), Stevie gets back on track with "Ma Cherie Amour," and "Don't you Worry 'Bout a Thing." By the time he gets to "Signed, Sealed and Delivered," the whole place is dancing, singing along, and eating out of his hand.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Up here at the fence, the kids are loving it, too. Truly, most of them <em>are</em> kids, relatively speaking, with a median age hovering in the mid 20s. It occurs to me that the last time Stevie Wonder had a hit single, most of these people were not even born. Yet here they are, with me at the fence, essentially sneaking into their grandfathers' concert.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGaokIqdPgULrBhLeKUjB-ts-anZYGNeXK7IXe5F2iEpXUQ1rFZ4SZDFIkPU8mYsw_FxTkeOGs9PzcCMGc79SKbwBJDcOenkpu5n-rlk1UEysf8ByjhpaB9nARlp4BhG5ye5hWr8cYYts/s1600/1347648578256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGaokIqdPgULrBhLeKUjB-ts-anZYGNeXK7IXe5F2iEpXUQ1rFZ4SZDFIkPU8mYsw_FxTkeOGs9PzcCMGc79SKbwBJDcOenkpu5n-rlk1UEysf8ByjhpaB9nARlp4BhG5ye5hWr8cYYts/s1600/1347648578256.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Just behind the crowd stands a weather-beaten tree. Two or three boys have climbed up the tree trunk for a better view. In the middle of "Sir Duke," one of the tree-branch boys inexplicably begins to yelp. No, really; this is a yelp like the yelp of a schnauzer, trapped in a closet somewhere.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Whether this is an expression of approval, derision, or Tourette's really is impossible to determine. But let's go with approval, as down below the trees, the kids are now dancing, cigarettes in one hand and beer cans in the other.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Stevie is giving the concert crowd what it wants as he cranks out "I Wish," "If You Really Love Me," and "Boogie On, Reggae Woman." But I look at my watch, and it's after 11:00 now. And I'm still waiting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Then I hear it. The lead-in drum beat starts, then a cheer goes up when Stevie hits the first notes on the clavichord.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I reach into my computer/beer bag and pull out the last of two bottles of Efes. I take a swig of the beer as the Turkish girls nearby dance on the wooden pallet. One of them reaches over with her beer can, and clinks my bottle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Four decades after I first played the 45 record on the floor of my bedroom, I hear Stevie Wonder belt out the lines of "Superstition," live, as I stand peering over a fence on a hillside in Istanbul, Turkey.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Now isn't this just the damnedest thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"<em>When you believe in things that you don't understand</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em>Then you suffer ..." </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">No suffering here, Stevie. Everything's good.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Superstition is the way.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-77587684430284918252012-08-24T08:19:00.001-07:002012-08-24T08:21:24.143-07:00The Viking Pirates Take Turkey<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You have to feel a little sorry for the hostess at Bistro Floyd, stationed here nightly at the ugly underbelly of international tourism. </span><br />
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<a href="http://94.100.123.73/178200001-178250000/178201401-178201500/178201478_6_54YZ.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img _prototypeuid="49" border="0" class="mediabrowser-img" height="240" id="img_fs_178201478" src="http://94.100.123.73/178200001-178250000/178201401-178201500/178201478_6_54YZ.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"What language do you speak?" the hostess asks us in English as we stand at the entrance of the Dutch restaurant.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I’m Swedish," Ola tells her, "but I also speak English, Dutch, some German ..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Yes, I speak English, too," I say, chiming in, "but also a little Turkish, some French, not a lot but I can get by ..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The hostess holds up her hands to stop us. I think she might next ask for our favorite color, or a description of what we would do if she were an ice cream cone. But no, apparently we are not on <em>The Dating Game,</em> and she's not looking for a recitation of our <em>Curriculum Vitae</em>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I just need to know what menu to give you," she says. "We have Dutch, Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, German and English."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Notably, Turkish is not mentioned as a menu option.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"You want English?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sure, let’s go with English. What country are we in again?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Welcome to Alanya, quite possibly the most un-Turkish place in all of Turkey.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Although purporting to be a Turkish city of some 100,000 on the Mediterranean coast, in August at least, Alanya is something else entirely. Currently this is a city</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> populated almost exclusively by Danes, Swedes, Norwegians and Finns: mostly tall, blond, blue-eyed and under 25, all with their Scandinavian skin toasting to a rosy red. </span><br />
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/d/d5/A-ha_take_on_me-1stcover.jpg/220px-A-ha_take_on_me-1stcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" id="il_fi" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/d/d5/A-ha_take_on_me-1stcover.jpg/220px-A-ha_take_on_me-1stcover.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="220" /></a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Outside of the shop owners, good luck finding any Turks to talk to in Alanya. You have a much better chance of sitting at a table next to Bjorn Borg, or one of the original members of A-ha. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Don't get me wrong: I love Scandinavia. I just never expected to find it located on the southern coast of Turkey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I know Ola from a year spent long ago at a university in Brussels, Belgium. I was there faking my way through a program in "International and Comparative Law," information that ever since has been gathering dust in the back-room filing cabinets of my brain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ola and I actually had gone to the Bistro Floyd our second night in Alanya with the twisted, nostalgic hope that a Dutch restaurant on the coast of Turkey might possibly be serving Belgian beer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">They were, in fact. Let's all drink to the Free Movement of Goods and Alcohol.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ola now lives back in his home country of Sweden, in the southern town of Malmö. In recent years he’s become quite the scuba diver, periodically posting envy-inducing underwater photos on Facebook from places like Malta and the Egyptian Red Sea.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">While I haven’t seen Ola in more than a decade plus, several weeks ago he wrote and told me he was planning a scuba-diving trip to Alanya, on the southern coast of Turkey. He knew I was in Istanbul, which he realized was not exactly close by. But he invited me to join him anyway because both places are in Turkey (technically), and, as he put it, "you seem to get around."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I seem to get around. Say what you will about me, <em>Spandau Ballet</em>, but I know this much is true.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Scuba diving in Alanya? I'm not exactly sure where Alanya is, but what the hell, Ola.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Wake me up before you go go.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">As long as I am shamelessly throwing out 1980s song-lyric allusions, you may ask yourself (last one, I promise): do I even <em>know</em> how to scuba dive?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Don't be ridiculous. <em>Of course</em> I know how to scuba dive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">That is to say, I <em>used</em> to know how to scuba dive, much in the same way that I used to know how to solve an algebraic equation. You know, back in the ninth grade.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">With one exception, all of my previous scuba diving experience pre-dates the current century. I figure it's all like riding a bicycle, which is basically correct. Except that the design of the bicycle has changed a bit during the past few decades. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Ola looks at me with disbelief on the dive boat, for example, as I search for a place to manually inflate my buoyancy vest.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Yeah, we hook that up to the air tank now, Grandpa.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHHtEKlR0BvhMr7MtV7zQ9FpdOqePlXxy3vhCWAECxCLkAZjXquHljHYCOfSTy_6D7THoy1azCqdRYzGoS3fuO90jbvtQfmROcjRNz6feUUmnmYSZ80j2WTk-MbCkD-MaefVo8-b52AFI/s1600/IMG_20120815_120459.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHHtEKlR0BvhMr7MtV7zQ9FpdOqePlXxy3vhCWAECxCLkAZjXquHljHYCOfSTy_6D7THoy1azCqdRYzGoS3fuO90jbvtQfmROcjRNz6feUUmnmYSZ80j2WTk-MbCkD-MaefVo8-b52AFI/s320/IMG_20120815_120459.jpg" width="205" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">And yes, I am only marginally humiliated when the Turkish <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">female dive guide, <em>A</em><span class="hps"><em>şkım </em>-- literally in Turkish, "My Love" -- </span>informs me that I am putting my wet suit on backwards.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">Damn kids and their crazy new wet suit fashions. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">When did they start putting the zipper in the backs of these things? </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">Apparently sometime just shortly after the cancellation of "Sea Hunt," but never mind.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">So I'm Old School. Or perhaps I'm just old. No matter. I don't care what My Love <span class="hps">says, I</span> still look damn good in a backward wet suit.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps"> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="hps">* * *</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">No one can really give us a good answer as to exactly how or when the Scandinavians took over Alanya. The driver from the airport tells me it used to be Germans, but they've now mostly moved on to other places.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Americans and Brits seem completely non-existent, as do the French, Italians and Spaniards. The Russians go to nearby Antalya. The Turks pretty much stay away in the summer all together, opting for Bodrum and Fethiye and other spots along the coast farther west.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">That apparently gives the fair-skinned Nordics a clear path to invasion, overwhelming Alanya through continuous waves of direct charter flights from the north. By mid August the population is so blond that I'm pretty sure Alanya would </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">be able to field an internationally competitive hockey team.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But it's not just any Scandinavian who is coming to Alanya. Those Scandinavians who are married, child-laden, middle-aged or elderly apparently are stopped at the border, or have found something else to do on holiday.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">No, instead Alanya seems specifically designed as giant Scandinavian Club Med for blond-haired, blue-eyed twenty-somethings, looking to spend a couple of weeks in Turkey with their friends getting tan and/or drunk. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Or laid. Preferably all three, I'm sure.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Ugu4hG_aXKwl9xqGJrtLNqLVn8vuMlIcSHLeIH9PWCujV4WOVU0K0qbEFb_9_kHPjCEVYQtyzUjXZaqsb1GAHg3nveDCoBN2_WZ-lQt9VMWXk8w8d-JrgBcjn8-hogJ_nhDUgURVsD0/s1600/IMG_20120815_144659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Ugu4hG_aXKwl9xqGJrtLNqLVn8vuMlIcSHLeIH9PWCujV4WOVU0K0qbEFb_9_kHPjCEVYQtyzUjXZaqsb1GAHg3nveDCoBN2_WZ-lQt9VMWXk8w8d-JrgBcjn8-hogJ_nhDUgURVsD0/s320/IMG_20120815_144659.jpg" width="204" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The harbor of Alanya is lined with massive, multi-decked party boats -- ships, really -- designed to pack in several hundred young adults, ply them with alcohol, deafen them with disco music and ship them out to sea.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Some of the boats appear to have sailed straight out of Disneyland, designed to look like a Viking <em>knarr, </em>or a pirate ship. Or sometimes, what the hell, let's just cover all our bases and make it ... like ... a Viking Pirate Ship!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">One company, the "Big Baba Boat Tour," advertises a daily "foam party," where soap suds bubble out of a pipe above the deck alongside the reflective rotating disco ball, as the dance music thumps away.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.boattouralanya.com/image/galeri/foamParty/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" id="fancybox-img" src="http://www.boattouralanya.com/image/galeri/foamParty/1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The party continues until someone vomits, slips and falls off the boat, or drowns in the rinse cycle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Remember those great parties you used to have in college, where you'd pour a box of powdered detergent into the Laundromat washing machine and set the dial to "spin?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Yeah, me neither.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Keep in mind, we are in an overwhelmingly Muslim country, smack in the middle of the holy month of <em>Ramazan</em>. Two weeks earlier I had been in the slightly more religiously observant city of Bursa, where it was nearly impossible to find someone to sell us a single beer, even after sundown.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">In contrast, the first business I see after arriving in Alanya belongs to a 24-hour liquor store located a block from my hotel, with the unambiguous name of "Hello, Alcohol!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">It may be Ramazan, but I assure you, there will be no problem here getting a drink. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">In addition to the party boats, the harbor area of Alanya is lined with non-floating discos and tourist restaurants selling the Cuisine of the Young: pizza, pasta, hamburgers, and -- for reasons I still can't explain -- "Tex-Mex." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I will admit, the last thing I ever expected to find in Turkey was a table of Norwegian frat boys devouring a tray full of Ultimate Nachos.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Perhaps now I truly have seen everything.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Back on the dive boat, we've had lunch and are headed back to the cliffs for our afternoon dive. There are 16 divers on the boat -- mostly Scandinavian, of course -- with a few Germans and assorted other nationalities sprinkled in. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">For the crime of speaking neither Swedish nor German, My Love has teamed me as a "dive buddy" with Pavel, a gap-toothed, slightly pot-bellied, Speedo-clad Eastern European of otherwise undetermined origin. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Pavel doesn't understand English and I have no idea what he is saying to me, but My Love figures this shouldn't be a significant problem breathing out of a scuba tank 30 feet underwater.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">True enough. But what is a problem is that you are supposed to swim along with your Dive Buddy and keep an eye on them in case a problem develops. My Dive Buddy, however, has an apparent inability to stabilize his underwater buoyancy. Pavel spends the majority of the morning dive continuously inflating and then de-flating his buoyancy vest, floating above and sinking below me like an underwater yo-yo. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Leading the group underwater, My Love keeps pointing to me, then to her eyes, then drawing her two index fingers together. This is the official scuba diver signal for "Keep your eye on your Dive Buddy!" I respond with the unofficial yet internationally recognized palms out and shrug of the shoulders.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I'm trying, My Love. Believe me I'm trying.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I keep looking around for Pavel, above me or below me, and then signaling to him with a forward wave of my hand and pat on my hip, like I'm trying to convince a stray dog to follow me home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"Come on, Pavel! Come on, boy! Up here, Pavel! Look, look! Let's go, Pavel! There's a treat back at the boat! Come on!"</span><br />
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<a href="http://zerode.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/dirtymind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" id="il_fi" src="http://zerode.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/dirtymind.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Despite the compatibility issues, in the afternoon Pavel and I are back together again, re-uniting for one more dive. We're like Hall & Oates, or Prince and Apollonia. Slightly less talent, yes, but with approximately the same number of Speedos.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The dive boat anchors in a secluded cove for an afternoon of cavern diving. Both the water and sky are beautifully clear and blue. As we climb back into our wet suits (zipper in back; hey, I remember) and strap on our tanks, the only sound are the waves lapping against the boat and the rocks of the nearby cliff.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQDmAKTnkhS7I3KDuG5yZ7hasesj1vehzpAMrsqWU6nOeh2kGDceX7AsYzCz21KGhomtNGWHUeCM8rPGeNlk3V-ObzFc5XrNdQJkM8bqnJriFy0Hz3iaWFDplSbcCc6_NxBnaP4m-ce4/s1600/IMG_20120815_132039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQDmAKTnkhS7I3KDuG5yZ7hasesj1vehzpAMrsqWU6nOeh2kGDceX7AsYzCz21KGhomtNGWHUeCM8rPGeNlk3V-ObzFc5XrNdQJkM8bqnJriFy0Hz3iaWFDplSbcCc6_NxBnaP4m-ce4/s1600/IMG_20120815_132039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQDmAKTnkhS7I3KDuG5yZ7hasesj1vehzpAMrsqWU6nOeh2kGDceX7AsYzCz21KGhomtNGWHUeCM8rPGeNlk3V-ObzFc5XrNdQJkM8bqnJriFy0Hz3iaWFDplSbcCc6_NxBnaP4m-ce4/s320/IMG_20120815_132039.jpg" width="320" /></a> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">It's all quite idyllic and amazing. I would swear I was in a Jacques Cousteau film, if only Pavel wore a stocking cap and spoke a little French.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Just then I notice something off in the distance, at first not so much a sound as a ... sensation. A throbbing sensation. Like the throbbing of the vein in your forehead, at the beginning of a particularly memorable migraine headache. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The throbbing sensation slowly becomes audible. Then I see the source of the throbs, rounding the cliffs and sailing into our cove. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCMjrf4cF8XWoa9dMIONjMKtpGKVFMnUP7RZZ1vBDWbHUYbUoQDl1k_cjsJ6w1et8TJTeT0b5THQFD7QiZ4j4Zb4O3hwpAbcQmTGR7UI1IlPiAIghiHJfhnf8mZoMhq6C7v_SarxVGhN0/s1600/IMG_20120815_154016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCMjrf4cF8XWoa9dMIONjMKtpGKVFMnUP7RZZ1vBDWbHUYbUoQDl1k_cjsJ6w1et8TJTeT0b5THQFD7QiZ4j4Zb4O3hwpAbcQmTGR7UI1IlPiAIghiHJfhnf8mZoMhq6C7v_SarxVGhN0/s320/IMG_20120815_154016.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">One of the party boats -- not of the Viking/pirate ship variety but a party boat all the same -- cruises around the bend and puts down anchor less than 50 yards away from the dive boat. Music of course is blaring from the giant, IMAX-quality loud speakers housed somewhere on board. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Even though it’s scarcely past noon, bikini-clad Scandinavian twenty-somethings are already dancing on the deck, plastic beer cups held high. Several revelers immediately leap -- or perhaps stumble -- off the ship's deck into the water below, squealing all the way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Just like that, the idyllic dive cove becomes Paradise Lost, as if someone has towed in a fully-operational disco into your back yard on a Sunday afternoon while you were napping in the hammock.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The speakers on the boat thump out a continuous stream of ... okay, let’s call them "songs," all with the same throbbing, non-stop techno beat, and just a slight variation of the following lyrics:</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I’VE GOT TO PARTY, PARTY!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’M GONNA TO PARTY, PARTY!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">SHE WANTS TO PARTY, PARTY!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">THEY NEED TO PARTY, PARTY!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">WE HAVE TO PARTY, PARTY!! ..." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">
The subtleties may be lost on you, but I think you get the general idea. An apparent drunken attempt to conjugate the verb, "to party."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Okay, now everyone together: the future conditional!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"WE MIGHT JUST PARTY, PARTY!! ..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Pavel and I both stare dumbfounded at the party boat for a few moments, then strap on our fins and step off into the water. There is nothing really to say. As far as I know, there is no official scuba diver signal for "Let's go before they start doing Jell-O shots."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The party boat is still there when we surface 45 minutes later.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But things have progressed, as they are now playing "The Chicken Dance," (or as we say in Swedish, "<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>Fågeldansen</em></span>"), the international signal that everyone at the wedding reception is drunk enough to dance around tables flapping their arms like a chicken.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Say what you will about these people, but even with polka music, they know how to party, party.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I have a feeling suds from the overflowing washing machine can't be far behind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Around dusk that evening we take a taxi to the cliffs above the city, up to the walls of a castle that have towered over the Alanya's bay since some time in the 12th Century.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Ola clicks a photo of the harbor below us, the neon lights of the discos just now blinking into visibility.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"You know, this type of tourism kind of depresses me," Ola says. "Because the thing is, this is a very beautiful place." </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVMI8SXNcGQuYTHksja8axk9wZgHXwT4vzVo77NzENvJmauhA17JleFVRWn_iIQzZzxDWJfNUrbI34_N3W-ljtm6EkA7lfZa9ykvKLN5nztoSppGMIbPELtlEHGzbrsLVfOUkkD6y4tE/s1600/IMG_20120814_194717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVMI8SXNcGQuYTHksja8axk9wZgHXwT4vzVo77NzENvJmauhA17JleFVRWn_iIQzZzxDWJfNUrbI34_N3W-ljtm6EkA7lfZa9ykvKLN5nztoSppGMIbPELtlEHGzbrsLVfOUkkD6y4tE/s320/IMG_20120814_194717.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">He's right: Alanya still is a beautiful place, despite all attempts to scrub it of its Turkishness and turn it into some kind of hedonistic amusement park.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Up here on the cliffs above the city, you can almost forget that somewhere below there is a miniature golf course with a hole that requires you to putt your ball through the nostrils of a Norse god.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">In the harbor I can see a line of tourists disembarking from a large black bus, walking across the concrete quay straight up the gangplank of a waiting party ship. They haven't cranked up the speakers on the boat yet, at least not to the level where I can hear it on the cliffs 2,000 feet above.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But hey, the night is still young.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"It is something, though," Ola says as he snaps another photo.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Again, I agree with Ola. It is something, that's for sure.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But whatever it is, I'm not sure it's Turkey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span>David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-5973364022180847132012-08-11T13:57:00.001-07:002012-08-11T13:57:18.153-07:00The Evil Eye Olympics<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
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<a href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRu8eOzJtb010yArDk81onYu61WdRZUkD01YeTkbxhQFSSkqPZwIB9-ma9UGw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" id="il_fi" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRu8eOzJtb010yArDk81onYu61WdRZUkD01YeTkbxhQFSSkqPZwIB9-ma9UGw" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="197" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">About halfway through the 2012 Summer Olympics, the air conditioner in my sweltering Istanbul apartment became possessed by Satan. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Back in London, the medal count of the Turkish Olympic Team remained cemented at zero.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I'm not saying these things are necessarily connected. But I can't help thinking that if I was sitting in New York or Beijing, the A/C would have been working flawlessly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The wall-mounted air conditioner, known in Turkish as a <em>klima</em>, decided on the sweltering Friday night a week into the Games that, until further notice, it would be turning itself off and on when it damn well felt like it. All frantic button-pushing attempts to stop and/or start the klima would be mocked accordingly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">All right, I can't absolutely state that the air conditioner is possessed by <em>the </em>Satan. For now I'm willing to call it extreme mechanical freakishness and leave it at that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Still, if the temperature control turns itself to 666 degrees, I'm telling you I'm out of here.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxil6WCQJ2kpogTyD7zMMHWHQwVdoA0fd5Cv5f-n4uWOxrFNIABHUfNDQzafL4-p1Ccg0vCM1yDXggECQ2BNsHmwf6wRBgJbugHaxWMIFOlilgIvyR8ObWElm9BBjDzeh7dACy0WJJOrQ/s1600/IMG_20120808_000326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxil6WCQJ2kpogTyD7zMMHWHQwVdoA0fd5Cv5f-n4uWOxrFNIABHUfNDQzafL4-p1Ccg0vCM1yDXggECQ2BNsHmwf6wRBgJbugHaxWMIFOlilgIvyR8ObWElm9BBjDzeh7dACy0WJJOrQ/s320/IMG_20120808_000326.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Meanwhile back on the TV screen, the Turkish Olympic coverage team -- which seems to consist of two guys with hand-held microphones and a studio host with his laptop computer standing in front of cardboard backdrop -- is asking yet another Turkish athlete yet another time why they finished 15th in a 16-man competition.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">This explanation is much the same as others previously offered: there is no explanation. A</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">nd they feel really bad about it.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAEx-fCpRDM2OrZpYD7vd3WHV4YuXJPFQ2xsUXvZ2Q2C3I4WNbsrWOGQ1RxXOjgvTRTMRa5v-FQpQKP9MhTGYl0bB_0ibXvTtAEn1Bs1UTgn0hThJ3buBOM3OLzFSEi53EgaxqIXh3AU/s1600/IMG_20120808_000037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAEx-fCpRDM2OrZpYD7vd3WHV4YuXJPFQ2xsUXvZ2Q2C3I4WNbsrWOGQ1RxXOjgvTRTMRa5v-FQpQKP9MhTGYl0bB_0ibXvTtAEn1Bs1UTgn0hThJ3buBOM3OLzFSEi53EgaxqIXh3AU/s320/IMG_20120808_000037.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I don't know what happened the athlete tells the Turkish nation, and I'm really, really sorry. Or words to that effect. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The <em>klima</em> turns itself on, blows on high for 10 seconds, then switches off again.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Thank you for those comments, the interviewer tells the dejected athlete before turning to the camera. Now, back to our coverage of medals being won by Mongolia, Moldova, Malaysia, and a Caribbean island apparently named after a four-door sedan from the 1980s.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">You remember the Ford Granada. Sure you do.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">By current estimates, Turkey has a population of about 75 million. That is significantly larger than the populations of France, Italy, Great Britain, South Korea, North Korea, Kazakhstan, Hungary, The Netherlands, South Africa, New Zealand, Denmark, Romania, Belarus, Cuba, Jamaica, Poland, Ukraine, Australia, Canada, The Czech Republic, Sweden, Kenya, Slovenia, Croatia, Switzerland, Lithuania, Colombia, Spain, Slovakia, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Belgium, Armenia, Mongolia, Norway, Serbia, Guatemala, Malaysia, Thailand, Taipei, Greece, Moldova, Hong Kong, Qatar, Singapore, Tunisia, and Uzbekistan. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> <br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">After the first week of competition, all of these countries had won at least one Olympic medal, in something. Meanwhile, Turkey was still waiting for its first. In anything. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Anything at all. </span><br /><br />Judo. Fencing. Synchronized swimming. Women's Weight Lifting. Broomball. Please, we'll take anything. Have mercy and just throw us a bone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Tunisia, a country of 10 million that just last year went through the turmoil of a revolution, already had won a medal. Georgia, a country of 4 million on Turkey's northeast border that most people would mistakenly place between Florida and South Carolina, already had a gold.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">On the other hand, in Turkey's defense (I guess), Bangladesh, the world's eighth most populous country with 130 million people, had yet to win a medal, either. And India, with a population more than 10 times that of Turkey (around 1 billion), itself had taken only three. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But that kind of makes it worse, doesn't it? It's hard to whip up much national pride with a rallying cry of, "Yay! We're tied with Bangladesh! With zero!"</span><br />
<br />
Yet as the week goes on, the medal drought continues. The woman's volleyball team, featured as a serious medal hope in bank and MacDonald's ads on Turkish television, gets bounced after the first round. The woman's basketball team, also counted on for medal contention, is ousted shortly thereafter.<br />
<br />
On Day 6, Nagahan Karadere, a female sprinter who holds the Turkish national record in the 400-meter hurdles, leaves the starting block early, disqualifying her from her event. She is unceremoniously led away from the track by a race official (dressed, inexplicably, like a leprechaun), to the waiting microphone of the Turkish TV sideline reporter.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">If they handled out medals for self flagellation, the Turks would be raking them in.<br />
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiACORSIq7418BUMLBcj1hSHNsyoG8hqq6vfpBGJ9KpcAqLpHThJ-DlVCNRmLqDCM2ExYaIbq8INCtlYTArdgnbUXU2h7gI8pceRamW_GyJxwRI8RtZZ4rdpMbdQh8i-JMzaotKreBBTjQ/s1600/IMG_20120805_212930.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiACORSIq7418BUMLBcj1hSHNsyoG8hqq6vfpBGJ9KpcAqLpHThJ-DlVCNRmLqDCM2ExYaIbq8INCtlYTArdgnbUXU2h7gI8pceRamW_GyJxwRI8RtZZ4rdpMbdQh8i-JMzaotKreBBTjQ/s320/IMG_20120805_212930.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"I don't know what happened," Nagahan tells the reporter as she wipes tears from her face. "I worked so hard ... and I'm really, really sorry." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>You're</em> sorry, I'm thinking, as the <em>klima </em>switches itself off again. It's the middle of August, and my air conditioner doesn't work. <br />
<br />
And I don't know whether to contact an appliance repairman, or an exorcist.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span></div>
</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Blue_eyes.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" class="thumbimage" height="188" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c8/Blue_eyes.JPG/250px-Blue_eyes.JPG" width="250" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Turks are big fans of the <em>nazar boncuğu</em>, a blue and white eye-shaped amulet that hangs over doorways and off of bracelets, necklaces and ear rings across the country. The purpose of the nazar is to protect those under it from the unwanted consequences of the Evil Eye.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">It's hard to get a consistent answer on what exactly the Evil Eye does, where it comes from, or what is necessarily <em>evil</em> about it. But it's pretty commonly accepted that whatever the Evil Eye is, it's not a good thing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Bad things happen. Weird things. Inexplicable things.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">And if you can a stave off a curse, or even run-of-the-mill bad luck, by hanging a 75-cent piece of blue glass around your neck? You know, what the hell, you probably should do that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">At my previous apartment in Istanbul, a nazar hung over the outside door of the building, and on a door frame inside the apartment. <em>Not once</em> in the entire six months I was there did I have a major appliance adversely affected by demonic possession.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">There are no nazars in my current apartment, however. And from what I can see on my TV screen, the Turkish athletes aren't wearing them, either.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">You can call it a ridiculous superstition if you want to. But if I was the head of the Turkish Olympic Team currently 0 for 778 in medal attempts? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">You know what I'd be going out and buying at the trinket store.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBk9Z_mol02Z5PZAj6m-4El3AFFx6D47BmB7-nImR9JzkOyGUh5FR-0sYqjFCzZhZFhE9BGif-BIPOsBLfFCHfZPoGBVBN0Y9QIWGDrSJfMRwpN5CeOTZgU5KeoPz_namfW_KA834280/s1600/IMG_20120811_161809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWBk9Z_mol02Z5PZAj6m-4El3AFFx6D47BmB7-nImR9JzkOyGUh5FR-0sYqjFCzZhZFhE9BGif-BIPOsBLfFCHfZPoGBVBN0Y9QIWGDrSJfMRwpN5CeOTZgU5KeoPz_namfW_KA834280/s320/IMG_20120811_161809.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Here's the scary thing about the current state of the possessed air conditioner: it can not be unplugged. There is no plug. It is mounted in the wall without any controls, or even a simple on/off switch.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> And before you ask, this is not a case of the remote not working because the batteries are dead. I have taken the batteries completely out of the remote, and the <em>klima</em> still turns itself on. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">And off. And on again. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I eventually figure out that the only way to stop the madness is to cut off the electricity entirely, by throwing Switch Number 3 at the fuse box. Yes, this cuts off the electrical current to the <em>klima</em>. It unfortunately also takes out the TV, the hot water heater, and half the lights in the apartment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">As the weekend starts, the<em> klima</em> is turning itself off and on every few minutes, signaled each time by a series of happy little chirpy chimes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em>Biddledy, biddledy, bing</em>!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">(Air conditioner is on).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em>Biddledy, biddledy, bong</em>!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">(Air conditioner is off).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">You wanted to sleep? <em>Biddledy, biddledy, bing</em>!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Oh no. There will be no sleep. <em>Biddledy, biddledy, bong</em>!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">You might want to invest in some earplugs. <em>Biddledy, biddledy, bing</em>!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Talk to you in few minutes! <em>Biddledy, biddledy, bong</em>!</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Gradually, like a glue-sniffing mental patient, the <em>klima</em> begins to pick up the pace of its mood swings as the weekend progresses, until the off/on sequence comes in seconds instead of minutes, eventually becoming instantaneous. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em>Biddledy, biddledy, bing</em>! <em>Biddledy, biddledy, bong</em>! <em>Biddledy, biddledy, bing</em>! <em>Biddledy, biddledy, bong</em>! <em> Bing! Bong! Bing! Bong! Bing! Bong!</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">On TV, another Turkish athlete, this time a weight lifter, is being asked why he failed to qualify and is going home early. I already know the answer, having heard it so many times before. I head for the fuse box to shut off the chiming madness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Because the TV and the klima share the same breaker switch, this will end our Olympic broadcast for the day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Or at least until I can go down to the amulet store.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Clearly watching the Olympics in Turkey is not the same as it is in the U.S., China, or Russia, countries that expect to count up their medals like dollar bills at a cock fight. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"What'da we got now? 95? 100? Crap, only 95?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Of course the Turks know they are not going to out-medal the super powers. Still, being shut out of the medal table entirely is not something that going down the national gullet particularly well.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The hunt to televise a national athlete being competitive in <em>something</em> does lead to some odd event coverage decisions for the Turkish national network, TRT. Early on a U.S. men's basketball game is pre-empted to show women's weightlifting, where the Turkish women were given an outside shot at receiving a medal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">They didn't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Likewise women's gymnastics, which receives nearly round-the-clock coverage on U.S. television because of the success of the American team, is almost impossible to find on TRT, especially when the Turkish athletes might possibly, maybe, still get a medal in boxing! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">They didn't. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The overall lack of competitiveness does seem to defy explanation. If Belarus can produce a 300-pound woman to throw the shot put 50 meters, is there any rational reason why Turkey can't do the same?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Some Turks are criticizing the government for the poor Olympic record. Others are claiming the athletes don't receive enough support from the public in general. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I don't know, maybe. But I'd be looking into the Evil Eye thing all the same.</span><br />
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* * *<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">New batteries now have been placed in the remote control of the <em>klima</em>, and I flip the electric breaker back on to see what happens. Sadly even with the new batteries, the <em>klima </em>continues to operate on its own accord. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But there is some improvement. Now at least, I find that if I point the remote and randomly push enough buttons, I can silence the bings and the bongs for stretches of five or ten minutes before it starts chiming again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I sit watching the Olympics with the <em>klima</em> remote in hand, like a nurse armed with a hypodermic and a strong sedative at the bedside of a schizophrenic metal patient.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I've even begun talking to it now, attempting to soothe it into submission.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"<em>Shhh. (Bing) Shhh. (Bong) It's aaall right. It's aaaaall right.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em>Yes, that's it. Shhhhhh.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em>Now calm down and let me watch the hammer throw</em>."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">On Day 11, I watch as a Turkish Roman-Greco wrestler named Rıza Kayaalp grabs a large Georgian man by his hairy shoulders and pushes him a half-step outside of the wrestling ring. This gives the Turk the lead in the match, 1-0. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Vcdsu6ZRnFuQ40prrUcq-Hk82ejvjFkd8noh6xmSQ-Wz8fF-KTsNakVZHXz1hJQda3EeBsf3ILNQAJRvgRVRnAzkk2nctuGv7dpxnByb1-4yTbAjAXF0CjvIAYBh88KKBpM_-hGO-zU/s1600/IMG_20120806_223500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Vcdsu6ZRnFuQ40prrUcq-Hk82ejvjFkd8noh6xmSQ-Wz8fF-KTsNakVZHXz1hJQda3EeBsf3ILNQAJRvgRVRnAzkk2nctuGv7dpxnByb1-4yTbAjAXF0CjvIAYBh88KKBpM_-hGO-zU/s320/IMG_20120806_223500.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Apparently this is the Roman-Greco wrestling equivalent of a slam dunk, or a right cross to the jaw. The Turkish commentator on TRT is getting more and more excited as seconds tick off the match clock.</span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">"We are just seconds away!" the commentator yells in Turkish, anticipating a victory. "Just seconds away!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Cheers go up from the arena's Turkish cheering contingent as the clock hits zero. <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Rıza Kayaalp has just taken bronze in the 120 kg (265.5 pound) Roman-Greco Wrestling weight division, Turkey's first medal of the games of any kind.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The country's long national nightmare is finally ended ... by a 265-pound, baby-faced 23-year-old kid in blue leotards.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://medya.todayszaman.com/todayszaman/2012/08/10/servet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://medya.todayszaman.com/todayszaman/2012/08/10/servet.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next day Turkey wins a second medal -- this one a gold -- by 23-year-old <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Servet Tazegül in the taekwondo flyweight division. Granted, most Turks would have trouble pronouncing taekwondo, let alone tell you exactly what it is, but a medal is a medal. And this is a gold one at that.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A day later, Turkey gets a second taekwondo medal when a female welterweight named Nur Tatar takes a silver.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Then on Day 13, Turkey shocks the world -- or at least the part of the world that includes Turkey -- by placing first <em>and </em>second in the Women's 1500 meter run. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Aslı Çakır Alptekin takes the gold, while the woman with my new, all-time favorite name, Gamze Bulut -- which in Turkish literally means "Dimple Cloud" -- wins the silver.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://medya.todayszaman.com/todayszaman/2012/08/10/bltt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://medya.todayszaman.com/todayszaman/2012/08/10/bltt.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">With not one but TWO Turkish women at the head of the pack of runners sprinting to the finish line, I am almost sure the announcer on Turkish TV is going to hyperventilate and/or have a heart attack.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">It is the first Olympic gold medal for Turkey in a track and field event, EVER. I don't know much about history. But I do know that <em>ever</em> is a really, really long time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, it took a while to see it. But in the end two tiny Turkish women named Aslı and Gamze blew away the competition and proved that, </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">at this moment in time, at this particular thing, they are indeed the very best in the world. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thi</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">s a pretty astonishing feat for anyone, from any place. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But maybe it's easier to appreciate in a country that is deliriously happy when its athletes win one medal, in contrast to those that are disappointed when its athletes fail to win them all.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">As I watch the ecstatic TRT reporter interview Aslı and Gamze (when was the last time you ever saw Bob Costas congratulate an American athlete by <em>hugging </em>them?), </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> I look up to see the klima is humming away without incident. I push the "on" button it goes on; I hit the "off" button it goes off. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">As quickly as they came, the air conditioning demons that tormented me for days have moved on. I have no idea why. Some things you simply can't explain. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But for now it's safe to put the amulets away. Until further notice, I think the curse is over.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-72031571596715046762012-07-22T09:26:00.001-07:002014-08-04T13:39:10.953-07:00The Adventures of Sunstroke Boy<span style="font-size: large;">I am lying motionless in the Mevlana theme room of the Villa Aşina Hotel, a few kilometers outside the Turkish village of Datça. The air conditioner above the bed blows mercifully over the sizzling surface of my skin, already baked a rosy red in less than a day and a half. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first day on the beach here I slathered myself with 35 SPF sunscreen, thinking that would keep me safe. Instead, you would have thought that I had smeared my body with cocoa butter and fallen asleep in the tanning bed. The next day I bumped the SPF up to 50. Surely SPF 50 (50!) would protect the pastiest of pasty white skin. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This might be true, most places on Earth. But not, apparently, here on the surface of the planet Mercury.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">By mid afternoon of Day Two I have retreated from the beach back to the air-conditioned shelter of my mauve-colored theme room. I lie on the bed in a semi-delirious state with heat radiating off my back. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I don't want to move, despite the waffle pattern being imprinted into the side of my beet-red face by the itchy textured bedspread.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">My mind wanders. With my head turned sideways, I stare at a framed inscription on the wall of my room, labeled "The Seven Advice of the Mevlana." </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiF4jINAZ9bRw3hnG96ZGuOvWXEukPdDswZCiuWAuTwQVSPm7QH3n4oqjOEF2hNFqbvVYQjCEi7gpigkOCjuvnrHDbDxNYBHmAv6zfzvbYMjF1hrhqZvlla2_rBZatCkaNYy-s75Tq4V3h/s1600/3mevlana_advices.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiF4jINAZ9bRw3hnG96ZGuOvWXEukPdDswZCiuWAuTwQVSPm7QH3n4oqjOEF2hNFqbvVYQjCEi7gpigkOCjuvnrHDbDxNYBHmAv6zfzvbYMjF1hrhqZvlla2_rBZatCkaNYy-s75Tq4V3h/s400/3mevlana_advices.jpg" height="272" id="il_fi" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /></a><em><span style="font-size: large;">Advice Number 1:</span></em><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>In generosity and helping others, </em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">be like a river.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Okay, be like a river. Got it.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">Advice Number 2:</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">In compassion and grace, </span></em><em><span style="font-size: large;">be like sun.</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ugh. Please don't mention the sun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I continue down the list as the air conditioner hums on the wall behind me. At last, I reach the final advice:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> "<em>Either exist as you are, or be as you look</em>."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In my delirium, this otherwise nonsensical wisdom becomes clear to me. Yes, I see now. With my beet-red back and my waffle-coned face, I am not a pretty sight. Yet I exist as I am, not<em> </em>as I look. For I am <em>not</em> a pasty white-skinned American tourist trapped in his air conditioned hotel room on the coast of Turkey. Oh no.</span><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I will rise above the adversity of my affliction.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am a super hero.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am Sunstroke Boy.</span><br />
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* * *<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.guleta.com/turkey/aegean/mugla/datca/img/datca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.guleta.com/turkey/aegean/mugla/datca/img/datca.jpg" height="188" id="il_fi" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="282" /></a><span dir="auto">Datça is a village of about 14,000 in southwest Turkey, located on a narrow peninsula that features the Mediterranean Sea on one side, and the Aegean on the other. A perfect spot for people who want to stare at a different beautiful and idyllic body of water on alternate days of the week.</span><br />
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Of course there are tourists in Datça, mostly Turks from other parts of the country, with a few Americans, Brits and other Europeans sprinkled in. But unless you are arriving by yacht (unfortunately not my personal mode of transportation), <span dir="auto"><span dir="auto">Datça is not particularly easy to get to.</span></span> </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9vu3yZ-C0aWtziAsMlybzGy1PgHgSj7Y5g3VsPEJ2hWJlIm9TKcB-qRwHxm_SXVNE-Z-vu8YQtujA9mXsQNoQWevZPD2wwm2u5uAsMT8HScEavocr1yWZ-7z4Q1VhNDhEdJDyQsnwgF4/s1600/P6080797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9vu3yZ-C0aWtziAsMlybzGy1PgHgSj7Y5g3VsPEJ2hWJlIm9TKcB-qRwHxm_SXVNE-Z-vu8YQtujA9mXsQNoQWevZPD2wwm2u5uAsMT8HScEavocr1yWZ-7z4Q1VhNDhEdJDyQsnwgF4/s320/P6080797.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span dir="auto"><span dir="auto">The village </span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span dir="auto"><span dir="auto">is a three-hour drive along a twisty mountain road from the nearest airport in Dalaman, Turkey. So if you want to spend a few days on a secluded rocky cove with crystal clear water overlooking a Greek island in the distance -- you know, if you're a freak that's into that sort of thing -- then you have to work for it a little bit.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Truly, I can't say enough about the water. The sea is unbelievably clear, cool, and beautiful. Upon sight of the coast it takes a certain amount of restraint not to immediately tear off your clothes and run naked into the sea. In fact I'm sure this would happen more often than it does, if there wasn't the surprisingly unpleasant matter of the sun. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My God, the sun. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, it is the middle of summer and I realize that it is supposed to be hot. But not this hot. The locals say it has never been so hot. In addition to no clouds and a scorching sun, for three days a steady wind has been blowing in from the south, coming right off of the desert on the Arabian Peninsula.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In most parts of the planet, a summer breeze makes things cooler. But here, for the moment at least, the opposite is true. Instead, the wind is <em>blazing,</em> like a giant hand-held blow dryer with the switch set to "frizz."</span><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">With this heat lamp/hair dryer combo, the midday temperature each day has been coming in right around 40 degrees. Yes, this sounds like a typical summer day in San Francisco, until you realize that we're talking about 40 degrees <em>Celsius</em>. That's 104 to you and me, my American friends, and I don't care where you live: 104 is frickin'<em> hot.</em></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSH2dsVklzGwUBQFx8MTJQ1P2N8dpDPXi2uYD8c1SnmqsMIx4PavGBd5btwVZVMdadyYC5FV1KfHbwuHgZCHuSnLKR8jKndsaMMNFxC7_Dr9jQk-e2tvzrd8mVODyjF0HWxWceVo00SNU/s1600/P6040794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSH2dsVklzGwUBQFx8MTJQ1P2N8dpDPXi2uYD8c1SnmqsMIx4PavGBd5btwVZVMdadyYC5FV1KfHbwuHgZCHuSnLKR8jKndsaMMNFxC7_Dr9jQk-e2tvzrd8mVODyjF0HWxWceVo00SNU/s320/P6040794.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
But from my balcony at the Villa Aşina I can see the turquoise water of the Mediterranean, with the Greek island of Symi in the distance. <em>Of course</em> I'm going to the beach. I have a hat. I have sunscreen.<br />
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Hell, upon arrival my skin is probably white enough to reflect the sun all together, like one of those heat visors you fold across the dashboard of your car. I'll be <em>fine</em>.<br />
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The first day it's not even 10:30 in the morning before I retreat back into the shade for the rest of the day. Day Two is even more abbreviated than that.<br />
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It's not until an alter ego is invented in my Fortress of Solitude (otherwise known as the Mevlana Room) that I am prepared to challenge the sun again on Day Three.<br />
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* * *</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Sunstroke Boy emerges from his air-conditioned sanctuary on the third day prepared to save the world, or, at the very least, get to the beach after breakfast. To accomplish this feat, he is wearing his Cloak of Invincibility, which might be mistaken for a stretched-out and faded T-shirt, bought years ago on sale at The Gap.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Protected by the cloak (along with a straw hat from Hawaii and a pair of Turkish sunglasses found in the back-seat pouch on the flight in from Istanbul), Sunstroke Boy strides out into hot wind and early morning sun. Distracted by the view of the sea in the distance, Sunstroke Boy promptly walks into a poolside chaise lounge, bashing his shin into its heavy wooden frame. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Apparently the cloak of invincibility may work against sunburn, but is no protection against painful klutz-related injuries.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">His shin is now bleeding, inches below another cut apparently inflicted the day before. Sunstroke Boy can't remember where the previous injury came from. He briefly considers wearing shin guards, or at the very least compiling a bruise journal.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-size: large;">Undeterred, Sunstroke Boy leaves the hotel area and strides down the concrete stairs leading to the stony cove below. A cheap snorkel and scuba mask had been purchased the previous day. He walks over the hot stones on the beach into the water, wearing the mask, snorkel, and Cloak of Invincibility. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIKuQzs_pMUBYPAOx7kGAu4qGa5p47IM34tpgQk6P_GShenmuu_DbW8fb_osz3b4RI0p8NKmcJ53I9jfmSjktlIrDYYVl3CX6l7eAeJz2WE54X9hUKhHk-1vChyphenhyphen76N5xNqK_NHHodzq4/s1600/P6080804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIKuQzs_pMUBYPAOx7kGAu4qGa5p47IM34tpgQk6P_GShenmuu_DbW8fb_osz3b4RI0p8NKmcJ53I9jfmSjktlIrDYYVl3CX6l7eAeJz2WE54X9hUKhHk-1vChyphenhyphen76N5xNqK_NHHodzq4/s320/P6080804.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">If you added a pair of Water Wings or a Dora the Explorer life preserver, Sunstroke Boy would look exactly like an overly protected 3-year-old, standing in a backyard wading pool. </span><br />
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But Sunstroke Boy can not be defeated by mere shame and ridicule. Wearing the cloak into the water he snorkles away from the cove along the coast, between the rocks, and through the amazing crystal clear water.<br />
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Sunstroke Boy paddles his way toward two large off-shore rocks, apparently split in two a millenium ago. He swims through the three-foot space between the rocks, watching a large school of sardines. The water is so clear Sunstroke Boy can see straight to the sea bottom, a good 50 feet below.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2QNy8sYxE2Zr1FRB2x2NjLVCwdDUJ7o2Nebt5LJrFJjSgKNsWKnfyfJT8ZIbNrVGcRXO9X7JRyMEL_vLw-42wD-cOfUhJfz5ap3-hZIKZZ6KH_CK1-g4cZ1tS0Z7iZ0xi5ZWBUDpK8no/s1600/P6080806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2QNy8sYxE2Zr1FRB2x2NjLVCwdDUJ7o2Nebt5LJrFJjSgKNsWKnfyfJT8ZIbNrVGcRXO9X7JRyMEL_vLw-42wD-cOfUhJfz5ap3-hZIKZZ6KH_CK1-g4cZ1tS0Z7iZ0xi5ZWBUDpK8no/s320/P6080806.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
Sunstroke Boy climbs up on the rock, finds a perch a few feet off the water, takes off the mask and snorkel, and dives in. He climbs back up, ventures to a spot a few feet higher, and dives off again. <br />
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On the third climb up on the volcanic rock, Sunstroke Boy sees blood running from a gash in his left knee, to match the pair of cuts on the shin. Another 3-inch cut runs horizontally along the back of </span><span style="font-size: large;">his right calf as well.<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">No one explained to Sunstroke Boy that coral and volcanic rock tend to be sharp. Caution and common sense are not among his super powers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Emerging from the water on his return to the beach cove, a Turkish family sitting nearby looks up and stares at the legs of Sunstroke Boy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps they are wondering if our super hero just swam through some barbed wire.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />* * *</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As you might suspect, Sunstroke Boy is not the most successful of super heroes. He tends to curtail his activities in the summer, unless shrouded in the fog of northern California. Cries of "Help! Save me, Sunstroke Boy!" too often are answered with a response of "Listen, I'll get back to you around eight thirty when the sun goes down. Until then, I'll be sipping a cool beverage and fighting evil over here in the shade."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Understandably, this has led many of those in distress -- or those just looking for someone to hang out at the beach with -- to turn to other super heroes with a little more crime-fighting flexibility, and better tans. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sunstroke Boy doesn't take it personally. He still gets around, albeit on a limited basis during the middle of July.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But h<span style="font-size: large;">e knows his limitations. </span> If you need someone to help you drink a frosty beer in the shade on the veranda, he's your man. </span><span style="font-size: large;">For the Fourth of July barbecue or the all-day inner tube float down the Guadalupe, it's probably best to call somebody else.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Delirium returns later that evening in the air conditioned sanctuary of the Mevlana Room. From my standard, face-down position on the waffle-iron bedspread, </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I turn my head sideways and stare at the photos of the famed Whirling Dervishes of the Mevlana Lodge that decorate the wall.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Again my mind wanders. I contemplate how the dervishes can twirl like that for a full hour during their <em>Sama</em> ceremony without getting dizzy. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
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<a href="http://images.nationalgeographic.com/wpf/media-live/photos/000/060/cache/turkey_6029_600x450.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="http://images.nationalgeographic.com/wpf/media-live/photos/000/060/cache/turkey_6029_600x450.jpg" height="300" id="il_fi" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Or, more importantly, without throwing up.</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://tropicaleats.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/dsc03610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://tropicaleats.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/dsc03610.jpg" height="240" id="il_fi" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wonder if dervishes can take themselves out of the evening's <em>Sama</em> line up, like a baseball player with an unexpected pre-game groin pull. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Sorry, my brothers, but I can not whirl today. I was weak, and just succumbed to the MacDonald's strawberry shake/sausage biscuit combo." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I assume a weak stomach would be a major drawback for aspiring mevlana. Surely a propensity to vomit would at the very least bump you down to the minor league of dervishes. A spirited but much less awe-inspiring demonstration of faith.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Hurling Dervishes. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-size: large;">The sun has baked my brain past delirium, straight into blasphemy. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I roll over, look down at the cuts and bruises on my legs and feet, and contemplate tomorrow's climb on another rock. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Fear not, Sunstroke Boy, for you are not alone. Tomorrow, you snorkel through coral, step over sea urchins, and jump off of sharp volcanic rocks as one with yet another alter ego. </span><br />
<br />
Again, I will exist as I am, but not as I look. <br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Once again I will rise above the adversity of my affliction. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am yet another super hero.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I am Sunstroke Boy. As well as Hemophiliac Man.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I walk out to the pool side of the Villa Aşina late on the afternoon of Day Four. Mercifully, the scalding sun has disappeared behind the back of the hotel for the day, leaving the chaise recliners in the safety of the shade.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is no bar at the Villa Aşina. But I have learned that if you ask, they will make any drink you want, and bring it out to you on a little silver tray. After settling into the chaise lounge, I signal to one of the Turkish college kids working around the pool side. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Can you make me a gin and tonic? I ask in Turkish. Yes, he can. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">With ice, I specify. <em>Buzlu.</em> <em>Çok buzlu</em>. Lots of ice.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There might be something better in life than sipping a gin and tonic after a long day in the sun, while you lie on a chaise lounge in the shade poolside on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. But at this particular moment, I could not possibly tell you what it could be.</span><br />
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<img src="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/8c/6a/6c/tranquility.jpg" id="il_fi" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" /><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I take another sip, and say a silent prayer for limes, tonic water, Mr. Gordon's distillery, and the invention of the ice cube.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My skin is still red, and cuts and bruises cover my legs. But I'm no longer feeling any pain. Maybe time does heal all wounds. But a gin and tonic with ice does a pretty good job of that, too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, I think I'll have another, and not move until dinner.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sunstroke Boy </span><span style="font-size: large;">can always save the world tomorrow, sometime after breakfast.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-68089474681785088142012-07-02T04:08:00.000-07:002012-07-04T04:19:16.162-07:00A Ride on the Screaming Baby Express<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I should have known something was up at the Lufthansa gate at DFW Airport when they mentioned the word "family." </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You wouldn't mind switching seats, would you?" the suspiciously cheerful gate agent asks as I'm about to board my flight back to Istanbul by way of Frankfurt.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> "We're trying to seat a <em>family </em>together." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Both my original seat and the one being offered were on the aisle, so why would I possibly care? And yet ... </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Even while my lips are saying "Sure, no problem," a silent alarm has begun to ring somewhere in the back of my brain. Families, families ... Families often involve <em>children</em> don't they?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span> <span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I simply wasn't quick enough to ask, "Now, there won't be any <em>screaming babies</em> in this section, will there?" Not that she would have told me. But at least later I could have taken comfort in the fact that I had done everything in my power to save myself. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPeM4fyTrL4g-ZtAKNK4VOiBcDi1gPQiL6NDEST8QA65yxsZw2lXClMeXUFi-N_CUx2xinICA1qG3rXG7hsHnTfz3-S5_UaUaHP_mDdiXuO63vCi4yQba089zBHQ-OrqvinKgkK8acF4/s1600/screaming+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPeM4fyTrL4g-ZtAKNK4VOiBcDi1gPQiL6NDEST8QA65yxsZw2lXClMeXUFi-N_CUx2xinICA1qG3rXG7hsHnTfz3-S5_UaUaHP_mDdiXuO63vCi4yQba089zBHQ-OrqvinKgkK8acF4/s320/screaming+baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Before anyone starts in on me, l</span><span style="font-size: large;">et me just say right off that I<em> like</em> children. Really. I know this may be hard to believe, coming from someone who has neither kids nor a desire to acquire any in this particular lifetime. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But truly, I am not "anti-child." I am, however, pretty staunchly "anti-child screaming on an airplane." Particularly so, if I'm anywhere on that airplane. And feverently so, if I'm trapped on that airplane for a 10-plus hour intercontintental flight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Whenever this happens I can't help but feel that some kind of human rights violation is taking place. No, not the human rights of the child; the human rights of me. If there isn't some kind of international law in place covering this, there ought to be.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRJV3M1UcXI9QXXT_3OKN6mYBqMX-XYtNUg7FU7tKTTKT9sgbnG4rDTatPLc4d1hFhP7-HqWdqiENBXfRmVkCqqIY9BI8FzZNigbjnIF53hyphenhyphenNAOCTrG4PQD_8m3uMDLyVOfVYxV7J3-s/s1600/toddler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRJV3M1UcXI9QXXT_3OKN6mYBqMX-XYtNUg7FU7tKTTKT9sgbnG4rDTatPLc4d1hFhP7-HqWdqiENBXfRmVkCqqIY9BI8FzZNigbjnIF53hyphenhyphenNAOCTrG4PQD_8m3uMDLyVOfVYxV7J3-s/s200/toddler.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">If you fly with any frequency at all you know exactly what I'm talking about. Don't act like it doesn't bother you, as everyone tries to do as the three-year-old bangs on the tray table behind them, or the three-month-old wails across seven contiguous time zones. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You can smile tolerantly and deliver a disingenuous "oh, he's <em>fine</em>," to the parent if you want. But I know y</span><span style="font-size: large;">ou hate it as much as I do. It couldn't be more irritating if a mime in a Ronald McDonald costume blowing an air horn walked up and down the aisle and passed out religious pamphlets. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">See<em>, that</em> we would complain about. But when a baby three feet away screams for eight hours, the typical response is look away, reach for the in-flight magazine, and spend the next several hours fighting the urge to go hang oneself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">No more, I say. I think we've suffered enough.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I spot the trouble in Row 25 of Lufthansa Flight 439 as soon as I board the plane. In the middle of the row sits a frazzled looking young woman and three (count 'em, three!) little girls, all I'm guessing to be under the age of 5. The youngest might be 2. Coloring books have already been distributed and are currently in use.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mom is positioned on the aisle closest to where I'll be sitting, with the three girls on her left. Dad sits across the aisle on the far end of the row. He occasionally looks up from the book he's already pretending to read, waving to the wife and kids across the aisle like he's on the other side of the plexiglas at the San Diego Zoo. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I can already tell that for the duration of the trip mom is pretty much on her own. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsACFy6_P5Vk4XlhlwafnO23B0DRk4YIPsyGUa3EhiKwx6GWpveo7f5J09pbjwpG8-nTvDbqgEREhtM3v9X_fyep8rCcgACddx78_FzS453TBsws__lzA6Cl-4lzDGq55aWI9HbZGZtxof/s1600/IMG_6635.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" id="il_fi" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsACFy6_P5Vk4XlhlwafnO23B0DRk4YIPsyGUa3EhiKwx6GWpveo7f5J09pbjwpG8-nTvDbqgEREhtM3v9X_fyep8rCcgACddx78_FzS453TBsws__lzA6Cl-4lzDGq55aWI9HbZGZtxof/s320/IMG_6635.JPG" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Distracted by this potential trouble, I initially fail to notice a <em>second </em>two-year-old seated on another mom's lap three rows back. She's already in her jammies, I'll find out later. This was apparent wishful thinking on her mom's part that jammies would be needed for when the child goes to sleep.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But </span><span style="font-size: large;">sleep is not on the agenda for Jammy Girl -- nor in anyone in the vicinity -- on this particular flight to Germany.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile, the two-year-old in my row already has squirmed out her seat and under her mother's legs before the plane even leaves the gate. The polite German flight attendants gently insist that the child be belted in <em>somewhere </em>before the plane takes off. When Mom tries to corral the little girl and hold her on her lap, the first screaming of the evening begins. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As instructed in the safety video, I turn around in my seat to look for the closest emergency exit. But it's too late. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The girl three feet away continues to squirm and scream as the plane lifts off. I look at my watch. Only nine hours and fifty eight minutes left to go.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">No, of course it's not the kids' fault. I know toddlers cry because they are stuck in a boring and restrictive environment and told they can't move until they reach the next available continent. Who wouldn't be cranky?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And the babies? We're told babies cry because they are tired and/or hungry, but I suspect they just scream because they know they can get away with it. I'm not a certified child-care expert, so please don't quote me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Listen, I completely understand; half the time I'm on a plane I feel like screaming, too. And that's <em>before</em> I find out that the only in-flight movie features Adam Sandler in drag playing his own twin sister.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZGkJeosE49yJPH25Bp3tYWVfCO0MttsSbWGNoSAyXcQhXKy3M4bI3-j4tlgFwIXQGGIxX4dQYcqV5V7QmNCCtITk7412GOF3YrzugQ6tJ912pCd2DkFY94hx3Okg3na8PO661Mx8VlU/s1600/cbabies-on-planes_794495c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcZGkJeosE49yJPH25Bp3tYWVfCO0MttsSbWGNoSAyXcQhXKy3M4bI3-j4tlgFwIXQGGIxX4dQYcqV5V7QmNCCtITk7412GOF3YrzugQ6tJ912pCd2DkFY94hx3Okg3na8PO661Mx8VlU/s320/cbabies-on-planes_794495c.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">But where are all these children going, exactly? I can understand a Disney-bound plane to Orlando, but Dallas to Frankfurt? Is there a giant Weiner World amusment park somewhere in Germany I'm not aware of? Are they all off to an important meeting of 3-year-old investors at the headquarters of <em>Deutsche Bank</em>?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I want to grab the parents by the shoulders and demand answers: Why in God's name are you transporting three children under the age of five from Texas to Germany? Why are you doing this to them?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">More importantly, why are you doing this to us? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> * * * </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">An hour and a half into the flight, the area around Row 25 already looks like a dysfunctional day care center on the verge of being closed down by the state. Broken crayons and the crumbs of half-eaten cookies are crushed into the carpet. Discarded blankets, pillows, a sippy cup, and miscellaneous toys have been kicked under the seats and into the aisle. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The two-year-old in Row 25 has been emitting blood-curdling wails on about 20-minute intervals. Mom has interpreted each of these screams as a desire for food. If she's right, all I can say is this is one hungry two-year-old.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7NRfZHAMcPYKRMR0zcO_mDdlzyXhWm7V6Dyo3uun93s_rd6ti2LKdCooqLC5XCoDM9d3Ad_CJez9a-J0aiXHho43pAlP-x6hGjMOu4LdAutPotSDhPoAb2z6qtgSTsIuHFxHuQDrv2hM/s1600/csarapinkdiscodot300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7NRfZHAMcPYKRMR0zcO_mDdlzyXhWm7V6Dyo3uun93s_rd6ti2LKdCooqLC5XCoDM9d3Ad_CJez9a-J0aiXHho43pAlP-x6hGjMOu4LdAutPotSDhPoAb2z6qtgSTsIuHFxHuQDrv2hM/s1600/csarapinkdiscodot300.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Of course it's a liquid diet at Mom's Cafe, and there's only one beverage on the menu. In order to breast-feed the child as modestly as possible, mom for about the fourth time now drapes herself with a tent-like contraption, and then, lovingly, shoves the child's head underneath.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dinner!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This doesn't exactly end the screams, but it does seem to muffle them for a few minutes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There seems to be a lot of kicking and thrashing around during feeding time, but for obvious reasons I don't want to watch too closely what's happening under the Big Top. At the far end of the aisle Dad continues to pretend to read his book, oblivious to the elaborate tent-feeding ritual going on nearby.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile, the pajama-clad two-year-old from three rows back has developed a wanderlust that her mother shows no interest in discouraging. She seems particularly fascinated by what's going on behind the curtain leading to business class (hey, who isn't?), along with the drink selections of every passenger seated on the aisle within toddling radius.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When I'm not looking, the little girl wanders by and decides for reasons only she could tell you to reach up and tug on the cocktail napkin at the edge of my tray. I look up just in time to grab my moving glass and prevent Jammy Baby from dumping a gin and tonic on her head. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Lucky for her I had opted for booze and passed on another cup of scalding-hot coffee.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">If mom three rows back notices any of this, she's content not to say anything. <em>At least she's not screaming</em>, I'm sure mom is thinking. Apparently for this reason alone she thinks it's best that children be allowed to roam without constraint, like free-range chicken.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">True enough, the child is not currently screaming. That, of course, is being saved for the upcoming non-existent bedtime.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmIqwSBn6nO0fJECl8xcejE0a4mmzishzujzU9rTEnoEeD7P9ewTsLfXSNww0mOeskw01QWOpSOk0I4zB5Fax97gFvQIZcsG_7Bsk7_o29jKdh8VS6ath4ymX99bpOrDWIfbBkmsLIzs/s1600/cbaby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmIqwSBn6nO0fJECl8xcejE0a4mmzishzujzU9rTEnoEeD7P9ewTsLfXSNww0mOeskw01QWOpSOk0I4zB5Fax97gFvQIZcsG_7Bsk7_o29jKdh8VS6ath4ymX99bpOrDWIfbBkmsLIzs/s320/cbaby.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The stereophonic screams of the two-year-olds start somewhere over Nova Scotia and continue all the way to continental Europe. As sleep has become an unobtainable fantasy, I have plenty of time to stare at the back of my seat and contemplate the issue currently confronting me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I realize there are many inconveniences, irritations, and indignities of life that you just have to deal with when you venture out into public. People answering their cell phones in movie theaters, schizophrenic panhandlers, gaseous seatmates on crowded subway cars ... Yes, given the time there's a long list of things I can sit here and bitch about regarding our interaction with the rest of humanity.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But unlike most of these things, I have a solution to this particular problem. I'm not saying I can get the financial backing, or if the idea would withstand a constitutional challenge. But hear me out before you pass judgment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">What the world clearly needs -- more than peace, economic stability, or a cure for the canker sore -- is an adults-only airline. As a working concept, let's call it Air Sanity. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Okay, to fly our airline you don't have to be an actual voting-age <em>adult</em>; it's not like we're inducting people into the army or distributing porn. We can set the age at, say, 14. But anyone under that age is not allowed on board, accompanied or not. </span><span style="font-size: large;">If you are a parent and you absolutely, positively must travel with the kids, you can fly any airline on the planet, except this one. Sorry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The only people screaming on our flights will be drunks and those with above-average personality disorders.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Everything else about our airline is exactly the same as any other: Same crappy food, bad movies, and surly flight attendants. Our seats are still jammed together to challenge your pain threshold, and all departure times are approximate.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVww83h2Y09lxIz3OB1f-RjdM1JsFJkzCEkPD6IV9ydchwCItJ1xM2UC9f61vxzOBkoNfqwPyP2UU5TGXsZvNyBSxp_katvpg9KvojkqupiO1fd66e40FLnVU5pJcW-CdFRlCY86Hnj4/s1600/crying_baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVww83h2Y09lxIz3OB1f-RjdM1JsFJkzCEkPD6IV9ydchwCItJ1xM2UC9f61vxzOBkoNfqwPyP2UU5TGXsZvNyBSxp_katvpg9KvojkqupiO1fd66e40FLnVU5pJcW-CdFRlCY86Hnj4/s200/crying_baby.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But there are no blood-curdling screams. No running in the aisles. No kicking on the backs of chairs for six continuous hours. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">No kids.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Is this practice discriminatory? Absolutely. Would it eliminate a large segment of the consumer market? I'm sure that it would.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But Air Sanity would get my money over the Screaming Baby Express for every single booking. I haven't done the marketing research, but I personally would pay a premium for the ticket, and I'm pretty sure I am not alone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm telling you, there is money to be made here. If you are a billionaire looking to invest, call me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEZlotaLtzldickYSxuTq5yDB9qN2gg1ZXnreUhoXpZ29LBBJzHWnEwVcIuqrEU76Seiwek7spLQ56QXeOqzIoXRVl268GotV8khoRwzAv0IF9NfSexOwNXkdXUGmXW-XEzYdnN1VQms/s1600/crying_baby2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEZlotaLtzldickYSxuTq5yDB9qN2gg1ZXnreUhoXpZ29LBBJzHWnEwVcIuqrEU76Seiwek7spLQ56QXeOqzIoXRVl268GotV8khoRwzAv0IF9NfSexOwNXkdXUGmXW-XEzYdnN1VQms/s1600/crying_baby2.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I've always wondered why it is that when a two-year-old cries out, it comes with such intensity that the immediate reaction of anyone within a 50-foot radius is that a murder is currently in progress. It's not a cry that says "You know what? I'm hungry and/or tired, and this has made me somewhat irritable." To me, crying always sounds more like "Help me! I'm being dropped off at the Manson Family Day Care Center!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, these are the sounds that accompany me, in stereo, all the way to Germany.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe 10 minutes before the plane lands, both screaming two-year-olds finally fall asleep. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> When the wheels touch down in Frankfurt, I am exhausted and disoriented, like a sleep-deprived guinea pig in an undergrad psych experiment.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Where am I, again? The flight attendant on the intercom is saying something about a <em>flughafen</em>. In my semi-delirious state I deduce that either I've arrived at an airport in Germany or I've suffered some kind of a stroke. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As the plane taxis to the gate I look around my seat, trying to remember where I put that ... you know, that <em>thing</em> that I have to give to the, um, <em>guy</em> in order to get on another plane to go to that ... that <em>plac</em>e where I need to go. Boarding Pass! Yes, I need my connecting flight boarding pass. Where the hell is it? Come to think of it, where are my shoes? I'll probably need those, too ...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I look again at my watch. The connecting flight to Istanbul will not leave for another four and half hours. My kingdom for an airport nap room.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile the father of the family in Row 25 is now standing across the aisle, tucking in his shirtails and hoisting up his pants after an apparent good night's sleep. Mom is folding up the feeding tent, and helping the girls shove the coloring books and belongings into their Little Princess backpacks. Dad puts his hand on his hips and smiles proudly as he looks down at his family. Then he looks up and makes a general announcement.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I hope you were able to tune us out last night!" he says cheerfully to no one in particular. It seems intended as an excuse, an apology, and a plea for forgiveness all rolled into one. Given that the guy did nothing to help his wife and slept through the whole thing regardless, I'm not about to say anything to alleviate his guilt.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dad's announcement at first is greeted by complete silence. Finally an elderly woman who had been sitting one row up clears her throat.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, well ... we have grandchildren," she says.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not exactly sure what that means, and no further explanation is offered. But that's the best response Dad's going to get from this particular group of air travelers. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<em>We have grandchildren</em>." In other words: Yes, we understand how this works; over the course of 10 hours babies and small children confined in a small area tend to scream. But no, you moron, we were not able to tune it out. And no, we're not particularly happy about it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I don't think any further market research is really necessary. I leave the plane disoriented, but content in the knowledge that Air Sanity customer list continues to grow.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-9643829050627127602012-06-02T13:34:00.000-07:002015-08-03T08:12:13.568-07:00Letting sleeping dogs lie (on the sidewalk)<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">They say a society can be judged by how it treats its weakest members. You also might want to take a look at how it treats its over-sexed cats and its fat stray dogs. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNY5aGjoCbYl4gwBqYZsUIAmo4h-SPQ18h7PphNDa3M9tTteQLtPuwWug3hgHnTCGukxPRTYpPkfr6tD4x_fkO-lczvk9zjjywcoHvcch76BteQE25N14Z7zAvamHWqiKskdSY8a0q2jM/s1600/IMG_20120527_142351.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNY5aGjoCbYl4gwBqYZsUIAmo4h-SPQ18h7PphNDa3M9tTteQLtPuwWug3hgHnTCGukxPRTYpPkfr6tD4x_fkO-lczvk9zjjywcoHvcch76BteQE25N14Z7zAvamHWqiKskdSY8a0q2jM/s320/IMG_20120527_142351.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">You don't have to look for very long to find the strays in Istanbul. In my new neighborhood of Te</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">şvikiye</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">, the homeless dogs spend most of the day sleeping under a tree in a nearby park, or in the middle of the sidewalk near the <em>dolmu</em></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em>ş</em></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> stop. People walking by slow down to step over and around them, like fur-covered pedestrian speed bumps. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The size of the dogs' bellies demonstrate that they are well fed, if not particularly well exercised. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The neighborhood stray cats, meanwhile, are on constant prowl behind my apartment building, apparently looking for food and, um, a good time. The screeching sounds I hear make me wonder if I am living in one of Istanbul's wealthiest neighborhoods, or a forest in Madagascar. Seriously now: are these cats, or are they howler monkeys?<br />
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Perhaps at one time the stray dogs would have kept the cats honest, or at least forced them to be more discreet in their mating rituals. But the dogs aren't moving. They are back at the <em>dolmuş</em> stand, taking another nap and waiting for more kibble. <br />
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Urban wildlife is just not what it used to be.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKBefFWiumGdGcvENbAhpYl1YjDf3BZKJOiJSkLQowAktlSjeXAdRTL5l_v9zONUazibyIj78oKWKs1q-TAWVAUBZRgIrBWyq87t6iiJTGKR2LbxaPFY3DhXdPwyQCpFEBt6zYItG91U/s1600/IMG_20120527_144015-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKBefFWiumGdGcvENbAhpYl1YjDf3BZKJOiJSkLQowAktlSjeXAdRTL5l_v9zONUazibyIj78oKWKs1q-TAWVAUBZRgIrBWyq87t6iiJTGKR2LbxaPFY3DhXdPwyQCpFEBt6zYItG91U/s320/IMG_20120527_144015-1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
Sad dogs in the street are nothing new for the <em>İstanbulu</em>. When Mark Twain came to then-Constantinople he wrote that he had never seen such "doleful-eyed and broken-hearted stray dogs" anywhere else in his life.<br />
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In 1910, the Ottomans made an unsuccessful attempt to get rid of the strays by rounding them up and shipping them to an uninhabited island in the Marmara. Ten years after that the Ottoman Empire disappeared forever. The wild dogs of Istanbul returned and are still here, providing further evidence that: a) karma's a bitch, and/or b) there really is a reason that "Dog" is "God" spelled backwards.<br />
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</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Ever since the ill-fated dog deportation, Istanbul has been trying to figure out what to do with its homeless dogs and cats. It's clearly still a work in progress. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
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Not that Istanbul is the only city in the world that's ever had to deal with a stray animal problem. In America, our solution has been to round up the strays and put them not on an island but in a cage, euphemistically called an animal "shelter". Sometimes, a lucky stray gets adopted from the shelter. More often than not it doesn't, and then you know what happens. True, the strays are no longer living on the street. Unfortunately, they are no longer living at all.<br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">So far that's the most humane idea we've come up with.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">There are animal shelters in Turkey, but that's not where most of the strays are. Instead they are all over the city, lying on sidewalks and napping under bushes. This is the compromise the city has made. It i</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">s</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> not exactly a policy of live and let live. It's more like, live on the street, but at least let them live. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IU5UugNIiW6KNInuywMtX6nW9ecTrdib5sn6zR-NDiTRQ5aL7JfiCKnoSXu2__jWGeJiaM9_wY1dKo2tm8nh30HUZqNH2BK44KuORTFpaheLmufeOrLgbTMmW6OneTW6dYSnpIEgZaE/s1600/IMG_20120527_142406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IU5UugNIiW6KNInuywMtX6nW9ecTrdib5sn6zR-NDiTRQ5aL7JfiCKnoSXu2__jWGeJiaM9_wY1dKo2tm8nh30HUZqNH2BK44KuORTFpaheLmufeOrLgbTMmW6OneTW6dYSnpIEgZaE/s320/IMG_20120527_142406.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> I'm not talking about complete animal anarchy. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The stray dogs at least, are (in theory) caught, spayed or neutered, and like prisoners on a work-release program </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">let back out into society to fend for themselves. The street dogs also get a different colored plastic chip clipped in their ears. I'm assuming this is not for fashion purposes and that someone, somewhere, is at least keeping track of them.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZ-iJfWMoWRTqsGoEgPLumSWNgvJfsx4A6DyPbCdydgZ1T-GDD-A4ek0nowXMnUNf7saf6SBZscNDv1TzOcpbrYogqcvde00XjZHHJ0CXL3lLajiC4WVKskwsNTJcTuIXp4v3i1CzLBM/s1600/IMG_20120527_143135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZ-iJfWMoWRTqsGoEgPLumSWNgvJfsx4A6DyPbCdydgZ1T-GDD-A4ek0nowXMnUNf7saf6SBZscNDv1TzOcpbrYogqcvde00XjZHHJ0CXL3lLajiC4WVKskwsNTJcTuIXp4v3i1CzLBM/s200/IMG_20120527_143135.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">If there is a similar spay/ neutering program in place for cats, all I can say is that it doesn't seem to be working very well. The male cats are out screeching on a regular basis, either while entertaining a special "lady friend" or protecting their territory from interlopers. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">In the spring you can see the resulting litters of kittens all over the city. Meanwhile, the Tom Cats wander off, looking for another free meal and next season's conquest. The deadbeat dads of the urban animal world.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I'm not trying to argue that what they do with the strays in Istanbul is necessarily better. I'm just telling you that what they do is different. And I can't help feeling that what they do is somehow reflective of a general attitude that doesn't exist everywhere in the world.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">With the stray animals living on the streets, for the most part it is up to the people of Istanbul to take care of them. From what I have seen, they actually do.</span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOX7rDES65kwz_b2Kz6MWQ3gjGrGu2WClxCFWRFnq4eqkzBh6ef5-aJ3Vhr2eH4UgQBIlrIZI9Bkiqh09ZZQQVpsJI28rX0IsBmPzAUf8bMT-EyK9vdMcnKD6E70kxGjRYvgv1Eg49TTo/s1600/IMG_20120527_142117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOX7rDES65kwz_b2Kz6MWQ3gjGrGu2WClxCFWRFnq4eqkzBh6ef5-aJ3Vhr2eH4UgQBIlrIZI9Bkiqh09ZZQQVpsJI28rX0IsBmPzAUf8bMT-EyK9vdMcnKD6E70kxGjRYvgv1Eg49TTo/s320/IMG_20120527_142117.jpg" width="276" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Yes, part of this care is still done by the government. In Te<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">şvikiye, the local municipality has constructed several dog houses for the strays. The dog house closest to my apartment comes complete with a door mat, because, you know, you wouldn't want the stray dog that's been sleeping on the sidewalk all day to track mud in the house.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Granted, I've never actually seen a dog <em>in</em> one of the dog houses, but if nothing else these serve as a central location for people to drop off food. Signs on the dog houses ask all <em>Hayvan Dostuları</em>, or "Animal Friends," to please only leave dry food. Food always seems to be there. Judging from the size of some of the dog bellies, it looks like they've gotten their fill of it.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Seeing this, you might be tempted to think that the stray dogs have a pretty sweet deal in Istanbul. B<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">ut keep in mind that Te<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">şvikiye</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span></span> is one of the city's more better-off neighborhoods. Not every <em>mahalle </em>has people with the time and money to be continually topping off dog food bowls. </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2QF1ZX0EOJii6v1R_UI-fefYI2T_J0E2U3mmQPEmB081geJreDf8rXmEVO7BwT_Up-lWR91hcHGHDyCRJbDW2Q6viex-xxG4DlxU5qSWaLfszwm4G52YcM10_IoJO88pPPrBWUz1lWg/s1600/IMG_20120527_141705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2QF1ZX0EOJii6v1R_UI-fefYI2T_J0E2U3mmQPEmB081geJreDf8rXmEVO7BwT_Up-lWR91hcHGHDyCRJbDW2Q6viex-xxG4DlxU5qSWaLfszwm4G52YcM10_IoJO88pPPrBWUz1lWg/s320/IMG_20120527_141705.jpg" width="229" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Also, the strays in Te<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">şvikiye have to be constantly reminded of </span></span>how the Other Half lives. </span></span></span>This is a neighborhood where the dogs that sleep <em>inside</em> - the purebred silkies, pugs, and golden retrievers - get gourmet food and their own paid dog walkers. Then again, in the window of a pet supply store around the corner from my apartment hangs a silver lamé, fur trimmed dog coat, just in case your schnauzer has nothing to wear to the Lady Gaga concert. If this humiliation is the price of domestication, I have to believe most of the strays would just as soon sleep in the park.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Still, even the stray dogs in the less-affluent neighborhoods are taken care of. Near my old apartment in Cihangir, there was a sweet old dog whose home was a piece of cardboard she slept on, outside of one of the neighborhood <em>gida</em> stores. She was so old and arthritic she had trouble getting up from the ground. But she was well-fed, and still good natured enough to wag her tail if she recognized you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">She had survived a long time. She certainly had survived a lot longer than she would have left unadopted in a typical animal shelter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">People in Istanbul may be slightly less sympathetic to the stray cats, if for no other reason than there are so many more of them. At the outdoor cafes the begging cats can get so numerous that they eventually have to be shooed away like pigeons, or overly aggressive squirrels.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">But all around the city the <em>İstanbullu</em> put food and water dishes out for the cats as well. Some people set up little shoebox-like cardboard cat houses outside of their apartment windows. The more industrious will cover the cardboard houses with plastic, so they don't disintegrate after the first rain storm.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQZsEtnemrYPp2Osc62ivnlF3XAT8ocUKL3Qnt7thxMwHHGRavRXS7KAZecW10GWjmnScWP3tfeQb7m74fxX42m9UvQWqqFx23vsq0NlZ15qKtiCZbOgTT0Yz2DcW9EZokgTVJJ0-lZQ/s1600/2012-06-01+13.03.49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQZsEtnemrYPp2Osc62ivnlF3XAT8ocUKL3Qnt7thxMwHHGRavRXS7KAZecW10GWjmnScWP3tfeQb7m74fxX42m9UvQWqqFx23vsq0NlZ15qKtiCZbOgTT0Yz2DcW9EZokgTVJJ0-lZQ/s200/2012-06-01+13.03.49.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTKfYtauVrhPJx2bC9jnRWYa8Ax3l04RVujaZhr8rqjoYCAk12lhRPww11yDC-CO1RL6d_7bKOGP7-6mZxwGEBSo1yITk9bUMX8ux9BrKeK8Jkbx1PFbGcxonDTlPIx2vLQZFHT9ZM8M/s1600/2012-06-01+13.04.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTKfYtauVrhPJx2bC9jnRWYa8Ax3l04RVujaZhr8rqjoYCAk12lhRPww11yDC-CO1RL6d_7bKOGP7-6mZxwGEBSo1yITk9bUMX8ux9BrKeK8Jkbx1PFbGcxonDTlPIx2vLQZFHT9ZM8M/s200/2012-06-01+13.04.16.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
In other places, the volunteer care is more centralized, if somewhat haphazard. On a scruffy little hillside parklet called <em>Gümüşuyu Parkı </em>off a busy street in central Taksim, a virtual cat shantytown has sprouted up, complete with a covered feeding trough and a slope-roofed metal shed containing nine little shoebox kitty apartments. <br />
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The park apparently is the Club Hedonism for all male cats in the greater metropolitan area, with</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> plenty of food, water and, you know, <em>companionship</em>. Walking by this spot every morning during the spring </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I witnessed so much cat sex that I began to wonder if Barry White music was being piped out of the feeding shelter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I have to tell you, even if you love cats, the cat village is not really a pretty sight. Many of the cats are living a hard life, and they look it. Tails are bent, ears are partially bitten off, and many look as if they decided fur grooming was a luxury they could no longer afford. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7bQE4t51P4kNxKqEAKPlLaxvyiJCpXGFdzcYVUad8KpI5FMZd_E01TgkQbBNuFsdpt3EzU0Z-vKTW3limOgDba5enVjY8vvwkL8_Ojud7HCZq3Li_5z1Tsrb004C0ElDImJbESvsNRE/s1600/2012-06-01+13.03.09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7bQE4t51P4kNxKqEAKPlLaxvyiJCpXGFdzcYVUad8KpI5FMZd_E01TgkQbBNuFsdpt3EzU0Z-vKTW3limOgDba5enVjY8vvwkL8_Ojud7HCZq3Li_5z1Tsrb004C0ElDImJbESvsNRE/s320/2012-06-01+13.03.09.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Still, every day someone comes to the little park, puts out water in a makeshift plastic bowl, and pours out cat food for all who want it. Again, from what I can tell, no one goes hungry. Often the dry food is just scattered on top of a concrete wall, but I've not seen any of the cats complaining. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">True, this ain't the Ritz. But it's not the pound, either. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Walking home on a recent afternoon, I spot a big, shepherd-mix stray sitting atop a brick wall in the shade of one of the city's mini parks. He pants while he watches me cross the street and walk toward him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">A stray dog on the wall! How wacky and quaint, I think. These Street Dogs of Istanbul are living quite the life, aren't they? A perfect picture for the blog.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I stop about six feet from the dog and reach into my jacket pocket for the camera phone. The dog stops panting. As I hold the camera up, he starts to growl. I lower the camera. He resumes panting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">After a few seconds, I again raise the camera and once again try to take his picture. This time he stands, snarls, and begins barking at me like I'm breaking into the auto parts lot after dark.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">A man walking by, with no discernible connection to the dog at all, goes to the dog's side, puts his hand on the dog's back and shushes him. The dog stops barking and lies down. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I put the camera away, and he's fine again. The panting resumes like nothing happened. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The message seems clear enough to me: No pictures, pal. We're just dogs that live outside. Just because we sit on park walls and sleep on the sidewalk all day doesn't make us freaks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">All we're asking for is some food, a place to lie on the ground, and perhaps a little dignity. Other people around here seem to understand that. Pay attention, and you might figure it out, too. </span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-85528478261776951362012-05-06T15:49:00.000-07:002012-05-08T10:37:09.028-07:00Welcome to the Neighborhood, Dumbass<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This all started with a simple courtesy phone call from Istanbul Selda. I'm sure she had no idea that calling to ask how things were going would make me look like a complete idiot and ruin my slippers.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2rsZvTBqOAtU1xruGEHhNwDxqZj_HfhVxiJauYporjXtQwx8_SjYqCsqFk7TMe3MhRn_o-NTTAPr1ZBhBuuFhCirlK1SUUdAN9wJzVRm_wQDaWZVD1wXyvh31XYasggSYxdqbQxDpEQQ/s1600/IMG_20120503_185514.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2rsZvTBqOAtU1xruGEHhNwDxqZj_HfhVxiJauYporjXtQwx8_SjYqCsqFk7TMe3MhRn_o-NTTAPr1ZBhBuuFhCirlK1SUUdAN9wJzVRm_wQDaWZVD1wXyvh31XYasggSYxdqbQxDpEQQ/s320/IMG_20120503_185514.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Only a few days before, I had moved to the apartment on <i>Hacı Emin Efendi </i></span><span style="font-size: large;">Street, in the <i>Te</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>şvikeye</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> section of Istanbul. Istanbul Selda called to ask if I had any questions or problems with the flat. In the course of the conversation, Istanbul Selda tells me I should go ahead and pay the monthly apartment aidat directly to Sami, the <i>kap</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ıc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Sure, I know Sami. He must be the old man living next door to me. I decide it would be a good idea to go see Sami the <i>Kap</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ıc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> and pay the <i>aidat</i> right now, while I'm thinking of it. I don't want to forget; that would be stupid. And I wouldn't want to do anything stupid.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For those keeping score at home, you can mark this decision down as Stupid Thing Number 1.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I had moved to the apartment in <i>Teşvikeye</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> after being told by my former landlord in the more central area around <i>Taksim</i></span><i style="font-size: x-large;"> </i><span style="font-size: large;">that he could make more money renting out my flat in the summer to tourists on a weekly basis than he could by renting to me on the long term. So, as a favor, he told me, he'd really appreciate it if I could, you know, get the hell out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">What followed was a colorful three-week tour through the medium- to low-end rental apartment market of <i>Beyoğlu</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">, courtesy of a parade of real estate brokers known in Turkish as <i>emlakc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">. Like the barber shops, <i>emlakc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> offices are everywhere in Istabul. It's not at all uncommon to see two or three on the same block just a few yards apart.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But unlike barbers, who must necessarily possess some kind of skill in order to stay in business, being an <i>emlakcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> requires no discernible skill at all, other than hanging a sign in a window. As evidence of this, the <i>emlakc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> often combine their real estate office with completely unrelated endeavors, resulting in bizarre business hybrids such as "Ahmet's Emlak and Auto Parts," or "Kadir's Emlak and Electrical Supply Store."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">With a fee usually equal to one month's rent, running an <i>emlak </i>must be one of the easier ways in Turkey to pocket some extra cash. Better yet, if you can find an unwitting foreigner, or <i>yabancı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">, willing to pay thousands of lira for a crappy apartment no self-respecting Turk would ever consider flopping in. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">After being shown a depressing array of unlivable apartments by the <i>emlakcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">, I reverted to my American roots and turned to Craigslist, which luck would have it, runs listings from Istanbul. On Craigslist I came across a listing for the <i>Te</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>şvikiye</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> apartment owned by Selda, and being shown by her cousin, Selda. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, that's correct: one family, two Seldas. There is the owner, California Selda, who now lives in the East Bay of San Francisco, and her cousin, Istanbul Selda, who lives in Istanbul, but unfortunately no where near the apartment in <i>Teşvikiye</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">. For this reason, to manage the apartment Istanbul Selda enlists the help of her friend, Hande, who works at a wedding planning business a few blocks away.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I admit that sorting out the cast of characters was confusing. But as far as I could tell neither Hande nor the Seldas were selling auto parts or running an <i>emlak</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"This is for the <i>aidat</i>," I'm trying to tell the old man as he stands at his door. "<i>Aidat için</i>!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Ne?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"The <i>aidat! AI-DAT</i>!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The <i>aidat</i>, I had just recently figured out, is something like a building maintenance fee. Apparently it is collected by the building <i>kapıcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">. A "<i>kap</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ıc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">" -- literally translated -- is a doorman, except that, here at least, the <i>kap</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ıc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> neither sits in a lobby nor opens the door. Let's say the <i>kap</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ıc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><i style="font-size: x-large;"> </i><span style="font-size: large;">does things for tenants of the apartment building.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In theory.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I had figured that the <i>kapıcı</i></span><i style="font-size: x-large;"> </i><span style="font-size: large;"> must be the old man living next door to me, in what is essentially the basement. On my first night here I could hear the sound of a television blaring from what I had previously thought was a vacant storage room just outside my front door.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It turns out the windowless storage room -- furnished with little more than a desk, a cot, and a television set -- in fact is occupied by a Turkish gentlemen, approximately 116 years old. Judging by the dish-rattling volume of the television, hearing is no longer his strong suit. I assume, of course, that this must be Sami, the building <i>kapıcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My assumption about old men living in basements is Stupid Thing Number 2.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Standing at the old man's door and holding out my <i>aidat</i> payment, I am wearing only my slippers for footwear. The distance from the old man's door to mine is less than five feet, and the process of knocking on the door and handing him a 50 lira bill should have taken all of 20 seconds.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Except that it doesn't, because the old man doesn't seem to understand why I am trying to give him money. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Stupid Thing Number 3: Apparently the result of wind or aerodynamics or another physics-related thing beyond my understanding, a draft had been created, with air being sucked through my front door. This is because, in addition to other ill-considered actions I would later regret, I had left open the rear garden door when I stepped out the front door. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">To pay the <i>aidat</i>. To the old man in the basement. In my slippers.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When I hear the sickening clap of the wind-sucked front door closing behind me, I pretty much instantly realize Stupid Thing Number 4. Of course the door locks when you close it. And of course, I am not carrying my keys.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Or my phone. Or my wallet. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">How many stupid things is that now? I've lost count.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On the positive side, I am wearing pants.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But this isn't a problem, right? I'm talking to the building <i>kapıcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> and surely the building kapici has keys to all the apartments. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Um, <i>benim anatharim yok. Bir anathar var mi</i>?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I don't have my key, I tell him. Do you have a key?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<i>Yok</i>."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<i>Yok</i>?" You don't have a key?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<i>Yok</i>." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<i>Yok? Ama ... ne yapabilirim</i>?" I ask him. What can I do to get back in? He blinks twice and shrugs his shoulders. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You don't know? Aren't you the <i>kapıcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Teşvikiye</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> and neighborhing <i>Ni</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>şanta</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>şı</i></span><i style="font-size: x-large;"> </i><span style="font-size: large;">are basically Istanbul's version of New York's Upper East Side, complete with packs of kids in private-school uniforms, dog-clothing boutiques, and old ladies with blue hair. While my former neighborhood near Taksim Square had bars, discos, barber shops and used-book stores, <i>Ni</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>şanta</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>şı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> has Ferragamo, Gucci, and the Armani Exchange. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZRaGx8m7FnB0aX471WMCAIdTVc1iVYWlvTCRs-fXIyNiAf8ZponD8-0IqSqdUc0Ixkv5CYZKD9pPJcuMVtyaEojkiuegJld8S2uAKaoupHmHCyjzziuA4ojAe5jAoUOZMeNH5LR-2Ik/s1600/IMG_20120504_133050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZRaGx8m7FnB0aX471WMCAIdTVc1iVYWlvTCRs-fXIyNiAf8ZponD8-0IqSqdUc0Ixkv5CYZKD9pPJcuMVtyaEojkiuegJld8S2uAKaoupHmHCyjzziuA4ojAe5jAoUOZMeNH5LR-2Ik/s320/IMG_20120504_133050.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Many of the high-end store windows have signs written in English, Russian, and Arabic, which tells you a little about where the money is coming from. One of the luxury clothing stores is actually called "Pissy," which may or may not tell you something about the attitude toward customer service.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Honestly, it's not really my kind of neighborhood. But compared to the suicide-inducing rat holes I had been shown by the <i>emlakcı</i></span><i style="font-size: x-large;"> </i><span style="font-size: large;">in <i>Taksim</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">, the Seldas' place in Tasvikiye was a virtual palace. Two bedrooms, an office, a patio and garden, a washer, dishwasher, a recliner, and a shaving mirror. Located in a quiet, disco-less neighborhood with no trash on the street, all for the same <i>emlakc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> jacked-up price of a rat hole apartment in <i>Cihangir</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">. Absent some immediate evidence of poltergeists, the minute I walked into the apartment I knew I was going to take it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Even with poltergeists, I may have taken it anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Is there anything that can make you feel stupider than locking yourself out of your own apartment? Yes, there is. You can lock yourself out of your own apartment, three days after you moved into it, in a country where you don't really speak the language, when you have to beg for help with a vocabulary just slightly larger than that of the average four-year-old.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Then you can appreciate what stupid truly feels like.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In response to my helpless plea of "What the hell can I do to get back into my apartment?" my centenarian neighbor thinks for a moment, then offers up this advice: Maybe Sami has a key.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Unless he's reached the point in his life that he now speaks of himself in the third person, whoever this is, this is not Sami. At least we have straightened that out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I try to tell him in broken Turkish that I had left the garden door open. If I can get into the garden, I tell him, I can get back into the apartment. Not-Sami suggests I ask the next-door neighbor, who surely has the same garden set up I do, just over a possibly scale-able white stucco wall. We knock on the neighbor's door, and I let Not-Sami explain my predicament. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The unsmiling woman opens the door just long enough to tell us (I think) that the wall is too high so forget it, before shutting the door again in our faces.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So much for tried and true solution of breaking into your own apartment. What else have we got? I turn back to Not-Sami.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Can we call a locksmith, or <i>anatharcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">? I ask.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<i>Telefon yok</i>." He doesn't have a phone.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe Sami can call him, he suggests. Ah yes, Sami again. So where is Sami, exactly?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Not-Sami keeps pointing to the right and saying something about "<i>yanında</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">." Really, the doorman for the building is next door? I don't understand. Not-Sami closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. Obviously tired of trying to explain things to me, he goes back into his windowless room, turns off the TV, puts on his slippers, and leads me upstairs and out the front door.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We look like two Alzheimer's patients, making our escape from the nursing home. The only thing missing is the bathrobes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Sure enough, on the building next door there is a bell with Sami's name on it. No, I would not have looked there. This may work out fine, after all. Maybe Sami has a key. If not, I'm sure Sami can call a locksmith. We ring Sami's bell.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But of course, that would be too easy. Sami is not home. Sami yok. Not-Sami turns to me and shrugs again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The Turks have a very useful phrase, "<i>Allah, Allah</i>," which more or less means, "I can not frigging believe it."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Allah, Allah</i>. I guess this takes us to Plan C.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I ask Not-Sami if he knows where a locksmith is. "<i>Anatharcı nerede, biliyor musunuz</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">?" He points up the street and starts giving me what sound like directions, but I can't understand what he's telling me. This street, there? I ask him. "<i>Bu sokak</i></span><i style="font-size: x-large;">, </i><span style="font-size: large;"><i>şurada</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">That seems to be what he is indicating, but I'm not really sure. In addition to that, if I go get the locksmith, how will I get back inside? I don't have a key to the front of the building. The old man's room in the basement not only doesn't have windows; it doesn't have a front door buzzer, either. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I ask Not-Sami if he will wait for me while I go look for a locksmith. I'm taking his blank stare and silence to mean yes, he will.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I go up the block and start running up and down the main street in my slippers, looking for the locksmith. I see nothing. Of course, I don't have my glasses, so surely this doesn't help. I ask a man painting an iron shop railing if he knows where an <i>anatharcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> is. He doesn't. He asks another man passing by if he knows where an <i>anatharc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> is. He doesn't. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The wandering-the-streets-squinting-at-shop signs-in-the-hope-that-one-will-have-a-giant-lock-and-key-on-it plan doesn't seem to be working out. I run back down the street to my apartment building. Not-Sami is there waiting for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm sorry, I don't understand, I say to him. Tell me again? Where is the <i>anatharcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">? He gives more incomprehensible directions. Can you show me? I ask him. Can we go there together? "<i>Beraber gidebilir, miyiz</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">?" Not-Sami frowns. I take this as a no. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Now it's my turn to close my eyes and sigh. Okay, I tell him. Let me try again. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I run down to the corner <i>mantı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> shop, and ask the nice woman who sold me homemade <i>mant</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> the day before if she knows where a locksmith is. She does. Turn left, go up the street, and across from the school, there is an <i>anahtarc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">, she tells me in Turkish. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnonwvPKcAFirqxai9Iphetjy2LpNQWwGl1xdTb12r1YPs_PwIgxKOC6Ots-DvLbFYYYAC_QuxIFdfVZvHkbyYLuBH9TjOyWEvDAWR-e8YvihmwJYQFZHSH1bNB69fEwgVwg1fksVYV7c/s1600/IMG_20120503_185042+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnonwvPKcAFirqxai9Iphetjy2LpNQWwGl1xdTb12r1YPs_PwIgxKOC6Ots-DvLbFYYYAC_QuxIFdfVZvHkbyYLuBH9TjOyWEvDAWR-e8YvihmwJYQFZHSH1bNB69fEwgVwg1fksVYV7c/s320/IMG_20120503_185042+(1).jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">For delivering simple directions even I can understand, I almost kiss her. I leave the <i>mantı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> shop and again run up the street (and hill) in my slippers. The school is several blocks away, but across from the school there is indeed an <i>anahatarc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> shop. The shop door is open. But the locksmith is not in the shop. No one is in the shop<i>. Hic kimse yok.</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It is as if a neutron bomb has gone off, vaporizing every locksmith and doorman named Sami within a 10-block radius.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I should have known better. Of course the <i>anatharcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> is not in his shop; he's out opening up locks for fellow dumbasses in the greater <i>Ni</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>şanta</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>şı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> area who have also locked themselves out of their apartments. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I've lost count, but I think I'm now up to something like Plan E. Think, think, think. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It occurs to me that maybe Istanbul Selda's friend, Hande, has a spare key to the apartment. I look at the clock in the locksmith shop (I have no watch, either). It's now about 5:15 p.m. Hande might have a key, but if she does, she's probably leaving her her office soon. If she's still there. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Pinning my hopes on Hande, I abandon the <i>anatharcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> shop, and take off running again, this time to Hande's wedding planning salon several blocks away. I arrive at Hande's shop a few minutes later, sweaty and out of breath. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The good news is, Hande is still there. The bad news is, she doesn't have a spare set of keys. No one does, apparently, except perhaps California Selda. California Selda unfortunately is 10,000 miles away, <i>in California.</i> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But Hande does have a suggestion: Maybe I could get a locksmith to open the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know why I didn't think of it, Hande. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I take off running in my slippers yet again back to the <i>anatharcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">. He is still not there. I wait, five minutes, then ten. Still <i>anatharc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı yok</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">. I comfort myself by thinking that, if worse comes to worst, I can spread out a newspaper and spend the night on the floor his office. All I need is a water dish.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Wait; this is also stupid. I see the <i>anatharcı</i></span><i style="font-size: x-large;"> </i><span style="font-size: large;">does have a business card in the office, which includes the <i>anatharc</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ı</i></span><i style="font-size: x-large;">'</i><span style="font-size: large;"><i>s</i> cell phone number. So I'll just call him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For that I would need a PHONE.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I grab a business card and run back to the bridal shop. I have begun to wear holes in the bottom of my slippers. By the time I arrive Hande has gone home. Between grasps for breath I throw myself on the mercy of one of the young women still working in the shop, who speaks much better English than I speak Turkish. Honestly, I'm pretty much beyond the point of being able to figure out how to say "I'm an idiot and locked myself out of my apartment" in any foreign language. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Please ... could you ... call this anatharci, explain the ... situation, and ... ask him to meet me at No. 13 ... No. 13 <i>Haci Enem Efendi Soka</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ğı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">She takes pity on me. I hear her call the <i>anatharcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">. Yes, he's on his way now, she tells me. He'll meet me there.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I run back to my apartment for the final sprint of the day. Not-Sami of course has long ago given up on me and gone back to the basement. After a few minutes I see a man walking down the street, carrying a tool box.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It is the <i>anatharcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">. I actually bow to him, as if I am receiving a visit from the Dalai Lama. Of course we still have to get inside the building. With Sami the <i>Kap</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>ıcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> still Missing In Action, and Not-Sami back in his buzzer-less basement toolshed apartment, my options are limited. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I start randomly ringing door buzzers. After about the third try, someone answers. "<i>Merhaba. Um ... daire iki oturiyorum, ama anatharim yok. Um, kapı</i></span><i><span style="font-size: large;"> ... </span><span style="font-size: large;">kapı </span><span style="font-size: large;">... </span><span style="font-size: large;">a</span><span style="font-size: large;">ç</span><span style="font-size: large;">ebilir misiniz</span></i><span style="font-size: large;">?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Whomever has answered gets so tired of listening to me stammer in bad Turkish that they go ahead and buzz us in. After that, it takes the anatharci exactly 10 seconds to get my apartment door open with a skeleton key.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Thank you so much, I tell the <i>anatharcı</i></span><span style="font-size: large;">. How much do I owe you? He holds out 5 fingers. Oh, 5 Turkish Lira? About three bucks? That's great!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I go into the flat to get my wallet, come back out and hand him a five lira bill. "No," he says in English. "Fifty. Normally 50. But I charge you only 40." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm in luck! Apparently he's offering a 20 percent, after five o'clock, dumbass discount special. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Turkey has humbled me, yet again. I retreat back into the apartment, figuring it might a good idea to stay inside for the rest of the evening.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The next day I see the old man's door is open as I'm leaving my apartment. I knock and wave to him through the door opening, and say "thank you" for all of his help. He smiles and waves back.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I tell him my name and I ask his. After a couple of attempts, he understands the question. His name is Emit.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<i>Menum oldum, Emit</i>." It's nice to meet you. Thank you again for everything. He smiles and waves at me again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When I return home later that day, Emit's door once again is open. He sees me in the hall and calls to get my attention. He has something for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It is an old-fashioned key-case wallet, the kind my mother probably carried. I didn't know they still made them. In fact I'm sure they probably don't.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Emit smiles but offers no explanation, in Turkish or otherwise. Welcome to the neighborhood, Dumbass. When you step out the front door, don't forget to carry your keys with you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And oh, yeah: You probably also should invest in a new pair of slippers.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-32799265384529678232012-03-26T10:53:00.000-07:002014-08-04T13:17:19.911-07:00Lost and Found<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">"It's very simple," Kemal the rental car man tells me as he points to the map. "You exit the old city here, and turn to the right. Then you go left here. After this, you go to the second stop light - not the first, but the second - and go left again. Then at the next stop light, you turn right, and you are on the main road out of the city."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm certain Kemal sees me frown and bite my lower lip as I try to memorize and count the number of turns. He tries to reassure me. "You can't get lost," he promises. "It's very easy. <em>Çok kolay</em>."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<em>Çok kolay</em>," I repeat, as if by saying the phrase out loud I can convince myself of its truth. I've never driven in Turkey before, but the principles are all the same, right? Right, left, two lights, another left, then a right. Directions an imbecile could follow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Yet even while I'm saying it, I know deep down that Kemal is mistaken. Literally and figuratively, I've been down this road before. It<em> won't</em> be easy, and I <em>will</em> get lost. But one way or another, eventually, I will probably figure it out. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/394250_10150682180789928_660639927_9174741_2085909937_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" aria-busy="false" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowliftCaption" border="0" class="spotlight" height="240" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/394250_10150682180789928_660639927_9174741_2085909937_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Story of my life.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Emboldened by the belief that things will work out because they usually do, I open the door of my tiny Chevy Aveo rental clown car, move the seat back as far as it will go, and drive off slowly down the cobblestone streets of Antalya.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I had come to Antalya for two reasons. First of all, I was tired of being cold. Istanbul had been experiencing a colder-than-usual winter, with snow, slush, icy wind and all the other unpleasantries of a typical winter in New York or Pittsburgh. By early March everyone is sick of it, myself included. I wanted to go somewhere that I didn't have walk around with my collar turned up and my hands jammed in my pockets. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Second, I had come to realize that Turkey was a big place, and in five months' time I had seen exactly one city in the entire country. I had become like one of those foreign tourists who come to New York for three days, ride to the top of the Empire State Building, and think they've seen America. Searching for warmth and another part of Turkey, I decided it was time to hit the road.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">After thumbing through a few guidebooks and checking out a couple of internet sites, I picked Antalya: once a small fishing village and now a city of more than 1 million on the southern coast of Turkey. Make no mistake: Antalya has been discovered. But I am able to snag a flight from Istanbul to Antalya that cost all of $72 USD. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">That's $72, as in $72 round trip. At this price, I could almost afford to fly back and forth every day. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On the internet I locate a hotel that had been converted from an 18th Century Ottoman stone and timber house. The cost of my room? Fifty five dollars a night. In New York or San Francisco, you <em>might</em> be able to find a hotel room for $55. But that would be $55 <em>per hour</em>, and both you and the hooker would be afraid to sit on the bed spread.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As I board the airport bus in Istanbul to fly off to the southern coast of Turkey, the weather is gray, rainy and cold. In contrast, as I step out of the Antalya airport on the southern coast of Turkey, the weather is gray, rainy, and somewhat less cold. Apparently it's still winter, even in Antalya.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I see. Maybe this is why you can still fly here for the price of a bus ticket.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Back in the rental car, I've managed to get lost in less than five minutes. This may be a record, even for me. After a right and two lefts, there seems to be no road on which to turn right again. Instead, I am on an unidentified four-lane boulevard with signs pointing to some location I've never heard of. Slowing down to try to read Turkish street signs seems to aggravate the drivers behind me, honking as if they are incredulous to have the bad luck to be stuck behind yet another clueless tourist.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I have no idea where it is I am currently headed. But I <em>do</em> know that where ever it is, that's not where I want to go. Looking on the bright side, I am beginning to narrow things down: I need to go any direction but this. I need to go left. Or perhaps right. Based on nothing but instinct, I opt for the U-Turn.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">After arriving at the airport the first day, by the time I reach </span><span style="font-size: large;">my little hotel in Antalya's old city (<em>Kaleiçi</em>, or "Inside the Castle"), it is nearly six o'clock. My room's sleeping arrangements consist of two twin beds, more or less pushed together. The decor looks like something my grandmother<span class="yiv20902420hps"> might have picked out, if my grandmother had been a French prostitute in the 18th Century.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv20902420hps">Still, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv20902420hps">I'm very pleased with my $55 a night accommodations. No, it's not the Ritz Carlton, but it's not the Motel 6, either. Outside it is still raining, and the forecast calls for more rain tomorrow. Perhaps </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv20902420hps">the less than ideal weather explains the cheap hotel rates, and the fact that I currently seem to be one of only a dozen tourists in all of Antalya.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv20902420hps"><span style="font-size: large;">Around 7:00 I stumble out into the rain to forage for food. I make the mistake of by passing the very chic-looking restaurant attached to the hotel, and instead wander into town to a place billed on the outside as a "kafe bistro." On the back wall inside is a flat-panel TV, with a continuous recording running of a wood-burning fireplace. A television station in Pittsburgh used to run the same thing for six hours every Christmas morning: "The Yule Log: A Holiday Tradition!" Hey, that's reason enough for me to give this place my business. </span></span><br />
<span class="yiv20902420hps"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="yiv20902420hps"><span style="font-size: large;">In front of the simulated fire are two musicians, playing the <em>bağlama</em> and guitar. They are not playing them particularly well. And like the faux fireplace, the food that arrives at the table is not so much food, as it is an approximation of food. It's as if the chef had no real experience preparing food, but had once seen pictures and tried his best to re-create it from memory. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv20902420hps"><span style="font-size: large;">On a positive note, beer is served.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv20902420hps"><span style="font-size: large;">Hoping for better luck tomorrow, I finish my beer and my ersatz food, warm my hands in front of the ersatz fire, zip up my anorak, and head out in the rain back to my tastefully decorated brothel.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;">The rain has more or less stopped the next day, but the weather remains gray, cloudy and cold. I decide to start the day by walking through the streets of the old town. The old town streets are indeed ancient and quaint. They are also packed with tourist trinket shops of every conceivable incarnation. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately, at this stage of the season there appear to be more tourist trinket shops in Antalya than there are actual tourists. As I walk down the street, it is as if someone has pushed the tourist alarm button and placed all shop owners on Def Con 3. The charming cobblestone streets soon become a nightmarish gauntlet of desperate merchants, working me as if their child's next meal depends on it. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"> I imagine this is what the zombie apocalypse will be like, if the zombies are hawking rugs, T shirts, and cheap ceramics.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;">In response to every request to come inside and look around, I repeat again and again what soon become the five most important words in the Turkish language: <em><span class="yiv1969147981hps">Şimdi değil</span>, <span class="yiv1969147981hps">ama belki </span></em><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><em>sonra</em>. ("Not now, but maybe later.") I repeat it so often it becomes a mantra: </span></span></span><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">"Şi<span class="yiv1969147981hps">mdi değil</span>, <span class="yiv1969147981hps">ama belki </span><span class="yiv1969147981hps">sonra." "Ş<span class="yiv1969147981hps">imdi değil</span>, <span class="yiv1969147981hps">ama belki</span><span class="yiv1969147981hps"> sonra." </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">The magic words appease almost everyone, save for one persistent shop owner, who comes out of his doorway and begins to follow me down the street. <span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">"Şi<span class="yiv1969147981hps">mdi değil</span>, <span class="yiv1969147981hps">ama belki </span><span class="yiv1969147981hps">sonra," I say to him. "Ş<span class="yiv1969147981hps">imdi değil</span>, <span class="yiv1969147981hps">ama belki</span><span class="yiv1969147981hps"> sonra." But he keeps coming; the words bounce off of him like bullets off the chest of Superman. I begin to wonder if the only way to stop him is to drive a stake through his heart.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">As I'm still walking, he makes one last desperate attempt to make a sale. "I need your money!" he shouts at me in English.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">I answer him over my shoulder without breaking stride. "<em>Bende</em>," I tell him. Yeah. Me too. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">* * * * </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">As I left the shop of Kemal the rental car man, he made the following statement: "The petrol is on reserve, so you will return it on reserve." I had no idea in hell what he was talking about. Yet,</span></span></span></span><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"> because he was speaking English, and English is supposed to be a language I have mastered, I nodded as if I understood completely. Yes, of course; the petrol is on reserve. Please, Kemal, my friend. This goes without staying.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">After driving around in circles in the streets of Antalya for 15 minutes fruitlessly searching for the Road out of Town and finally glancing at the dashboard, the meaning of Kemal's words finally become clear to me. "The petrol is on reserve," is Turkish (translated into English) for "The gas tank is empty." Oh. I see. I probably should have clarified that, before I'd gotten lost. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">To avoid having to figure out how to say "Is there a Turkish AAA?" or "Help me; I am screwed" in Turkish, I temporarily suspend my quest for the apparently mythical Road out of Town, and start looking for something that resembles a gas station.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">* * * *</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps"><span class="yiv1969147981hps">I emerge from the Labyrinth of the Trinket Sellers shaken, but thankfully with money still in my wallet. With the weather still gray and overcast, I decide this might be a good time to head off to the Antalya Archaeological Museum.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Just as there aren't any tourists in the trinket shops, there aren't many history nerds in the archaeological museum either. Perhaps there is a limited audience for Roman statues, Greek coins, and clay pots fished out of the sea, even on the worst of days.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I confess that my eyes glaze over and my mind begins to wander after about the sixth statue gallery. I notice that on each of the seemingly dozens of statutes of Hercules, the genitalia has been completely snapped off. Every single one. I wonder if there was some period of male statue genitalia debasement not covered in my 9th grade history book, or if there is a separate exhibit of the offending appendages, back behind a curtain somewhere. Surely they were not just tossed in the trash; someone must have them. I'm not finding an explanation on any of the placards. How would I ask that in Turkish?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">My God, I hope the weather is better tomorrow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sure enough, the skies clear and the sun comes out on the third day. The scenery that has been obscured to this point finally shows itself. Across an expanse of almost turquoise blue water you can see the long stretch of Mediterranean beaches, framed by a towering range of snow-capped mountains. It's like looking at Hawaii, with Montana sticking out of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/318269_10150682194894928_660639927_9174777_1314653413_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" aria-busy="false" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowliftCaption" border="0" class="spotlight" height="240" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/318269_10150682194894928_660639927_9174777_1314653413_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">I rent a bike and ride out along the cliffs above the sea, running unexpectedly into the Dunden Waterfalls about 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) outside of town. Busloads of French and German tourists have been disgorged here take photographs, but the falls are pretty spectacular all the same.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The day is topped off with a dinner at a restaurant in the Old City yacht harbor of fish soup, calamari salad, grilled sea bass, and (of course) plenty of rakı. The only other people in the restaurant the entire time I am here is a Turkish couple entertaining an overweight Finnish businessman, who spends the evening recounting to his hosts in a loud voice how he built his business from the ground up. At one point he summons the restaurant owner to the table, to expound on his views (in English) of proper kitchen hygiene practices.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> It is somehow comforting to know that America is not the world's sole exporter of pompous blowhards. I order another rakı, and call it a good day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Back in California, my sister has a GPS device in her Prius that she affectionately refers to as "Navigation Lady." Navigation Lady is a stern dominatrix, whom my sister disobeys at her own peril ("Navigation Lady wants me to take the freeway." "Navigation Lady is upset because I missed the turn."). The advantage to a GPS guidance system like Navigation Lady is that you never have to really figure anything out, because you always have someone telling you what to do. There's no denying the comfort in that.</span><br />
<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-FIQ8V5Pe1mK30h1-UaMjt9MTr49xmiKb4CTFzMrDwQc0d8A8ql9oD3cKcGMpK_OEEqjZXWVY0X7Ev3oXKETFskNt8jFKtIQf7oF2JqOlEyWmNxNgzbBFJQ81UuTSp3x3rMXH3VJtmZE/s1600/gty_tourists_stuck_gps_2_nt_120316_wmain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-FIQ8V5Pe1mK30h1-UaMjt9MTr49xmiKb4CTFzMrDwQc0d8A8ql9oD3cKcGMpK_OEEqjZXWVY0X7Ev3oXKETFskNt8jFKtIQf7oF2JqOlEyWmNxNgzbBFJQ81UuTSp3x3rMXH3VJtmZE/s320/gty_tourists_stuck_gps_2_nt_120316_wmain.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">But there is also a downside to obediently listening to what others tell you to do. Recently in Australia a car full of Japanese tourists drove their rented Hyundai 50 yards into the ocean when the Japanese version of Navigation Lady directed them down a road that, unfortunately, didn't actually exist. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"It told us we could drive down there," Yuzu Noda, 21, told the local Australian newspaper. "It kept saying it would navigate us to a road." Yes, Yuzu and his friends did exactly what they were told. You see where that got them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">There is no Navigation Lady - American, Turkish, Japanese or otherwise - in my Aveo clown car. Yes, it's true: I am lost. But I've come by it honestly. Eventually I will find the right road on my own. And I'm reasonably confident that, in the process, I can avoid driving off into the ocean.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/428949_10150682244349928_660639927_9175027_1033596636_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" aria-busy="false" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowliftCaption" border="0" class="spotlight" height="240" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/428949_10150682244349928_660639927_9175027_1033596636_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The morning after the Night of the Bloviating Finn, I head out to the the beach in Antalya. Finally, the weather is perfect: sunny, warm (68-70 degrees), and beautiful. I wade into the water and read a book on the pebbly beach. The only other people within 100 yards of me are two young female tourists, who squeal and curse in German as they try swimming in the still-too-chilly water. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">The snow-capped mountains of the <em>Toros Dağları</em> rise up behind me; the blue water of the Mediterranean stretches out ahead of me all the way to Israel. I could sit in this spot all day, or forever maybe. It is sunny and warm and calm and comfortable. No person in his right mind could possibly complain, or want anything more than this.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And yet.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I keep looking back over my shoulder at the mountains where I've never been before. I throw one of the round beach stones into the water, then another. Then I stand up and collect my things. I remember passing a rental car place on the way down to the beach. Kemal's something or other.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have finally found a gas station, and secured "petrol for the reserve." Lost still, yes, but disaster has been averted. In Turkish, I tell the gas station attendant (who is actually pumping my gas and cleaning my windshield, by the way) that I am looking for the Road out of Town, and ask him if he knows where I could find it. </span><br />
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"<em>Tabii</em>," he tells me. Of course. He points to a street sign about 25 yards away, and tells me in Turkish to turn right at this sign, and go straight. I look to where he is pointing. Turn right there? I ask him. Yes, right there. The place he points to is not a major road, but instead a broken-asphalt side street that appears to be headed into one of the less-desirable neighborhoods of Antalya. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>This </em>will take me to the Road out of Town? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This street here?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><img src="http://www.edwardgauvin.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/Jim+Croce+croce1.jpg" height="200" id="il_fi" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="131" /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I look at the man again. He has clear blue eyes, dark curly hair and a mustache growing over both sides of his mouth, like a Turkish version of Jim Croce, or perhaps, his Turkish reincarnation.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> What he is telling me seems to defy all logic. That can't possibly be the right road; it looks completely wrong. And yet. I pay for the gas, thank him, climb back in the Aveo, and take a right at the sign into the ramshackle neighborhood.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Almost immediately, I'm convinced I'm completely screwed. The street quickly narrows into little more than a one-way alley, going from broken asphalt to no asphalt at all. I slow the car down to a crawl trying to drive around the enormous potholes. A stray dog and three kids playing soccer in a vacant lot stop and look up at me</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">as I drive by, as if I have arrived in their neighborhood from another planet. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As wrong as it seems, I have no choice but to keep going. The road is so narrow there is no place to turn around. Even if I could, I would still have no idea where I was anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In a sense, I created all of this uncertainty the moment I stood up from my place on the beautiful beach, and walked through the doors of Kemal's rent-a-car shop. Of course now there is no going back to that place on the beach. Sometimes, like it or not, the only place you can go is to go on.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">After several more minutes crawling down the alleyway, I can see cars whizzing by up ahead. It is a highway, and at the intersection I can see a sign for the airport. It is, in fact, the Road Out of Town.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I put the Aveo in first and ease my way into the stream of traffic, heading off toward the snow-capped mountains in the distance.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I still don't know where I'm going. But I'm on my way.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Jim Croce and Paul Simon be praised.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-80992332768827672642012-03-15T01:44:00.000-07:002012-03-26T22:15:04.193-07:00Kafe Life<span style="font-size: large;">I always wondered who these people were I saw sitting in cafes all day long. Now I have become one of them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We are generally a peaceful people, if perhaps a bit over caffeinated. We don’t ask for much: a reasonably comfortable chair, perhaps a small table, and a bathroom that doesn’t require a code to get into. Okay, we’ll grudgingly deal with the bathroom code, if it’s less than five digits. But then we’d better be getting some internet access, pal. There’s only so much uncompensated oppression we’re willing to take.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You will find Denizens of the Cafe all over the world, of course. I have joined them here in Istanbul. We are writers, students, office-less workers, artists, dilettantes, ne’er-do-wells, poets, people watchers, book readers who have come out of the house for air, lost souls, social malcontents, and, I don't know, I guess people who just really really really can’t stop drinking coffee. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In Istanbul there are literally thousands of cafes (<em>kafeler</em>, in Turkish) and tea houses in which to hang out. They range from those with fine china and linen tablecloths to those with paper cups and folding chairs. The ones I frequent (somewhere in between the two extremes) are all off the main streets of Beyoğlu. With only one exception these are all places I just stumbled into while wandering around the back streets of my neighborhood. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I kept coming back if they offered an internet connection, and were reasonably tolerant of my mangled Turkish. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Honestly I'd be hard pressed to give you directions to any of these places. But if you were looking to track me down on any given afternoon, here's where you might find me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Cafe Urban</strong></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNjbZIMdUaFutjhub4IZn9kAzs23SP_dXDgGjaVp_JFGtidNHIpuq2AkbZ61Mvb3PL78xrLmtdbSbqqPoQOZvfx4oBia0PgP4ld-IaRmnyptc5GUqd7tUbXKUUR6VHymHr92To3tqkcI/s1600/IMG_20120311_163726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNjbZIMdUaFutjhub4IZn9kAzs23SP_dXDgGjaVp_JFGtidNHIpuq2AkbZ61Mvb3PL78xrLmtdbSbqqPoQOZvfx4oBia0PgP4ld-IaRmnyptc5GUqd7tUbXKUUR6VHymHr92To3tqkcI/s320/IMG_20120311_163726.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">I will confess up front that the reason I discovered Cafe Urban is because it is a cafe with a fully stocked bar, one that includes Jameson, Glenlivet, and my Turkish beer of choice, Efes Dark. Cafe Urban also has a decent menu, where you can find everything from baked salmon to spaghetti bolognese. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But I don't consider Cafe Urban either a bar, or a restaurant (although you could argue it is both). It is a cafe in more than name only, because it is open almost all the time, and no one cares if you sit there all day and night, as long you occasionally order something. It can be coffee, tea, carrot cake or a double scotch on the rocks.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In this sense, Cafe Urban satisfies a large number of my necessities of life. If they did my laundry and let me take a shower occasionally, I might never leave. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOg2nTPMqcpb6AsQQalf9cvr1150LjdYp40pKdfGVNHx1a_kU_Nw3Ra9w3QhmtGH15df3iq_CPWZEzdMNAUl5T2DS8aEeTcWGQZ3wMh_u9t0EaA0a6tPfpOIow76eTjeHWGeHw8SO8CiY/s1600/IMG_20120311_164300-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOg2nTPMqcpb6AsQQalf9cvr1150LjdYp40pKdfGVNHx1a_kU_Nw3Ra9w3QhmtGH15df3iq_CPWZEzdMNAUl5T2DS8aEeTcWGQZ3wMh_u9t0EaA0a6tPfpOIow76eTjeHWGeHw8SO8CiY/s320/IMG_20120311_164300-1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">There is a slightly hip but thankfully unpretentious vibe to Cafe Urban. It lies in a back alley-like street between Istiklal Ceddesi and the "world famous" <em>Galatasaray Tarihi Hamami</em> (to steal a line from Mel Brooks, it's World Famous in Turkey). The cafe itself has 4 different levels, and seems to have been built into the walls of an old bakery; the lowest level contains bricked-in ovens and vaulted stone arches from another incarnation. On the ancient stone wall hangs a large black and white photo of Times Square.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> To complete the cafe's cosmopolitan <em>bona fides</em>, behind another stone wall there is a single unisex restroom. (No Starbucks code to punch in here.) Yes, you get your own locked and sealed stall, but if want to wash your hands, we're all in this together, sister. You can go hide in the powder room some place else.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;">There is no doubt that ex pats from around the world have discovered this place. On this particular afternoon I am sitting two tables down from an American guy (I heard him answer his cell phone) reading J.M. Coetzee, and a level up from a middle aged schoolteacher in a bright-red hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with the words <em>Alman Lisesi</em> (The German School), typing on his iPad. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But Cafe Urban still belongs to the <em>Istanbulu</em>, which is why I like it. Turkish people come here any time of the day to meet and talk with their friends, or have a drink with their date after a movie. It's one of those rare places that is as fancy or casual as you want it to be. It tries to be all things to all people, and largely succeeds. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In other words, this the kind of place that should be in every neighborhood in the world, but isn't. I'm happy to have it while I can.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Laterne Cafe</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In my mind, the Laterne Cafe is the anti-Starbucks of the Cafe World. I'm not sure I've seen anything like in America or anywhere else.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlNNCy9UzRLmQTR7xlZQKE6HMa5opy0V_kbbOKkkYidpJQRkxsw1pDddszW6XF-lPzHY2sOVv3yhLA_btb3GPWwMR8chaHSaYmgbfM2pQ0-Q2lOPpDDWw-7r7AlPmXnPpJvgKFQg6S74/s1600/IMG_20120312_160848-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlNNCy9UzRLmQTR7xlZQKE6HMa5opy0V_kbbOKkkYidpJQRkxsw1pDddszW6XF-lPzHY2sOVv3yhLA_btb3GPWwMR8chaHSaYmgbfM2pQ0-Q2lOPpDDWw-7r7AlPmXnPpJvgKFQg6S74/s200/IMG_20120312_160848-1.jpg" width="154" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, the Laterne is a cafe, in the sense that you can get coffee and tea, and a couple plates of food if you are hungry. Everything here is dirt-cheap. I have no idea how they make any money. A glass of tea cost 1.5 Turkish lira, or about 80 cents. If you want to spring for a cappuccino (not a great cappuccino, but still), it'll set you back all of 3 lira ($1.60). There is no menu. The food offered - dishes of pasta salad, couscous, stuffed grape leaves, and other cold <em>mezze</em> - seem as if they have been prepared at the employees' homes for a company pot-luck picnic. These saran-wrap covered dishes sit atop a small counter in the front. If something looks good, you just point and they'll dish it out for you.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The tables are laminated white or covered with a green velour tablecloth. The seating in the center of the room consists of two rows of wooden park-like benches, facing each other over little glass tables. The main room (there is an upstairs, too) is usually noisy; the lighting has the florescent glow of a junior high school cafeteria. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56uM7323hSEM6vOrZurwEtKeVa-QzwKoAnGdrA56ikPWX95Fzt0UXPKrZcPV8cl-VbGw7FHsDZiP4X6kk2d0T_lJ06SlNfBq3G8-F_WqHf7EPf_aZroCW43nZHR1HY_uzg7djpL-TV_A/s1600/IMG_20120312_161106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56uM7323hSEM6vOrZurwEtKeVa-QzwKoAnGdrA56ikPWX95Fzt0UXPKrZcPV8cl-VbGw7FHsDZiP4X6kk2d0T_lJ06SlNfBq3G8-F_WqHf7EPf_aZroCW43nZHR1HY_uzg7djpL-TV_A/s320/IMG_20120312_161106.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">But the appeal of Laterne is neither the food, the cheap drinks, nor the atmosphere. Laterne is almost always packed, almost exclusively by Turks under 25 or so. (Apparently I'm allowed in under some kind of middle-aged foreigner novelty exception). No, people apparently come here for another reason. Oddly enough, they seem to actually want to <em>talk to each other</em>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There is a compound verb in Turkish: <em>sohbet etmek. </em>There's not really a great English translation, possibly because it's not something we do a lot of. It essentially means to chat with, or to visit with, or spend some time with. This is what they do at Laterne Cafe; they come here to <em>sohbet etmek.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">No one is texting or typing on their laptop (except for me, which immediately identifies me as The Freak From Another Other Country). Instead, they chat with their friends, play <em>tavula</em> (backgammon), Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble (that's <em>Turkish</em> Scrabble, mind you, which I imagine must be something like Chinese arithmetic), and laugh and talk and just hang out.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I can't be positive, but I think the word is "socialize." It's been so long since I've seen anything like this in America, I feel like I am trying to explain the bizarre customs of some newly discovered tribe in the Amazon</span>.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;">Compare this scene to your last trip to an American Starbucks. Look for the people who have been sitting there for hours with their ear buds in and their laptops on. Try talking to them. No, wait; try just making eye contact. Odds are great they will either: a) try to ignore you, b) reach for the pepper spray, or c) contact management to have you forcefully removed from the premises. If you want to "socialize," freak, you'd better grab a computer and get yourself to a chat room.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">They like me at Laterne Cafe, even if I don't play backgammon. When leaving I always get a smile, a handshake, and heart-felt <em>"Görüşürüz,"</em> Turkish for "I'll see you," or literally "You will be seen." They know me too well.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I think they figure that, sooner or later, I will cave and try the homemade potato salad. Then there will be no turning back.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Cafe Mitanni</strong></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Like Cafe Laterne, Cafe Mitanni sits on a quiet back street not far from the insane crowds of Taksim Square and Istiklal Ceddese. It's the kind of place you could never find if you were actually looking for it. You would either have to accidentally stumble across it, or, like me, pass it a dozen times before realizing it was a semi-legitimate business.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYASppI9fCIPCfMBm-sTsak6t8opFkIY1C33a7tfsuNuLfd95Pyu1V3RBjRToTCUku9ueEMny-1IbW7swKQGOkWr9KVca2TN07od6f_zIzp0uZxpL-Zar2aZrYdRz0uwetGCepHBfNT-Q/s1600/IMG_20120311_162944.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYASppI9fCIPCfMBm-sTsak6t8opFkIY1C33a7tfsuNuLfd95Pyu1V3RBjRToTCUku9ueEMny-1IbW7swKQGOkWr9KVca2TN07od6f_zIzp0uZxpL-Zar2aZrYdRz0uwetGCepHBfNT-Q/s320/IMG_20120311_162944.jpg" width="215" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">The Cafe Mitanni menu, such as it is, is written on a chalkboard outside the entrance. Written on a second chalkboard is a message that reads, in English, "Don't Think Twice; Just Get In!" This leads me to believe that more than one person has stood outside the entrance, thinking twice or three times, before daring to venture inside. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The front of the cafe is only about ten feet wide, with three small tables and folding chairs, an old radio, a magazine rack, several unwatered dying plants, and two armchairs that look like they were tossed in a dumpster after being unsuccessfully offered at a garage sale. Sometimes the cafe is quiet; other times a particularly pensive form of jazz from the 1950s is playing, the kind you would applaud by snapping your fingers. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;">Seldom is anyone sitting in the front room. If you sit there long enough, absolutely no one will come to take your order. You walk through a short hallway to reach the back room, where you can make your food or beverage request. The back room </span><span style="font-size: large;">is slightly larger, complete with more tables, a small couch, and an upright piano.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">I will admit that the only reason I ever ventured into Cafe Mitanni was because the nearby Cafe Laterne was too crowded or noisy. I've never encountered this problem at Cafe Mitanni. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> On weekends and some evenings, instruments are set up in the corner, as if a band is getting ready to play a set. Yet in my half dozen visits, I've yet to see any musicians actually playing anything. I don't know; maybe it's me. In my paranoid fantasies I imagine they are waiting for me to leave before starting, lest the music be contaminated in the front room by my tragic unhipness.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUz2wM_RAxm1MBzHaO32n5KL9xHw4nkod_I0L6g78dE7hzHRtTDgEtfGPboqB8Vo0xa-ViLkG1Uow4QVRcP9BuWKvXHoy4DAClRtDmvjl_tNwvhVRfZuKuvKJ1p5lxa1-Y0gXJcXxCfkU/s1600/IMG_20120311_152921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUz2wM_RAxm1MBzHaO32n5KL9xHw4nkod_I0L6g78dE7hzHRtTDgEtfGPboqB8Vo0xa-ViLkG1Uow4QVRcP9BuWKvXHoy4DAClRtDmvjl_tNwvhVRfZuKuvKJ1p5lxa1-Y0gXJcXxCfkU/s200/IMG_20120311_152921.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUz2wM_RAxm1MBzHaO32n5KL9xHw4nkod_I0L6g78dE7hzHRtTDgEtfGPboqB8Vo0xa-ViLkG1Uow4QVRcP9BuWKvXHoy4DAClRtDmvjl_tNwvhVRfZuKuvKJ1p5lxa1-Y0gXJcXxCfkU/s1600/IMG_20120311_152921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">On a recent rainy Sunday afternoon, a small scruffy group of ex pats of undetermined origin in their late 20s/early 30s - complete with a golden retriever puppy wearing a bandanna - sit around the coffee table in the back room, drinking tea and eating plates of various food from a makeshift buffet, set up on a card table. To order a cup of tea I locate the sole attendant, a shaggy haired man wearing a turquoise T-shirt and apricot-colored pants, washing dishes in a small room behind a curtain. After about 10 minutes he brings me my tea in cup that also looks like is was thrown out after the same garage sale. A tiny spoon is sitting almost entirely submerged in the tea, so that I burn my fingers trying to fish it out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> My sole companion in the front room this day is a young woman wearing an overcoat and fingerless wool gloves, reading xeroxed pages of something and underlining significant passages with a tiny golf pencil. Her backpack and tennis shoes tell me without asking that she is American. When owner brings her a refill on her tea, I politely offer her the sugar bowl.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">"No thanks," she replies in perfect California English. "I don't do sugar." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She doesn't do sugar. For a moment I imagine that I have been transported back to San Francisco, and next she will tell me my meridians are out of alignment. </span><span style="font-size: large;">But no, we're still here in Istanbul, although perhaps in a bit of a time/cultural vortex. While I don't want to hang out here every day, there is an odd comfort of home feeling that I can occasionally appreciate.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Şimdi Cafe</strong></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFlLkNTU6AcqQXsFPSxmjwCYIw2k_oeb2bBC2DY9OUCbOcSGiSGW8uCcdZJ2dTzwDyi8AkLvgCNfeCrt33rdAuQpVTyCvxxGyU3N3rNq9g0m2wijzD7-26fuh4XjfjvhH06ihraSijh1g/s1600/IMG_20120312_134222-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFlLkNTU6AcqQXsFPSxmjwCYIw2k_oeb2bBC2DY9OUCbOcSGiSGW8uCcdZJ2dTzwDyi8AkLvgCNfeCrt33rdAuQpVTyCvxxGyU3N3rNq9g0m2wijzD7-26fuh4XjfjvhH06ihraSijh1g/s320/IMG_20120312_134222-1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">In contrast to Mitanni, Şimdi Cafe is the kind of place that probably belongs in Paris or Milan, rather than on a side street in the middle of Istanbul. If beamed Star Trek-style from your living room to the middle of this cafe, I assure you your first "where am I?" guess would not be Turkey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The waiters are all male, all wearing the same white dress shirt (yes, untucked, but still) and black pants uniform. There is real cappuccino here, and a real wine list. The uber-cool background music ranges from Sade to the Cure to Tom Waits. You can order pizza or pasta, eggs or omelettes, fish soup or smoked salmon. But no Turkish lamb kabob or shepherd's salad here at Şimdi. You will need to walk around the corner if you want that kind of action. Even the ubiquitous glass cups of Turkish tea seen everywhere else in the city seemed to be served here reluctantly. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtNR7z6gMMMZSXZOdWAnCnhH4AaAFcwH4HLk4MYxHkPHgVqfQpKL1mPncTgIOm1IAwNBsD1_6OCcHEz_r7cPno1BPJkwCF21Ketva9hL18qATO_BxyZ6uVmLfsO_l8HsFdJBKafzUabg/s1600/IMG_20120312_134234-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtNR7z6gMMMZSXZOdWAnCnhH4AaAFcwH4HLk4MYxHkPHgVqfQpKL1mPncTgIOm1IAwNBsD1_6OCcHEz_r7cPno1BPJkwCF21Ketva9hL18qATO_BxyZ6uVmLfsO_l8HsFdJBKafzUabg/s1600/IMG_20120312_134234-1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;">Şimdi is located just a few blocks from the British, Dutch, Italian, and Swedish consulates, which may at least partially explain the international vibe. Not many tourists have discovered Şimdi (thank God), but the ex pats of Istanbul seem to know all about it. Let's face it; no matter how much you love Turkish tea and baklava, sometimes your body simply demands an omelet and a decent cup of coffee.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> And yes, there is liquor license. The Efes Dark beer is served in a frosted glass, <em>and </em>comes with a bowl of potato chips. All of which is great, but honestly, to steal another movie line (this one from <em>Jerry McGuire</em>), they had me at beer.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;">The hip international <em>bon vivant</em> vibe is not lost on the Turks, either. They're all over Şimdi, too, for much the same reason the <em>yabanciler</em> (foreigners) are. It's just a very cool place to be, no matter where you are from.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27t28cFphzL-m1O3JhwiSB7zidbK22qsCG_-HoUz8OrN9IpIpXEMeqt8_Mg34LA9aAi7isjMzvA1hMeJjbLCt14uG7076HQ0-PkqnTlv1uSseJM5aN0EjqfjhfV2hnotUYi9KBzz1Fj4/s1600/IMG_20120312_134453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27t28cFphzL-m1O3JhwiSB7zidbK22qsCG_-HoUz8OrN9IpIpXEMeqt8_Mg34LA9aAi7isjMzvA1hMeJjbLCt14uG7076HQ0-PkqnTlv1uSseJM5aN0EjqfjhfV2hnotUYi9KBzz1Fj4/s320/IMG_20120312_134453.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;"> In front of the cafe is a communal table that seats eight, along with a couch and several green velvet chairs around a square coffee table, complete with a bowl of oranges. (I've never been able to figure out if the oranges are meant to be food or only table decoration. For this reason, I've never had the guts to eat one.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For me, Şimdi is another great place to hang out, albeit at a slightly higher cover charge than others in the rotation. Again, as long as you are ordering something, no one is going to hurry you along. If you sit there long enough, you can segue from your late morning tea to your afternoon coffee to your evening frosty-mugged beer without ever surrendering your seat on the couch. Trust me; I've done it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">All this, <em>and</em> a bowl of chips. Like the other Denizens of the Cafe, you know I'll be back. As long as there's coffee and an accessible bathroom, we'll always be back.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In other words, I will be seen. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Görüşürüz.</em></span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-45528799585396106852012-02-11T13:11:00.000-08:002012-02-13T04:17:53.678-08:00The Super What?<span style="font-size: large;">Let me make the disclaimer up front; this is a blog about nothing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a story about how I almost watched the Super Bowl in Istanbul early Monday morning. About how I almost had a dozen amusing anecdotes about a stranger in a strange land, watching a strange game at a strange time with strange people doing strange things. It was to be a story about love, deception, greed, lust, unbridled enthusiasm, and possibly the high stakes game of world diplomacy and international intrigue.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This would be a story with something for everyone, dripping with irony and dried off with a fluffy towel of brilliant cross-cultural insight. A puckish satire of contemporary mores, aimed more at the heart than at the head.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To quote the great American philosopher and 1960s fictional television character<span id="goog_299217145"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_299217146"></span> Maxwell Smart ...</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/oPwrodxghrw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Look, I'll be honest. Normally I am a pretty big sports fan. But this year I didn't really care who would win the Super Bowl. I wasn't really <em>that</em> interested in watching the game. I had been completely out of touch with any American sports since October. For the first time in my life I had to double check to figure out which teams were actually playing. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But as you know, the Super Bowl is not really a football game any more. For better and for worse, it has become America's biggest cultural touchstone. If the numbers are to be believed, more than one-third of everyone in the country watches it. People in America who <em>don't</em> watch the Super Bowl have to really, really work at it, either by running out into the middle of a dark forest somewhere, or by desperately surfing the cable channels to locate The Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet or a <em>Who's the Boss?</em> marathon. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www-deadline-com.vimg.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/madonna__120206212418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" id="il_fi" src="http://www-deadline-com.vimg.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/madonna__120206212418.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="380" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Think about the diabolical brilliance of this. You start with football, roping in about 90 percent of American men (and a large percentage of women) without even trying. Roll in the hype of newly released commercials, and that pulls in another big chunk of people who otherwise care nothing about sports. By the time you throw in Madonna for a halftime show, you now have almost every TV in the country dialed in -- including those in every gay bar in America. Now <em>that's</em> marketing genius.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So even though I was 5,000 miles and numerous time zones away from the nearest football not actually shaped like a soccer ball, I decided it was my duty as an American to watch the Super Bowl in Turkey. Missing Christmas and Thanksgiving is one thing. Miss Christmas, Thanksgiving and the Super Bowl and I suspect they might not let me back in the country.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Watching the Super Bowl in Istanbul, however, is not as easy as it might sound.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Let's start with the time difference. For reasons understood only by television programmers who figured out how to get Madonna into a cheerleader costume, the Super Bowl would start Sunday evening at 6:15 p.m. EST -- just in time for everyone from Boston to Miami to eat green onion and sour cream potato-chip dip for dinner. With a seven-hour time difference, that meant that the game would be starting in Istanbul at 1:15, and ending about 5:00. That's 5:00 a.m., as in 5:00 Monday <em>morning.</em> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I can't remember the last time I pulled an all-nighter to watch a sporting event. But as long as I don't have a test on it the next day, I figure I'll be fine.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The next challenge would be <em>where </em>to watch the Super Bowl. </span><span style="font-size: large;">The television in my little basement apartment would be useless for this purpose. There are literally hundreds of channels on my bizarre cable system, from dozens of different countries in dozens of different languages. Music videos from Balochistan. News programs from Bulgaria. Prayer readings from Tehran and porn channels from Italy. But after months of surfing through all the flotsam and jetsam of Turkish cable programming, I have been able to locate exactly one English-language channel. It is BBC News.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Oddly enough, BBC News would not be providing live coverage of the Super Bowl this year. Apparently it had been preempted by the European debt crisis.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Still, there are just as many bars with television sets in Istanbul as there are channels on the cable system. And Istanbul, more than any place I've ever been to (including New York), is open pretty much 24 hours a day. Plus, I <em>know</em> there are Americans living here; I've heard them in the Starbucks, impatiently demanding low-fat half-caf Frappuccinos. Surely there would be a bar with a television, somewhere in a city of 15 million people, open at 1 a.m. on a Monday morning, showing an American football game to accommodate these people. Right?</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wrSS9KEkHB2Xzs6QIxKyyEW5KWYc3Ez4Cjmq3gKooVcfTmgBWPtTOtZUraTgw1c9vy5-ZQSwoYD7r5G29ObVYepVyZ5eQs2FufNOEKjMKVjM35VhXFo6TCj1qStZ2Se_qZbVzpb01aE/s1600/IMG_20120212_161203-1-1+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wrSS9KEkHB2Xzs6QIxKyyEW5KWYc3Ez4Cjmq3gKooVcfTmgBWPtTOtZUraTgw1c9vy5-ZQSwoYD7r5G29ObVYepVyZ5eQs2FufNOEKjMKVjM35VhXFo6TCj1qStZ2Se_qZbVzpb01aE/s1600/IMG_20120212_161203-1-1+(1).jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The most promising possible venue I can think of is a bar I'd walked by a few times called The North Shield. The bar obviously has an English-language name, a big-screen TV over the bar, a large selection of Scotch whiskey, and lots of walnut wood paneling. True, there is nothing here that necessarily screams "American Sports Bar." But encouragingly, a placard in the entryway announces that The North Shield proudly serves Brooklyn Lager beer. I can't think of anything much more American than that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On a reconnaissance mission to The North Shield a few nights before the game, I find there is indeed a television above the bar. On this particular night, however, the programming they are offering is a snooker match, which I can't take as a particularly good sign. I ask the bartender in Turkish if they will be showing the Super Bowl at the bar on Sunday night. He seems confused by the question.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"The what?" he asks in Turkish.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"The Super Bowl." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Su-per Bowl," he repeats slowly in English, as if it might make more sense if he sounds it out it phonetically. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>"Amerikalı futbolu <span class="hps">şampiyonluk</span> </em><span class="hps"><em>maçı," </em>I manage to get out.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="hps">"When?" he asks again in Turkish.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="hps">"Sunday," I tell him. "Well, early Monday morning."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="hps">He looks at me as if I'm delirious, and/or possibly confused as to how to say times of the day in Turkish. ("Monday <em>morning</em>?") To my surprise, he nods his head and says, "Yes, maybe," before going back to washing glasses behind the bar.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="hps"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://cdn2-b.examiner.com/sites/default/files/styles/medium/hash/0c/f4/0cf4649041bee1bcdbbac47584dfbf6d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="90" id="il_fi" src="http://cdn2-b.examiner.com/sites/default/files/styles/medium/hash/0c/f4/0cf4649041bee1bcdbbac47584dfbf6d.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="150" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="hps">Still, t<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="hps">his is not really the answer I'm looking for. Are you showing the game or aren't you? </span></span>If I'm walking out into the cold at 1:00 in the morning, I'm going to need a little more certainty than that. "Yes, we're stocked with Bud Light and the chicken wings have been ordered." That kind of certainty. So far I'm not really buying it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="hps">Dubious about The North Shield, I decide to put a call out on one of the Istanbul ex-pat website forums, asking if anyone knows of a bar in Beyoğlu that will be showing the Super Bowl. There is no response for a day or so. Then finally, a fellow American identified as Jeffrey ("Istanbul/Self Employed") posts the answer I've been waiting for.</span></span><br />
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<span class="hps"><span style="font-size: large;">"James Joyce on Balo Sk.," Jeffrey's post reads, "(alhtough [sic] dank n dark and beer not cold)."</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlerP_Rv4OBHgUJJb2cLEAF2FgyvqQve2VY1zDpjBcX8-VnfHyICWsGMe0hs-R0j3wiGzOrgXh33uYNZxNAnaBtdDE_qpIyGVHfNajHdWDpj_SyDb2ue6bEG_A2Ee7XdqHbrE45FQlQ7E/s1600/IMG_20120212_155934-1-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlerP_Rv4OBHgUJJb2cLEAF2FgyvqQve2VY1zDpjBcX8-VnfHyICWsGMe0hs-R0j3wiGzOrgXh33uYNZxNAnaBtdDE_qpIyGVHfNajHdWDpj_SyDb2ue6bEG_A2Ee7XdqHbrE45FQlQ7E/s320/IMG_20120212_155934-1-1.jpg" width="233" /></a><span class="hps"><span style="font-size: large;">Jeffrey, this is perfect. I am going to go to an <em>Irish</em> bar called the James Joyce Pub, located in the heart of <em>Turkish </em>Istanbul, at 1:00 in the morning to watch the world's greatest display of <em>American</em> excess?</span></span><span class="hps"><span style="font-size: large;"> The potential cultural train wreck is just too wonderful to contemplate. (Dank n dark and beer not cold? Who cares! Come on, Jeffrey. It's an <em>Irish bar</em>.)</span></span><br />
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<span class="hps"><span style="font-size: large;">Who will be there, I wonder? Will there be Turkish contingents of face-painted Giants and Patriot fans, taunting each other across the bar? Will I be sitting next to an Irish ex-pat who wandered in for a shot of Jameson, only to be thrust into this early morning orgy of American sports culture? Will I find someone to explain <em>Ulysses</em> or Turkish grammar to me, in exchange for a demonstration of an illegal horse collar tackle?</span></span><br />
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<span class="hps"><span style="font-size: large;">I drool at the possibilities. This blog entry, I am absolutely certain, is simply going to write itself.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The streets are as empty as you might imagine they would be when I walk out my door at 1 a.m. Monday morning. It's cold as hell, and remarkably quiet, as the throbbing non-stop techno-beat of the disco on the hill above my street probably won't be cranked up for another hour or so. It's so late that even the neighborhood cats are asleep, or perhaps simply frozen into silence. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It's about a 15-minute walk from my apartment to the James Joyce Pub, located just off Istanbul's main pedestrian street, <em>Istiklal Ceddesi</em>. This should get me there just in time for the 1:15 a.m. kickoff. I start to think it might have been a mistake not to go earlier, to make sure I could get a place at the bar with a good view of the television. But I rationalize that it will be better to mix among the crowd, observing the cultural irony from as many angles as possible.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Look! Is that an Irishman with a copy of <em>The Dubliners</em> drinking rakı through a tube out of a New York Giants beer helmet? Wait; I think that table singing all six verses of <em>Molly Malone </em>is dipping Doritos into the <em>patlican salata</em>! Who do I talk to first?</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.cinawesome.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Cris-Collinsworthx-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" id="il_fi" src="http://www.cinawesome.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Cris-Collinsworthx-large.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">When I arrive at the James Joyce, through the window I can see the big-screen TV on the back wall of the bar. The game is indeed on and about to start, as I recognize the pre-game commentators. The screen is so large you can almost see Chris Collinsworth's nose hair from 5,000 miles away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But as I walk into the bar, I have the sense that something is not ... quite ... right. What is it, exactly? I'm trying to put my finger on it ... something odd ... OK, yes, I see the problem now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Super Bowl broadcast at this moment is being watched by more than 100 million people all over the world. Not a single one of those people, however, is currently located in the James Joyce Pub.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, the bar is entirely empty. </span><span style="font-size: large;">It's as if a neutron bomb had been set off, vaporizing every American football fan within a 20-mile radius. If tumbleweeds existed in Turkey, I'm sure they would have been rolling out of the men's room and across the floor at that moment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">With the sound on the big-screen television muted, there is complete silence, like I have walked into not the James Joyce Pub, but instead the James Joyce Reading Room. I am about to say something out loud, but I'm afraid I might be shushed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally a lone bartender pops up from behind the bar. He seems startled to see me. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"The bar is closed," he says to me in Turkish. "<em>Bar kapılı</em>."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I respond by pointing at the game on the big-screen TV and stammering in bad Turkish. "But ... but ... Super Bowl ... <em>Amerikalı futbolu <span class="hps">şampiyonluk</span> </em><span class="hps"><em>maçı ... televizyonda şimdi ...</em>" </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I know," the bartender cuts me off in Turkish. "But," he gestures to the room, "there are no people. Opportunity <em>yok</em>."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I believe "Opportunity <em>yok</em>" roughly translates as "I stayed open until one in the morning on a Sunday expecting a bunch of Americans to come and to watch their stupid little football game, you're the only one who showed up, and I'm not staying up all night to serve drinks to one single idiot sitting by himself in front of my giant television screen, so, you know, get the hell out of here."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Roughly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Making one last desperate attempt to find irony, I walk 15 minutes farther away from home to The North Shield, hoping that the bartenders' earlier "yes, maybe we'll have the Super Bowl on" had turned into reality. But of course the story at The North Shield is much the same. No one is in the bar, other than a couple of guys cleaning up and stacking chairs on the table.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the plus side, the televised snooker match has finally ended.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Opportunity <em>yok</em>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now it's almost two in the morning, I'm facing a half hour walk home, and it's so cold I already can't feel my toes. And, oh yeah: I won't be seeing the Super Bowl, or finding any great stories about how hilarious it is to watch it in Turkey. Other than that, this has all worked out perfectly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Living in America you might be shocked to learn that the world does not stop rotating on Super Sunday. In Istanbul at least, nobody gives a crap. At least nobody gives enough of a crap to stay up drinking in a bar in the middle of the night at the beginning of a work week.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I turn around and walk back home in the cold. On the way there, absolutely positively nothing happens. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">See? I tried to warn you. But you went ahead and read this whole thing anyway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally there's some irony for you.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-73558637863921623422012-01-29T11:36:00.000-08:002012-01-29T13:45:12.474-08:00A trip to the baths<span style="font-size: large;">I don't really have an issue with the touching.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Like most Americans, I think, I am fine being touched: hugged, embraced, massaged ... listen, I've been known to enjoy the occasional grope. But I'm not so sure how we feel about being <em>scrubbed</em>. I'm particularly not so sure how we feel about being scrubbed with woolly mitts by large men wearing loincloths.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So let me tell you about the <em>hamam</em>. The hamam, or "Turkish bath" as you might know it, is a tradition that apparently goes </span><span style="font-size: large;">way, way back. Like Roman Empire back. After the empire fell and most of Europe chose to wallow around in the mud for a few centuries, the Ottomans decided they actually preferred being clean, and for that reason the hamam was something worth keeping around. The hamams are still around, all over Istanbul and (I'm told) the rest of Turkey as well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But being neither a Turk, Ottoman, nor ancient Roman, I knew nothing of this. In America, we don't have communal baths. We're not too crazy about the showers at the Y, to be honest. Our basic national attitude seems to be, if you insist on being naked and wet, for God's sake please do it in the privacy of your own home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not really a good attitude if you are headed into the hamam. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are dozens of hamams of all kinds in Istanbul, from the swankiest at places like the Ritz and the Four Seasons, to little back-alley hamams where they hang the towels outside the entrance on collapsible laundry racks. I decide to choose a hamam in the same discriminating way I choose a barber or a grocery store: whatever I walk by on the way home is probably fine. (Granted, this has led to several bad haircuts and a lot of suspect produce, but we'll leave that for another entry). The hamam on the way home to my flat in Istanbul, it turns out, is no fly-by-night bath house. It has been there since before Columbus aimed for India, and mistakenly stumbled across the Bahamas.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You heard me. The "Historical Galatasaray Hamam" (<em>Tarihi Galatasaray</em> <em>Hamamı</em>) was opened in -- are you ready? -- 1481. In other words, people have been soaped, lathered, and rinsed at this very spot, continuously, for 531 years. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I can only imagine the hair clog in the drain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first thing you need to know about the Turkish bath is that it's not really a <em>bath</em>, in the sense that Americans know a bath. There is no tub, and you are not immersed in water. Here, l</span><span style="font-size: large;">et me have the fine folks at the <em>Tarihi Galatasaray Hamamı </em>explain. This is taken word for word from the English language version of the hamam's promotional pamphlet:</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">H</span><span style="font-size: large;">amam User's Guide:</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>The visitor of Hamam is welcomed in Hamam Square.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<em>The visitor [is] welcomed by the Yanasma (room keeper) and shown his room.</em><br />
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<em>[The]</em> y<em>anasma gives the visitor takunya (wooden sabots-pattens) and pestemal (loincloth).</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em></em><br />
<em>The visitor, after tying up his loincloths [sic], and wearing his pattens in his room, comes to the hamam square.</em><br />
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<em>Here, the massager (keseci) meets him.</em><br />
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<em>The visitor entering the hamam, lies on the heated marble platform (gobektasi), covered with a thin cloth (serme). Before taking the bath, he lies on the marble platform for minimum [of] 20 minutes, to sweat and prepare his body for kese (rubbing with a bath glove).</em><br />
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<em>Later, [the] visitor is taken to the kurna (marble basin under the tap), and rubbed and given a bubble bath and later lies on the marble platform again for massage.</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>After the massage, a shocking shower may be taken as wished.</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Our guests, with their services completed, is [sic] free from now on, he may take a shower again or lay on the marble platform to rest. </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Our guest wishing to leave, takes his bathing and hair towel in the warm section and leads to hamam square. </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>The visitor reaches to his normal body temperature again, during his time spend [sic] in hamam square for 15-20 minutes. At this time, he relaxes [and] eith[er] the hot or cold beverages serviced [sic]. </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>The visitor, after dressing in his room, makes payment when leaving.</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>According to the level of satisfaction, a 10% tip is ethical for the staff.</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In other words, you are disrobed, steamed, baked, broiled, seared, seasoned with lemon pepper (OK, I made that up), soaped, scrubbed, contorted, rinsed, soaped and scrubbed some more, thrust into a cold shower (and it is "shocking"; they aren't lying about that), wrapped in towels, and handed a glass of tea. But no <em>bath, </em>in the conventional sense.<em> </em>Despite the "bubble bath" reference, I assure you Mr. Bubble plays absolutely no part in the ritual.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The interior decor of the Galatasaray Hamam itself is a bit of time-machine whiplash. The inner rooms of the hamam may have changed little since it opened in the late 15th Century. The main outer room, however, was for some unknown reason "remodeled" in the mid 1960s, when they apparently installed laminated faux-wood dressing rooms, a white-railing spiral staircase, and snack bar. The contrast between the two areas is something like entering the </span><span style="font-size: large;">Aya Sofia after stepping directly off the set of "My Three Sons" or "The Lucy Show." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But, as promised in the brochure, upon arrival I am given slippers and led up the spiral staircase to my little laminated wood dressing room, that includes a narrow cot-like bed for any post-scrubbing nap I might want to take. And yet when I see this, the words that come to my mind are not "mmm, nap," but rather "yikes, hospital psych ward." To sleep here, I'd have to be <em>really</em> tired. Or heavily sedated.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My clothes are off, and I've done my best at "tying up my loincloths." But emerging from my dressing room I see that tucking it in on the side like a bath towel clearly is not going to work, as it is impossible to walk five steps before the tuck comes loose. Sadly I have to be shown by the <em>yanasma</em> how to tie a loincloth. I'd be more embarrassed by this, but I am honestly not ashamed to admit that to date I have limited loincloth-tying experience.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Downstairs in the main room, slippers are now traded for wooden clogs. I have to say, the loincloth/wooden clog combo is quite an international fashion statement. I suspect I look like a half-naked Little Dutch Boy, off to put his finger in the dyke somewhere in French Polynesia.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Walking through the Douglas' family living room past Ernie and Chip and Uncle Charley (oh, I'm kidding; it was just a couple of guys at the snack bar), I am greeted by the <em>keseci</em>, also wearing clogs and a loincloth, but with an enormous belly to hold it up. He </span><span style="font-size: large;">leads me into the inner part of the hamam known as "the hot room." The name is self-explanatory. Everything is marble, and everything is really, really hot (hence the need for wooden clogs to walk on the hot marble floor). The <em>keseci</em> puts a thin sheet and a little pillow on a big marble slab, and leaves the room. Like an obedient and reasonably intelligent Labrador retriever, I figure out this probably is the command to "lie down." I do as I'm told.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I admit, lying on my back on the hot marble slab is kind of nice, at first. The room has a high-ceilinged dome, with 531-year-old star-shaped skylights. Water is dripping somewhere, and there is an echo in the room. I can begin to see why people would find this relaxing, even meditative.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But after a few minutes, I realize that I am repeatedly lifting my back and shoulder blades off the slab, because <em>holy crap</em> this marble is hot! The sweat glands have been called into action, and within minutes I'm completely drenched. Thanks to the hamam, </span><span style="font-size: large;">I finally understand what it must feel like to try to take a midday nap on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, in the middle of August.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't have a watch on, obviously, but it seems like I've been lying here more than 20 minutes. What happened to the fat man in the loincloth? Have they forgotten about me? Am I supposed to signal somehow that I am sufficiently broiled? Should I flip myself over so that I will be evenly cooked? How many times in the past 531 years has someone accidentally roasted to death in the hot room?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, the large loin-clothed man does return. He appears to be carrying a bucket and a sponge mitt, like he's headed from the garage out to the driveway on a Sunday afternoon to wash the Nissan Sentra.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This can't be good.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIiOvDl1t-Ex5R_58OmCLQnYSn-1pPPg_1zUyyOdQn7-CtL5Ia4DQBABtWvp02DnlEU-dfN3v4DAyn9JPapYJiCv2Np-jQ5GnpwyAI86uyT_3B20jkxIUOA_4EMygzLGPdvGBpW1T6h6g/s1600/gala4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIiOvDl1t-Ex5R_58OmCLQnYSn-1pPPg_1zUyyOdQn7-CtL5Ia4DQBABtWvp02DnlEU-dfN3v4DAyn9JPapYJiCv2Np-jQ5GnpwyAI86uyT_3B20jkxIUOA_4EMygzLGPdvGBpW1T6h6g/s320/gala4.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Before I tell you about the actual scrubbing, let me just pause here for a moment to comment on the veracity of Turkish bath promotional pamphlets. The <em>Tarihi Galatasaray Hamamı </em>pamphlet has numerous photos of beautiful, half-naked men and women together in the hamam, pouring water on each other, drinking wine and feeding each other grapes, as if an orgy is just about to break out, or has just recently concluded. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Based on my admittedly limited experience, I suspect these photos might be a little misleading. To begin with, </span><span style="font-size: large;">men and woman do not bathe together in the hamam, and they haven't for, oh I don't know, a good 531 years? (A separate hamam for women, with a completely separate entrance, is located on the other side of the building). Second, in one photo t</span><span style="font-size: large;">he models appear to be drinking hot coffee in the 4,000-degree hot room, meaning that they are either: a) insane; b) suicidal, or c) greased up and posing in front of a fake hamam background, in an air-conditioned photographer's studio somewhere in South America.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I can assure you, there are no models in the hot room. Nor do they offer wine, grapes, coffee, or erotic sexual encounters. Instead, the experience is more realistically depicted like this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I really don't know the last time I was actually <em>scrubbed</em>. Perhaps at the age of 5, but if so, up to now I have been able to successfully repress the memory. Whenever it was, I'm pretty sure it was not done by a 300-pound man wearing a checkered tablecloth. That I would have remembered.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">The brochure tells you that the purpose of being soaped up and rubbed down with a woolen "bath glove" is to remove the dead skin. I have no doubt this is correct. Of course it also removes the <em>live skin</em> as well, but let's not quibble about collateral damage. If this is a war against dirt, then this is the bathing version of shock and awe. Stuff happens.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once I am fully soaped and scrubbed, the <em>keseci </em>then begins to lean on me, pressing and pushing and pulling and contorting my limbs. I am assuming this is the "message" portion of the program. My shoulder may have been separated during the process, but I decide to ignore it. Honestly I am just happy to be keeping my loincloth on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Eventually as promised I am "taken to the <em>kurna </em>(marble basin under the tap)," and rinsed off like the loyal Labrador I have become. Fortunately this is done with bowls of warm water, and not the garden hose. More soaping is done, more scrubbing, then more rinsing. You just can't get clean enough at the hamam, apparently.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Soaped and scrubbed and rinsed and soaped and rinsed again, I put my clogs back on and move from the hot room to the "warm room." Which would be great, except that the "warm room" also contains the "shocking" cold shower mentioned in the brochure. So on balance, it's not really a "warm room" at all, is it? I guess "potential heart attack room," while certainly more accurate, probably was rejected by the guys down in marketing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After being sufficiently shocked in the shower, I am wrapped in towels, including one that goes over my head and behind the ears, Egyptian pharaoh style. I am then led back into the remodeled exterior room ("Hamam Square"), where I'm half-expecting Eva Gabor to show up in a white pantsuit to serve drinks. Sadly, it's only the <em>yanasma. </em>No hots cakes, but he does have my slippers and the keys to my nap room. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I understand the appeal of the hamam, and really, I'm in no position to knock a practice that has outlasted a couple of empires. </span><span style="font-size: large;">As individual concepts, I have nothing against sweat, saunas, slippers, clogs, ancient Egyptian after-bath head wear, or large Turkish men with bath mitts and buckets of soap. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I think I'll stick with Do-It-Yourself bathing, thanks. True, I may not be quite as clean as I could be. But so far the self-scrub has limited the complaints of others, and for the most part, kept me out of trouble.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As an added bonus, it's also mostly kept me out of loincloths.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-13339503707682203202012-01-14T12:14:00.000-08:002012-01-24T09:08:39.472-08:00Smoking apple and drinking licorice<span style="font-size: large;">I don't think anyone is going to accuse the average Turk of being a health nut. True, Turks may not drink Big Gulps and eat giant bags of Oreos while driving their SUVs down to the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Cracker Barrel (I'm looking at you, America). But they do maintain their share of vices. I, of course, saw no reason not to </span><span style="font-size: large;">take a few of those vices out for a test run. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The strong t</span><span style="font-size: large;">ea and baklava (God help me, I do love it so) I can probably survive. Rakı and nargile, on the other hand, could take me out in short order.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For those of you who don't know - and why would you, really? - rakı (pronounced rock-ah, not rock-ee) is the national drink of Turkey. The books tell me rakı is distilled from grapes, mixed with <em>ethanol</em>, and laced with anise. It runs about 90 proof, <em>i.e.,</em> 45 percent pure alcohol. In addition to serving as a beverage, I'm guessing rakı also can be used as a paint thinner, and possibly as fuel for the internal combustion engine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">R</span><span style="font-size: large;">akı is so strong, in fact, that no one just sits in a bar drinking rakı. That would be suicide. Instead, the Turks insist that rakı be drunk only with food, most commonly with seafood. If you look around the tables at any Istanbul fish restaurant, you can immediately spot the tourist by finding a wine glass on a table. All the self-respecting Turks are drinking their rakı.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ny7DVIF-lOFXcO8vtEkPmpXQJdldM4r9LMqg34-2EyqgTL8AytC2eOpXF-kox-oS4oobk-ebBTNIPvuFmBOThJEEke10ejfvH3Y0GKb0zHe2ITrQl52ajpuAE2HrEn11q4GW6m4HZac/s1600/IMG_20120104_214939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ny7DVIF-lOFXcO8vtEkPmpXQJdldM4r9LMqg34-2EyqgTL8AytC2eOpXF-kox-oS4oobk-ebBTNIPvuFmBOThJEEke10ejfvH3Y0GKb0zHe2ITrQl52ajpuAE2HrEn11q4GW6m4HZac/s320/IMG_20120104_214939.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Rakı is clear like vodka (or rubbing alcohol, for that matter), and served in a tall thin glass. The hard-core rakı drinkers will take it neat; the more timid mix it with water, which for chemical reasons beyond my understanding, turns the drink a milky white. Ice can also be added, if that's how you like your milk-colored, anise-flavored alcoholic beverage. The French have a version of this (<em>pastis</em>), as do the Greeks (<em>ouzo</em> and <em>sambuca</em>) and, oddly, the Colombians (<em>aguardiente</em>). The translation of the South American version - aguardiente - is literally "fiery water." Enough said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The first time I tried rakı, I truly hated it. <em>Hated </em>it. I never liked the taste of anise or licorice to begin with, from the first handful of Good & Plenty candy I spat out as a child. Mix that with 90 proof alcohol, and I felt like I was choking down red rope dissolved in kerosene. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ugh. The national drink? Really?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Couldn't they at least <em>try</em> the whiskey?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But the fact is I <em>wanted </em>to like rakı. Turkey is where I live now, and this is what Turkish drinkers who drink alcohol want to drink when they're out drinking (and eating fish, at least). </span><span style="font-size: large;">Who wants to sit at dinner with a group of Turks laughing and talking and toasting each other with rakı while you ask the waiter if he can perhaps recommend a nice <em>Cabernet</em>, precocious yet with a hint of whimsy? It would be like going to <em>Oktoberfest</em> in Munich and ordering a mojito.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So I kept giving rakı its second, third, and fourth chances. With water, and three cubes of ice, please, or as we say in Turkey, <em>buzlu</em>. Yes, it still tasted like red rope. But at least it was cold red rope.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Then, on about the fourth try, I noticed that the rakı started going down much easier. After an hour or so, as the rakı glass continued to be refilled, I stopped in mid-sentence, looked across the table at my dinner companion and said: "You know, I am <em>really</em> digging this rakı! Should we get more?"<em> </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Just like that, the rakı makers had sucked in another convert. Remember, it <em>is</em> 45 percent alcohol. My theory is that the brain cells charged with remembering that the drink tastes like licorice are systematically eliminated, like witnesses to a mob hit. Eventually most of the remaining brain cells decide that, hey, this actually tastes pretty good. The others are beaten into submission, or otherwise intimidated into silence. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps this is something the makers of Good & Plenty should look into. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Of course drinking - even drinking fiery licorice water - is one thing. Smoking is quite another.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I smoked my last cigarette on April Fool's Day, 1986. I was eight years old. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, </span><span style="font-size: large;">I'm joking, of course. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I was twelve years old. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In fact I was a serious smoker back in the day, but since that time I have rarely, if ever, had any kind of craving for a cigarette or any other tobacco-related product. If I'm honest about it, I will admit that part of the reason I quit was that smoking was no longer an acceptable social activity (in contrast to, say, the much more socially acceptable activity of binge drinking). We've done a </span><span style="font-size: large;">pretty effective job of turning smokers into social pariahs, forcing them into a back room or out in the cold if they still want to light up. If you want to smoke in America, you have to <em>really</em> want to smoke. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Turkey, however, hasn't made it nearly as far down this path. True, smoking <em>cigarettes </em>is officially banned in all enclosed public spaces in Istanbul. (Bars and some restaurants will wink at this, bringing a customer a paper cup for an ashtray if they pull out a cigarette). But that ban has not been extended to the nargile bar - a centuries-old establishment that combines the conviviality of a coffee house with the ambiance of a Chinese opium den.</span><br />
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCyVkOXblLlOEPue9BoJN6f4coYGl9-FgzCb35WVHLviHeodiscqB6HEGGwdbFLWUBIg2vB-nm9f-_BWb_RzsZZNzZR4MDAfvKPYyRhNvzC_JmRCCkpkbhpK9-DkalRgLIXscF-SieqQA/s1600/nargile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCyVkOXblLlOEPue9BoJN6f4coYGl9-FgzCb35WVHLviHeodiscqB6HEGGwdbFLWUBIg2vB-nm9f-_BWb_RzsZZNzZR4MDAfvKPYyRhNvzC_JmRCCkpkbhpK9-DkalRgLIXscF-SieqQA/s320/nargile.jpg" width="191" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">If you know about nargile (nar-geel-eh) at all, you probably know it as hookah, or <em>shisha</em>, as it is called throughout the Middle East. It is essentially an over sized, bong-like water pipe with a hose sticking out of it. Attached to the hose - in Turkey, at least - is perhaps a two-foot-long, baton-like stick that looks like something a snake charmer would play. Atop the water pipe is a bowl and a metal tray. In the bowl is placed, um, something to smoke. The bowl is then covered with foil, and heated with coals. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When you walk into a nargile bar, you truly know you are not in Shreveport anymore. The clientele usually is about 90 percent men, and often you do get to sit close to the ground on little cushions, just like the inside of Barbara Eden's bottle on "I Dream of Jeannie." (That fact alone might explain its lasting popularity.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">While I had passed by countless nargile bars in Istanbul, this was not an activity I was likely to try on my own. I would have no idea what I was doing, and I would hate to cause an international incident by trying to suck on the wrong end of something. Yet w</span><span style="font-size: large;">hen my long-time friend Mark came to visit recently, it was only a matter of time before we ended up at a bar that just happened to offer nargile. And what were going to do when offered? Just say no? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had never been anywhere near a nargile pipe before coming to Turkey. Quite honestly I had no idea what it was, or at least, what was being smoked. This particular bar offered the nargile in a variety of "flavors." As the menu was in Turkish, the only flavor I recognized was apple (<em>elma</em>), so that's what I picked. The waiter appeared to be pleased with my choice, and this seemed harmless enough to me. It was hard to imagine falling into a bad crowd by smoking something that normally comes in a pastry.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWduI1KWsTq6dAsooVg1l9hZ5kfwutsno5_bfTPaLNhe0iyMjfqGVOiY0x_vVlqhVXatIjBeuxNhGhAFFo_WKbDnRmF9Q-GfTkttNEMfK0R_nMK9SDCnPWspt6pLp-mq3v0Dpa2rvxaE/s1600/IMG_20120110_170950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWduI1KWsTq6dAsooVg1l9hZ5kfwutsno5_bfTPaLNhe0iyMjfqGVOiY0x_vVlqhVXatIjBeuxNhGhAFFo_WKbDnRmF9Q-GfTkttNEMfK0R_nMK9SDCnPWspt6pLp-mq3v0Dpa2rvxaE/s320/IMG_20120110_170950.jpg" width="218" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The waiter loaded up and covered the bowl, stuck on some hot coals, and fired up the pipe. We were given our own individual little plastic mouthpieces to fit into the smoking baton. When I held the fabric-covered stick up to mouth for the first time I felt slightly ridiculous, realizing that this is exactly what I would look like if I played the oboe. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But the smoke went down surprisingly smoothly, as if this wasn't really smoking at all. This, of course, is the whole idea. It didn't quite taste like apple, but it didn't taste like tobacco, either. Groups at each table talked and laughed, passed their pipes back and forth, and ordered more drinks. I gave a big thumbs up to the social part of Social Smoking. But then again, for the first time since the Nancy Reagan Administration, I was <em>smoking</em>. I mean, I was smoking <em>something</em>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Whatever I was smoking, I rationalized that it couldn't be as bad as smoking a cigarette. If there was any tobacco at all, I figured it must be some kind of faux tobacco, like the nicotine version of Splenda, or I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. It was <em>apple</em>, for God's sake. This was probably just like smoking a piece of pie, right?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Post-nargile bar research revealed that I was right. Smoking nargile is not as bad as smoking a cigarette. It's actually 100 times <em>worse</em> than smoking a cigarette.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The substance being smoked is in fact tobacco, claims of "apple" not withstanding. According to the Mayo Clinic, each nargile session typically lasts more than 40 minutes (yeah, I'm sure we hit that), and consists of 50 to 200 inhalations that each range from 0.15 to 0.50 liters of smoke (sounds about right). That means that in an hour-long smoking session of nargile, a user will consume about 100 to 200 times the smoke of a single cigarette; in a 45-minute smoking session a typical smoker would inhale 1.7 times the nicotine<sup> </sup>of a single cigarette. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh. I see. So I guess what the Mayo Clinic is trying to tell me is that as much as I'd like to pretend otherwise, smoking nargile is <em>not</em> just like playing the oboe. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So alright then: for the sake of my lungs I guess I'll pass on the nargile, and stick with the tea, baklava, and occasional rakı. If only I knew where I could snag some of those I Dream of Jeannie throw pillows. </span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-8996666877162579782012-01-01T14:05:00.000-08:002012-01-12T06:44:46.967-08:00Happy New Year from the Panpan Kafe<span style="font-size: large;"> I have always believed there are two kinds of people in this world: those who look forward to New Years’ Eve, and those who are content to stay home and find out whether Dick Clark is still allowed to stay up past midnight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I myself have always loved the New Year holiday, somehow nearly always stumbling into some memorable New Years’ Eve story, then happily nursing a hangover the following day by watching an endless stream of meaningless college bowl games on TV. (There's a Tangerine Bowl? Sure, why not.) As this combines two of my favorite activities – a) drinking, and b) lying on the couch in a semi-catatonic stupor – for me New Years was always something to look forward to.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I had kept the faith that things would be no different here in Istanbul. Despite a residence of just two months, I figured I’d get a party invitation from somewhere. But as New Year’s Eve approached, that didn’t seem to be happening. My Turkish language classmates all seemed to be elsewhere ("Snowboarding in Austria!" read Carla’s New Year’s Eve Facebook update) or conspicuously silent ("Hey Christian! What are you doing for New Year’s? Christian? Hello? Is this thing working? Hello?")</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> So as a proper reflection of my current life, it would seem I would be on my own to get into some kind of New Year's Eve trouble. Not too much trouble, of course. I was looking for the This-Will-Make-A-Good-Story variety of trouble. Not the Where-Are-My-Pants?-Help-I-Need-to-Contact-the-Embassy kind of trouble.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> A few days before New Years' Eve, I finally receive a party invitation. Kind of.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Just up the hill from my cat-invested neighborhood sits a little cafe/restaurant/bar called the Panpan Turuncu Kafe. I started eating regularly at Panpan because the food was pretty good (chilled red wine notwithstanding), and there was never any problem getting a table. In fact, there rarely ever seemed to be anyone else eating there at all. Three young guys appeared to be the owners, and anyone else in the place always seemed to <em>know </em>the owners, like they were just hanging out in their living room. There was one employee: a middle-aged waiter, routinely dressed in a maroon sweater stretched out by an over sized belly. The waiter always seemed happy to see me, as if now that I was here, he finally he had something to do. I wasn't just <em>a</em> regular; I was <em>the</em> regular</span>.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> In the Italian neighborhood of Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn where I lived for ten years, there was a "business" on Court Street referred to as Da Plant Stoua. This "plant store" had about six plants in the front window that had been there so long there was dust on the leaves. No one actually ever bought a plant from The Plant Store, but plenty of guys from da neighba-hood would hang out there, to get together, talk and, you know, <em>look at plants.</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I had to begun to wonder if Panpan might be a Turkish version of Da Plant Stoua, and I was the only one in the neighborhood too stupid to realize it. But like one of the neighborhood strays, I'd keep coming back as long as they'd keep putting out food for me. When the waiter invited me to come to Panpan for New Years Eve, I figured if nothing else it would make a good story. At the very least it would save me from sitting alone in my basement apartment with the TV remote, searching channels for the Turkish-version of <em>New Year's Rockin' Eve</em>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The invitation, however, was not without its complications. Everyone in Turkey had given me the same piece of advice regarding New Year’s Eve: whatever you do, don’t go to Taksim. On New Year’s Eve, bad things happen in Taksim. "<em>Ç</em><i>ok tehlikeli!" </i>(It’s very dangerous). Too many people. Too many drunk people. Too many drunk people throwing flammable objects for no particular reason. The image I was getting was somewhere between Times Square (where no self-respecting New Yorker would ever go for New Year’s Eve, by the way) and a Brazilian soccer riot. So whatever you do on New Year’s Eve, I was told again and again, just don’t go to Taksim. Anywhere <em>but</em> Taksim. <em>Taksim yok</em>! Got that?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The Panpan, of course, sits in the heart of Taksim, steps away from Taksim Square, where one easily could be crushed to death by throngs of humanity on a normal business day, just waiting for a bus. So of course, despite the repeated warnings, this meant there was only one place I could go on New Year’s Eve. <em>Tehlikeli,</em> schmehlikeli. So there would be a lot of drunks in the street. Chances were good that I could avoid being trampled, right? This would be like Pamplona, but instead of the Running of the Bulls, this would be the Running of the Drunks. If I didn’t go out wearing a red bandana, I figured I could probably make it to Panpan without being gored.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOs_kngkdQN60IIEfZOIYIe2Rdwp4ce-p_DazTA24-S0B13c7dzlPxSFQJT1WDM5pflObfHD4xBr9mBfnlqWkcHbefhov6R0lPYQLcMwoA-2v0aSFoRvb105hOxR1XI_f_ovMXQk2kZkA/s1600/IMG_20111230_202802-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOs_kngkdQN60IIEfZOIYIe2Rdwp4ce-p_DazTA24-S0B13c7dzlPxSFQJT1WDM5pflObfHD4xBr9mBfnlqWkcHbefhov6R0lPYQLcMwoA-2v0aSFoRvb105hOxR1XI_f_ovMXQk2kZkA/s320/IMG_20111230_202802-1.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The scene at Taksim Square about 10:30 p.m. on New Year's Eve, however, is surprisingly sedate. Frankly, I've seen more drunks at a Sunday afternoon Yankees' game. A steady rain has been falling all night, perhaps keeping the drunks off the streets and in the bars, or at least sobering them up when they venture outside. Street vendors are working hard to sell off their New Year's Eve paraphernalia, which oddly enough for muslim Turkey, includes Santa Claus Hats. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I buy one, of course, and pose for a photo before a light display that looks suspiciously like a Christmas tree.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> A few fireworks go off prematurely. People clap politely. Disappointed by the lack of promised anarchy, I head off to Panpan to count down to midnight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Arriving at Panpan I see they have managed to fill up the room with 30 or 40 people of what appear to be family friends and, uh, business associates. One table of ten includes two teenagers and three kids under 6. A young man is playing the guitar, singing Turkish songs that have been requested by being written on paper napkins.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Like the crowd outside, the gathering at Panpan is polite and well behaved. No one but me is wearing a Santa Hat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The waiter greets me warmly ("the regular is here!") and seats me at the bar next to two large men in ill-fitting leather jackets. One of the owners recognizes me, shakes my hand, and asks what I'd like to drink. "What kind of beer do you have?" I ask him in Turkish. Hmm, beer. Beer ... He kneels down and searches under the bar, like he is at home looking in the fridge for a forgotten jar of maraschino cherries or kosher dills. Yes, three variety of beers, he announces. He seems happily surprised, as if relieved that someone remembered to order the beer props.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> At every family gathering there is always one crazy relative who makes a scene. Think Fredo's blonde-haired floozy wife in "The Godfather, Part II." While no one is yet dancing, a middle-aged, oval-shaped woman who appears to be about four and a half feet tall now gets up and begins a dance that looks something like a Turkish version of the Macarena. Whatever she is doing is completely out of sync with the guitar player's music, making me wonder if this is not actually a dance but instead some kind of involuntary seizure. It's as if someone walked off the set of the "Wizard of Oz" and dropped acid. Those at the tables nearby ignore Crazy Aunt Freda and continue eating. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2uyXpVYijulBPDNxhtjDDVxhhLaFMbu8Tg7DMUIvllXfie3p8R0HACH8ZauQcMaqXkz2XWgmx0wksMTGpQ1XARpgbNx80KJJHqiZh_jhvwLA3zULwhJNbZPfsP4bu1H55nUtfbiOMaw/s1600/IMG_20111231_235027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2uyXpVYijulBPDNxhtjDDVxhhLaFMbu8Tg7DMUIvllXfie3p8R0HACH8ZauQcMaqXkz2XWgmx0wksMTGpQ1XARpgbNx80KJJHqiZh_jhvwLA3zULwhJNbZPfsP4bu1H55nUtfbiOMaw/s320/IMG_20111231_235027.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> People are drinking a glass of wine or rakı here or there, but not very much. Back at the bar, I'm doing my best to take up the slack. As it gets closer to midnight, things begin to pick up a bit. Everyone recognizes the Turkish songs that are being sung, and begin to clap and sign along. Dancing starts. As my burly bar stool mates are now clapping, I start clapping too, just to keep everybody happy. I'm not looking for the piss off the big guys in leather jackets at the bar kind of trouble, either.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> As midnight comes, I am struck by two thoughts: a) there is no champagne anywhere in sight, and b) any kiss I get is going to be really uncomfortable. And yes, as is customary in Turkey, it turns out I do get kisses. From the men. One on each cheek. Happy New Year!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTGzBYhdUsDH1xz22fn2jxxpvtW-hMm8eKo_LHxu-398unpIlUTxNSh_HoQn9AzktMHFGudtpglDj7mRtq_Fm2VGFU_vd5PucX6HPWMx4QamaILd9vydBtk1PghVkP4-wPaX0WbHLsy4o/s1600/IMG_20120101_001307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTGzBYhdUsDH1xz22fn2jxxpvtW-hMm8eKo_LHxu-398unpIlUTxNSh_HoQn9AzktMHFGudtpglDj7mRtq_Fm2VGFU_vd5PucX6HPWMx4QamaILd9vydBtk1PghVkP4-wPaX0WbHLsy4o/s320/IMG_20120101_001307.jpg" width="262" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Almost immediately after midnight, the party starts to break up, as if everyone needs to get home to let the dog out and put the kids to bed. If there is debauchery going on in Istanbul on New Year's Eve, it is happening in another bar. I thank my hosts, shake hands, put my Santa Hat back on, and walk back out into the rain-soaked hoards of Taksim. I am wet, but happily neither trampled nor gored.</span><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I walk home by a back street, and - miraculously - find a baklava shop open on New Year's Eve at one in the morning. Admittedly not trouble in the conventional sense, but I will accept this as a substitute. And surely this will come in handy lying on the couch the on New Year's Day. With a few pieces of baklava and a Santa Hat, I guess I can learn to live without the college football</span>.<br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-694202224948702452011-12-08T05:24:00.001-08:002014-08-04T13:54:08.070-07:00Just a little off the top, hold the wax job<span style="font-size: large;"> I don't have the statistics to prove it, but I am willing to bet that Turkey is the world leader in haircuts per capita.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Within a five-minute walk from my apartment in the middle of Istanbul, there must be 50 barbershops for men (e<em>rkek, </em>or<em> bay, kuaförü</em>). I don't know if this is because Turkish men are abnormally hairy, or if they just enjoy spending an afternoon sitting in a swivel chair inhaling hair tonic.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwk3L9kVTR3lX1HzltJLD8hvdchS5zyCyr7d-qSFjWfzW2v7btX-LJwEQbrEknxd8zmPM5GYsGjNWp1YAMBU3JfB5w-wQf7Iyx6qAJEg0W4n4o6DGJOVVYWW_nDS-RsEwbvhsmzFU54q0/s1600/IMG_20111210_155315-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwk3L9kVTR3lX1HzltJLD8hvdchS5zyCyr7d-qSFjWfzW2v7btX-LJwEQbrEknxd8zmPM5GYsGjNWp1YAMBU3JfB5w-wQf7Iyx6qAJEg0W4n4o6DGJOVVYWW_nDS-RsEwbvhsmzFU54q0/s320/IMG_20111210_155315-1.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> For whatever reason, barbershops in Istanbul are the Turkish equivalent of a Starbuck's franchise in downtown San Francisco: they are everywhere. I want a <em>latté</em><em>, </em>dammit (or a blow dry, as the case may be) and don't make me walk an extra 50 feet across the street to get one. The barbershops also seem to be open continuously, as if there are just not enough hours in the day to deal with all the hair that needs to be cut.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> So I had no real excuse to let my hair grow long and shaggy as I approached my second month living in Istanbul. </span><span style="font-size: large;">But when you don't speak the language (and make no mistake, I don't), getting a haircut becomes a high-stress activity. Not only do you have to memorize essential haircut phrases ("Just a little off the top," "The sideburns are crooked," and "Ow, that's my earlobe you just sliced off."), there is also the very significant danger of "barbershop small talk." It's one thing to answer questions in a foreign language from a taxi driver or a waiter, because you always know the context: this is a question about <em>directions, </em>this is a question about <em>food. </em>But with barbershop small talk, there is no context, and all bets are off. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Crap. Did he just ask me about the weather, or the political situation in Syria?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> You can only say "what?" or "I don't understand" so many times before you look like an idiot and the barber no longer wants to deal with you. When I would get my hair cut living in Belgium several years ago, I would have hour-long conversations with the barber while having almost no idea what he was saying to me. I would just answer every question with a short laugh, a nod of the head, and a well-timed <em>"Oui. C'est vrai. C'est vraiment vrai." </em>Which I'm sure led to conversations in French like this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Belgian barber: "You have no idea what I'm saying do you?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: "Ha. Yes. It's true. It's really true."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Belgian barber: "So you are actually a complete and total imbecile, is that what you are telling me?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: "Ha. Yes. It's true. It's really true."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The post-traumatic stress of the Belgian haircuts until now had effectively kept me out of the barbershops in Istanbul. But the more I looked in the mirror and saw someone staring back resembling the Unibomber, the more I knew I had to suck it up and visit the <em>kuaför</em>. When you start scaring Turkish children in the street, or, possibly drawing attention from the FBI, you know it's time to cut your hair.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrT0QEN0eLPZRNW_pSNXiewNVH2A3CZOP9gn0eIhup5zV1_56-byo8bmxBBevf2xrRqbr4_3WKWU8G_u1fi04rM0y7v8l-pHFvIGBLjl-Gog9jynPVys0xAix6bBCALiA8q14Fkw_2oQ/s1600/IMG_20111210_154642-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrT0QEN0eLPZRNW_pSNXiewNVH2A3CZOP9gn0eIhup5zV1_56-byo8bmxBBevf2xrRqbr4_3WKWU8G_u1fi04rM0y7v8l-pHFvIGBLjl-Gog9jynPVys0xAix6bBCALiA8q14Fkw_2oQ/s320/IMG_20111210_154642-1.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> I decide to try a tiny barbershop just off the insanely busy Taksım Square, a shop with just enough room for three barber chairs and a single, affable-looking, grey-haired barber puttering around inside. The name on the shop is "Barber," instead of "<em>Erkek Kuaförü</em>," along with (inexplicably) a sign that says "International Telephone." I mistakenly take this as an indication that English may be spoken here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> English isn't spoken here. As it turns out, nothing is spoken here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "Good afternoon," I say to the barber in the Turkish I rehearsed before leaving the apartment. "I would like a haircut, please." He says nothing, but nods and points me to a chair in the otherwise empty shop. Without a word he wraps my neck with what looks like a white crepe-paper streamer, and drapes the familiar barber sheet over my body. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Meanwhile another customer comes into the shop, apparently a regular. He greets the barber with an embrace and takes a seat in the last of the three chairs. I tell the barber -- again, in my practiced Turkish -- that I would like it short on the sides, and a little longer on top. The barber nods in a dismissive way that lets me know he's paying absolutely no attention to anything I'm saying.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "<em>Çay</em>?" the barber asks me, invoking the Turkish custom that everything, including a hair cut, goes better with a glass of hot tea. "Yes, please," I answer in Turkish. He nods and goes out of the shop into the street, apparently looking for a tea vendor.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> The new customer, a professionally dressed guy in his mid 30s, looks over and smiles at me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "<em>Ise tredin u el</em>?" he says to me. I try as hard as I can, but I can't decipher the Turkish.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "Pardon?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "<em>Ise tredin u el?</em>" the guy asks again. No, I'm just not getting it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "Sorry, um, <em>ben Türkçe bilmiyorum,</em>" I say, telling him, flawlessly, that I don't understand Turkish.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> He waits a beat and looks at me like I'm an exceptionally challenged mental patient. "I'm speaking <em>English</em>," he says, in perfect English. "I asked, 'is he treating you well?' The barber."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Oh. English. My mother tongue. Yeah, I'm not very good with that either. The guy immediately realizes I'm useless for barbershop small talk -- in any language -- and instead swivels the chair away to scroll through his Blackberry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> The barber returns shortly with my glass of tea, and goes to work, again without saying a word. He cuts my hair in the same way he received my hair-cutting instructions: like a guy who's done this every day for the past 40 years and doesn't need anyone, let alone some Turkish-stammering moron, to tell him how to do it. This is the Old School philosophy of "I'm <em>cutting hair</em>; not designing the nuclear reactor." All which is fine with me. I'm thinking that at this rate I'll be out of the chair in less than 10 minutes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> But no, it turns out the fun is just getting started.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I notice for the first time on the counter to the left of me, a covered metal pot sitting on a hot plate. Having finished cutting my hair, the barber now takes the lid off the metal pot, dips in something that looks like a wooden tongue depressor, and comes up holding a gob of bright green goo. He first smears the green goo over both sides of the bridge of my nose. The goo, it turns out, is hot wax. He goes back to the pot then smears another glob of hot wax over and into my left ear, then another into my right.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> With hot wax clogging my ears I can no longer hear a thing. I am now deaf, as well as Turkishly illiterate. The barber holds out his hands and gestures in a manner telling me to drink my tea and wait a few minutes. He shifts over to tending to his regular in the third chair. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> As I sit there in silence, I stare into the mirror and take stock in myself: sheared hair; barber's cape up to the neck; bright green wax covering the nose and ears. What is it that I look like? Yes, that's it: I look like a gremlin. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Not the cute, furry mogwai gremlins. The evil ones, after someone's fed them after midnight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> For not the first time in Turkey, I am completely convinced that I am being punked. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I am in the chair closest to the sidewalk, with nothing between me and the constant stream of passersby other than a big glass wall. I sit and sip my tea, with a kind of quiet dignity that says to the world, "Yes, I realize I am appearing in public with bright green wax smeared in and around my orifices, what of it?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> It takes me a few minutes to comprehend exactly what is happening here, but I start putting together the clues. Hot wax. Hot wax is used for ... wait. Isn't hot wax used for <em>hair removal</em>? But he put the hot wax ... No, it's not possible, is it? Are my ... are my ears and nose ... are my ears and nose about to go Brazilian?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> There seems no other possibility, but my brain refuses to accept it. Yes, there is hair in my ears, OK, I'll give you that. But my nose? The <em>bridge </em>of my nose? </span><span style="font-size: large;">I swear to you, I have been looking in the mirror for decades now, and I had no clue there was hair on the bridge of my nose. Why didn't someone tell me? Who am I, Jo-Jo the Dog-faced Boy?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
The barber has now finished with his regular and turns his attention back to me and my wax job. He wordlessly pulls the green wax off of my nose with one quick motion, like he's ripping off a Band Aid. Ow! Hey, that kind of hurts. Not a lot but, you know, <em>a</em> <em>little</em>. This is because, as I told you, I have no hair on the outside of my nose. The inside of my ears, however ...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> When he begins to slowly and methodically pull the wax out of my right ear, along with every single ear hair out of every last ear-hair follicle, I think this must be some kind of mistake. No one outside of a hardcore S&M club would actually pay money to have this kind of pain inflicted on them, would they?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Holy. Fricking. Begeezus. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Hours later, when I can finally think clearly again, I contemplate whether an expletive had been invented to sufficiently express this level of pain. The F-word doesn't cover it. The S-word doesn't even come close.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Is there a Z-word?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I haven't figured out all of the behavioral customs of Turkey, but I am reasonably sure it is frowned upon for a fully-grown man to scream like a 2-year-old while sitting in a barber's chair. Still, that almost doesn't stop me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> After tearing out all of the hair from Ear No. 1, the barber holds out the wax in front of me, as if to say, "See? See</span><span style="font-size: large;"> how much hair was in your ear? Aren't you glad I made you look ridiculous and put you through unspeakable excruciating pain? Look!" I look at the ball of green wax he's holding and nod my head, but I can see nothing through the tears in my eyes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Now the barber moves to the other side of the chair for wax extraction from Ear No. 2. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Please, no, I'm begging you. We'll just leave it like this. I don't need to hear out of both ears! Green wax plastered on the left ear is a good look for me. We'll say it's something festive, for the holiday season! Just please don't tear every hair out of my ear aga ... YEAHHH OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> If I'm being held by this barber at Guantanamo, at this point I tell him anything he wants to know. He holds out Green Wax Ball No. 2 for my inspection. See? See?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In addition to the obvious example of childbirth, I offer this as proof positive that women are more pain tolerant than men. If someone came at me with a tongue depressor full of hot goo offering a bikini wax, I would hit the door and simply stay off the beach at Ipanema.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> With my nose and ears effectively de-haired, the barber finishes his services by moving behind the chair, putting his hands on my chin and the top of my head, making a quick twist, and cracking my neck like a back-alley chiropractor. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps he believes wincing and writhing in pain has thrown my spine out of alignment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> At least there was no small talk.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> In the end, it turns out to be a pretty decent-looking haircut. But you know, at this point, I'm thinking that while I'm in Turkey the Unibomber may not be a bad look for me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Ha. Yes. It's true. It's really true.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-67215682547492548172011-11-29T13:52:00.001-08:002011-12-06T10:38:29.765-08:00Paris, with children <span style="font-size: large;">I realize it is going to be a different kind of visit to the Musée d'Orsay when I see 2-year-old Teddy toddle over to the Rodin sculpture with one hand buried elbow-deep into the back of his diaper. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Look what your son is doing," Hannah says to J-P, in a voice implying that, at this particular moment, she is disavowing all claims to her second-born child.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"He has an itch," J-P offers in mild defense.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Ugh. Boys are so disgusting."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If J-P wants to argue, his son is not helping the cause. Teddy finishes his excavation and happily runs across the gallery floor to plant both hands against the base of the statue.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I guess this is why they don't like you to touch the art?" I offer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hannah just rolls her eyes and walks slowly after Teddy, who has already scampered on to the next gallery. </span><span style="font-size: large;">J-P follows pushing 4-year-old Sylvia in a stroller, as she happily sleeps her way past the impressionists well into the early part of the 20th Century symbolists. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ah yes, Paris: City of Lights, Fruit Roll Ups, and a Big Box of Huggies. You know the Paris you see in movies, with Humphrey Bogart holding a glass of champagne and kissing Ingrid Bergman on the balcony over looking the Champs Élysées? Yeah, this isn't it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"The trick with having children in public," J-P tells me, "is to know when to leave just before they throw you out." He says this after Teddy has spent some time climbing up and down the finger-like fur-covered couch at the entrance to the museum's Impressionists Wing. The museum guard is just about to chase Teddy off the couch with a polite but firm "No shoes. No shoes." J-P closes his eyes, nods his head, and pushes the stroller toward the elevator. "I guess our time is up."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> * * *</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Hannah had issued the invitation to me a few weeks before Thanksgiving. "We're going be in Paris at the end of the month. Wanna come hang out with us?" Having received very few invitations in my life to "come hang out with us in Paris," I wasn't about to decline this one. But I had forgotten to look at the fine print: "Come hang out with <em>us.</em>" Half of "us," as it turns out, was born after 2006. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This finally dawns on me a week or so after buying the plane ticket from Istanbul to Paris, when Hannah asks me for suggestions for a Parisian restaurant we can go to that is "child friendly." Now why is she looking for a restaurant that is child-frien ... uh, oh. Yes, I see now. "<em>Child </em>friendly." As in "child care" and "child resistant" and "child labor" and "child-proof safety cap." As in Guess Who's Coming to Dîner?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Honestly I'm not sure the Parisians are really familiar with the concept of a child-friendly restaurant. In my visits to Paris, I do not recall having seen a Chuck E. Cheese's (I may have missed it if it was re-branded as <em>La Fromage de Charles E. </em>or something</span><span class="hps"><span style="font-size: large;">). The best I can come up with for "child friendly" is a place I remember in the center of Paris near Les Halles called <em>Au Chien Qui Fume</em>. In English, that's "The Smoking Dog," or literally "The Dog who Smokes."</span> </span><br />
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<span class="hps"> <span style="font-size: large;"> Showing my inexperience with children, I reason there is no child, in any culture, who wouldn't enjoy a restaurant with paintings on the walls of dogs with naked human bodies, smoking cigarettes. Kids love dogs! <em>Voila:</em> Child friendly. </span></span><span class="hps" style="font-size: large;"> (J-P later asks if the name The Smoking Dog refers to a dog with a cigarette, or a dog on fire, both of which he finds disturbing. "No, you are thinking of 'The <em>Smoldering </em>Dog,'" I tell him. "That's across the street.")</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As it turned out, a baby-sitter was located on this particular evening, so we did not have to inquire as to whether <em>Au Chien Qui Fume</em> offers a booster seat. But I learn that you eat differently in Paris <em>avec les</em> <em>enfants. </em>When you say "child-friendly," I think you are essentially looking for some place loud, that serves French Fries. French fries you can throw on the floor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I learn also that you travel around differently with children. Distance is not necessarily measured in yards, meters, or metro stops, but instead in possible whining and/or tantrum episodes. If one or more child is being carried by one or more adult, this also figures into the calculation. The walk from the Musee d'Orsay to Rue Cler in the 7th Arondissement, for example, is a rather challenging 2.5 on the whining/tantrum risk scale.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hence the tour of the palatial grounds at Versailles could not possibly be done on foot, but could in theory be attempted by golf cart. I had been invited to join J-P, Hannah, Sylvia and Teddy at Versailles, along with their American friends now living in Paris Kate and Jim and their two kids: James, age 4, and Mary Martin, age 2. A perfectly nice picnic is held in the garden just below the steps to one of Louis XIV's countless fountains. The kids, apparently unimpressed by 18th Century opulence, ignore the fountains and enjoy rolling in the royal gravel.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">About midway through the golf cart tour of the grounds, we reach a point that we believe is near the entrance to Marie Antoinette's Working Farm. See, just down the road from a chateau that one of the Louis built for his mistress is a farm that Marie Antoinette apparently kept so she could go and watch how the other half lived. I think. I don't know, honestly. For reasons that will become clear, we didn't get the audiotour.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In order to reach the alleged entrance to Marie Antoinette's Working Farm, we will have to dismount the golf carts and walk what under normal circumstances with normal adult humans would have taken about 10 minutes. With two 4-year-olds and two 2-year-olds, it turns into the preschool version of the Bataan Death March, lasting a good half hour plus. Sylvia is down out of the gate, tripping while running in the parking lot, and requires a carry from Dad the rest of the way. James goes on strike about halfway there, announcing he wants to go home. He sits down in the middle of the gravel road, refusing to go any farther. It occurs to me that I could be been witnessing the birth of <em>Occupy Versailles</em>, but James eventually caves before the pepper spray comes out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;">Parents keep trying words of encouragement to keep childhood morale from deteriorating any further. "Look up ahead, Mary Martin! See that! We're almost there!" " Look, James! Sheep! Do you see the sheep?" James has a look on his face that tells you immediately what he thinks you can do with your damn sheep. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally it seems we have almost made it. We had circumvented the walls of the village and can see what looks like a gate house at a small bridge up ahead. The prize of Marie Antoinette's Working Farm will soon be ours. But as we approach the gate, we can see something is wrong. There is no ticket taker in the gate house. The gate is sealed tight, with a small sign announcing in French that this particular entrance is closed for the season. Please visit the farm by paying 8 Euro at the main entrance, around the other side, a good half mile away, the sign tells us. <em>Merci, beaucoup!</em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"We are not walking back the way we came," Kate announces. "I can tell you that much."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Jim looks over at the wall around the village, at the base of what appears to be a dried-up moat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"How high to you think that wall is?" Jim asks. "Six, seven feet? If somebody gives me a boost up there, and somebody hands up the kids ..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Sounds good to me!" Kate says, marching down into the moat bed with no further discussion. "Come on, kids! Wally World may be closed, but we're going in." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I did not expect to come to Paris to participate in a re-enactment of "National Lampoon's Vacation." But like the Griswold family, we have come this far, and we will not be deterred. Minutes later five middle aged American lawyers grasp and grunt their way over the retaining wall into the compound of Marie Antoinette's Working Farm, handing up children like we're getting on the last chopper out of Saigon. We're going over the wall, 8 Euro entrance fee and potential violation of international law be damned. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Far be it from me, the single guy with no kids, to ask if this is a good lesson for the children. The point is, we need to cut through the farm to get back to the whine-free transportation of the golf carts. Retreat is not an option. And besides, we have Marie Antoinette's farm animals to see. For the record, they pretty much look like everybody else's farm animals. Except for the goat on the tree stump. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Let them eat grain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hannah and J-P later keep apologizing to me profusely, as if they had unintentionally tortured me for two and half days. Far from it; I had a great time. The truth is, they have two beautiful kids who some day may or may not remember when Mom and Dad took them to Paris to play on fur-covered museum furniture and climb over 17th Century retaining walls. Being there for that? That's worth a flight in from Turkey any day.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-55728473483818844212011-11-18T10:46:00.001-08:002011-11-18T14:35:25.569-08:00I said what now?<span style="font-size: large;">I resigned myself early on to appearing idiotic while trying to speak Turkish. I'm just now trying to come to terms with the dangers of being unintentionally profane.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The idiotic appeared almost immediately and returns on a daily (if not hourly) basis. It's not too hard to accept, really. This is not an easy language. Not because it is particularly complex or illogical. But more so because, to an english speaker, the words are just too damn much alike. <em>Yazmak </em>is to write. <em>Y<span>üzmek</span> </em>is to swim. <em>Yapmak </em>is to do. <em>Yakmak </em>is to light. Now that you have that straight, would you like to conjugate those verbs? Sooner rather than later, you will make an idiotic statment like this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"<em>Ben mektup</em> <em>a<span>rkadaşa</span></em> <em>y<span>ü</span>z<span>ü</span>yorum</em>."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"You're doing what?" Erendiz the Turkish teacher asks me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Um, <em>mektup</em> <em>a<span>rkadaşa</span></em> <em>y<span>ü</span>z<span>ü</span>yorum</em>?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"You are <em>swimming </em>a letter to your friend?" he asks me sarcastically. "This will take quite a bit of time, don't you think?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mm, yeah. I'm swimming a letter to my friend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Looking idiotic in Turkish class, however, is not a big deal. "That's why you get paid the big money," I tell Erendiz. "To listen to complete idiots like us mangle the Turkish language for four hours a day." Like Erendiz, the restaurant people in Istanbul can be equally forgiving. They are certainly no less amused.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"<em>Çöp şiş, istiyorum</em>," I confidently order from the waitress at the little restaurant around the corner. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<em>Bu</em>?" she smiles and asks me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<em>Çöp şiş</em>?" I say again, repeating (or so I think) what I see written on the laminated menu next to a small photograph of what looks to be some kind of shish kabob. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<em>Çop şiş</em>?" She asks again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"<em>Evet</em>," I insist.<em> </em>"<em>Çöp şiş</em>."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">What's wrong with these people? It's written right there on the menu! How can I possibly screw that up?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I figure it out on the way home, noticing the familiar word on a sign posted next to a vacant lot: "<em>Buraya çöp koymak yasaktır</em>." (Putting garbage here is prohibited)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Çöp. Çöp?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ah, yes. I see now. "Cop" (with a "C" instead of a "Ç" and an "o" instead an ö and pronouced Jawp) is a stick, or a baton, <em>e.g</em>., something a shish kabob would be cooked on, which is why this word appears on the menu. "Çöp," on the other hand (that's with a "Ç" instead of a "C" and an "o" instead of an "ö" and pronounced Cheup), is the Turkish word for garbage. That's right, my friends. I was confidently proclaiming to my neighborhood waitress that for dinner, I would like her to please bring me their house specialty: the Garbage Kabob. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hey Ahmet, guess what the foreign guy out front wants you to cook for him?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not denying it; mistakes were made. I'm sure they continue to be made, with hilarious regularity. None of this unexpected. But I learned there are some words you have to be more careful with than others.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In Week One of my "Turkish for Foreigners" class, Erendiz introduces us to the words of frequency: sometimes: <em>bazen</em>. never<em>: </em><em>hiç. </em>often: <em>sık sık. </em></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Carla the Spaniard tries one of them out. "<em>Sabahleyin sik sik kahve </em><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em>içiyorum</em>," she says, trying to tell the class she often has coffee in the morning. Erendiz winces and shakes his head. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"No, don't ... don't say <em>sik sik</em>. It's <em>s</em><em>ık sık </em>(suhk suhk)! Not <em>sik sik</em> (sick sick)."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Why?" Carla asks innocently. "What's sik sik?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Erendiz won't tell us, but we find out later from a classmate's Turkish wife that while <em>sık sık </em>means "often," the nearly identical "<em>sik sik</em>" is the Turkish word for a particular male appendage, once repeated.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, you know. Don't say <em>sik sik</em>. Unless you're into that kind of thing. And whoever you are talking to is particularly hard of hearing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Erendiz later tells us also about the dangerous proximity of the word bellowed by the junkmen in the street, <em>hurdı!</em> or scrap, and <em>herif, </em>which is the Turkish word for the English invective rhyming with "trucker." Yes, that one (as "That mother <em>herif </em>just cut me off!") Now I'm not sure if the junkmen hollering in the street are really looking for scrap, or just having a particularly bad morning.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then there is the curious case of <em>hayır</em> vs. <em>hıyar</em>. <em>Hayır</em> (prounced high - ur), is Turkish for "no," one of the most commonly spoken words in the entire language. <em>Hıyar</em> (pronounced huh-yar) is ... look, there is no polite way to put this. <em>Hıyar</em> is literally the Turkish word for "dickhead." More or less our equivalent of calling someone an asshole.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is also a cucumber. And <em>hayır</em>, I'm not making that up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Which I am reasonably sure had led to the following type of exchanges between me and Turkish waiters from the moment I arrived here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Waiter: (in Turkish) "Would you like anything else?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: "Dickhead, thank you, but I'm full."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Waiter: "No desert, anything?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: "Dickhead, really, there is dickhead possible way I could eat anything else. Dickhead, just the check."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And so on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Clearly, my linguistic idiocy will continue. At this point I'm just looking to limit the times I am in danger of being </span><span style="font-size: large;"> punched in the face.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-72302285060375029122011-11-10T06:54:00.000-08:002011-11-12T12:40:55.491-08:00<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Heard it on the streets</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first time I heard the propane gas truck approach my apartment, I almost ran out into the street to buy a chocolate dream cone. I was sure that the Mister Softee ice cream truck had driven across the Atlantic from Brooklyn all the way to Istanbul.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">From my open window I could hear the tinny little 20-note tune coming out the loud speaker, followed by two sung words. Then again. And again. What the hell are they singing? "<em>Ay-Gaz</em>!" Aye, gas? The possibilities that ran through my mind were that the Turks had some serious issue concerning lactose intolerance, or that this was possibly the worst song for an ice cream truck ever recorded.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But no, as advertised, it was the Aygaz truck, its flat bed filled with propane gas tanks. If your propane tank is empty, apparently you simply have to wait until you hear the Aygaz music, take the empty tank out to the street, and swap it for a filled one. Not as exciting as ice cream, clearly, but much more efficient than hauling your empty tanks to the propane store.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thanks to the magic of globalization, you could live pretty much like an American in Istanbul if you chose to. You could go to Starbucks for your morning coffee; shop at The Gap in the afternoon; grab a Whopper at Burger King for lunch; and order Domino's Pizza to be delivered for dinner. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">No, make no mistake: Istanbul is a big, modern city in many ways resembling any in Western Europe or North America. But they still do some things here the old fashioned way. One of those ways is to just haul their goods around the neighborhood, and announce -- usually by bellowing but sometimes by broadcasting repetitive jingles about propane - that a particular product is available for purchase.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The melon man is one of my favorites, if for no other reason than he hauls his melons around in a horse or donkey-pulled wooden cart that could have been constructed sometime during the Ottoman Empire. (My guess is that Domino's probably abandoned the donkey cart for its pizza delivery early on, as it likely shot the "30 minutes or less" promise completely to hell).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Also seen and heard recently on my block was the Knife-Sharpener, who walked around hunched over with his unicycle- sized sharpening wheel strapped to his back. Then there are the <em>hurdacı, </em>or junkmen, who push large, flat-bed carts up the cobblestone street calling out "<em>Hurdı!</em>" which roughly translates as "bring down whatever really heavy crap you want to throw out that the garbage men won't take." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And of course, there is the Sock Man. "<em>Çoraplar! Çoraplar</em>!" The morning I saw him, he was offering three colors: black, blue, and for some unexplained reason, red. Really? Do you mean to tell me, that I can simply open my window in the morning, and buy <em>socks</em>? <em>Red</em> socks? This seems like a dream come true to me. If the underwear man puts Başkürt street on his route, I may never do laundry again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Take me home, Country <em>Yollar</em></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've come to the conclusion that we Americans are way too concerned about looking stupid in public. Not unintentionally <em>acting</em> stupid; we don't seem to have any problem with that. No, I'm talking about the fear that, by simply having fun and showing it out in the open, people will roll their eyes at us and whisper to others that we are just so, you know: <em>undignified.</em> As if by making an ass out of ourselves, we will just never, ever be elected student counsel class president as we always dreamed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This first occurred to me several years ago, as I watched a table of a dozen or so large Austrian people outside of a Tyrolean ski lodge raise their beer mugs and belt out a perfectly horrendous rendition of "Take me Home, Country Roads." It was the middle of the day. They were not drunk, but smiling and laughing and having fun and looking and sounding ... just so <em>ridiculous. </em>This was a John Denver song, for God's sake, being sung in bad German/English (Genglish? Gerlish?) smack dab in the middle of <em>lederhosen</em> country. Did they even know where West Virginia was, or why they would belong there? I was fascinated watching this, thinking I would even be embarrassed to have this song playing on my car radio with the window down, for the fear that someone might pull up along side and ridicule me. But the Austrians laughed and clinked their glasses and sang at the top of their lungs, and and could have cared less what I thought about it. You know: they were having<em> fun</em>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I thought about this again last year, as I spent a week hanging out in some of the finer pubs of Ireland, from Dublin to Galway to Killarney to Cork and back again. In almost every pub in the evening, there was a musician. Usually one guy, with a guitar, and a pint of Guinness in front of him. And he'd sing, and people would sing along, and clap, and stomp their feet, and dance. After three or four pubs, you know all the songs. And after three or four Kilkenneys and a shot of Jameson or two, I was singing and clapping and stomping my feet, too. I'm sure I appeared about as dignified as an Austrian singing a John Denver song, but man! it was fun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I rediscovered this yet again this week during my first visit to a Turkish music bar. The crowd at <em>La Fee</em> (located on <span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>Fransiz Sokaği</em>, or "French Street")</span> </span>was young and good looking, almost all under 30. If any people would be concerned about appearances, it would be them. As in Ireland, on stage was just a guy with a guitar, playing songs that everyone knew (well, every Turkish<em> </em>person knew, anyway).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In America, we treat live music in a bar as background noise, raising our voices to talk over it like it is a screaming baby on an airplane. In Turkey - at this particular bar on this particular night, at least - the live music is a participatory sport. People clap. They pound the table. They dance. They sing along like no one is listening. And if anyone thinks they look or sound stupid, they certainly don't seem to care. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have seen this, and I'm telling you, we really need to give it a try. I know people who will not sing Happy Birthday in public because they are worried that others will not think they are not a good enough singer. Try to keep in mind: it's <em>Happy Birthday. </em>Not the tryouts for American Idol. Loosen up, make an ass out of yourself. Turn up the car radio and dance in your seat at the stoplight. Tell the next guy you see in a bar with a guitar (if you should ever happen upon one) to play John Cougar Mellencamp, and have everyone join in on the refrain of <em>Jack and Diane</em>. And sing frickin'<em> Happy Birthday,</em> for crying out loud. Life is too short to not occasionally look stupid.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>O, Brother Fish</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Years ago when I was married, my now ex-wife dragged me to an amateur play, starring, written and directed by the husband of a friend of friend of a coworker (I think). The play was put on in a barn somewhere outside of Pittsburgh. The audience sat on haystacks, and the play lasted for what seemed like three and a half days. I'm pretty sure we were in complete agreement that the play was auspiciously terrible.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If I remember correctly, the play was supposed to tell the story of early native Americans, and how they loved and respected nature. As the play opens, the actors - portraying a hunting party - pantomime killing a deer. One of the actors kneels over the ersatz deer, raises his head and arms to the sky, and belts out: "O, BROTHER DEER! WE ARE SORRY THAT WE MUST EAT YOU!!" The deer, still dead and no longer accepting apologies, says nothing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This classic line became oft-repeated in the coming years, any time food arrived at the table in a restaurant looking less like food and more like something that until recently had been happily walking, swimming, or flying around. I repeated it again this week, as I visited one of the countless seafood restaurants of <span style="font-family: inherit;">the <em>Balık Pasajı </em>(Fish Passage), off of Istanbul's <em>Istiklal Ceddesi</em> (Independence Avenue). When you order "Grilled Sea Bass," this is exactly what you get: one sea bass, grilled. Head, tail, fins, eyes, gaping mouth. No one is going to fillet this for you, or make it look pretty. You want grilled sea bass? Here it is: Fwap! One grilled sea bass. You want to eat? Get to work.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"O, BROTHER FISH ...!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I can report that Brother Sea Bass, God bless him, with a little salt and pepper and lemon juice, was quite tasty. Like his kindred brother deer, however, he refused to accept my apology for eating him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He looked a little pissed, to be honest with you.</span><br />
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<br />David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5532575470778477948.post-44405286148593941942011-11-04T19:01:00.000-07:002011-11-05T06:55:08.650-07:00Turkish for Foreigners<span style="font-size: medium;"> Erendiz starts off the class looking something like the Sean Penn of Turkish language teachers. Dressed in a white t-shirt, leather vest, and motorcycle boots, he walks in and shuts the door behind him, stalking into the classroom like he’d just as soon punch someone in the face than conjugate a verb.<br />
<br />
Surveying the beginner’s class in front of him, Erendiz gives off the vibe of someone who’s been through this before and is not particularly looking forward to doing it again. Like the drill sergeant in "An Officer and a Gentleman," you have the sense that he’s about to tell us that we are the saddest bunch of non-Turkish speaking rejects it has ever been his misfortune to see. At this point, no one present is in a position to argue.<br />
<br />
There’s Manu, a shaggy haired Belgian web designer by way of Mauritius who was on his way back to Europe from Lebanon when he decided he’d stop off in Istanbul three days ago to see what all the fuss was about. He knows zero Turkish. Then Fardous, a nice Syrian woman who was teaching English in London and becoming increasingly distressed watching the civil unrest in her home country on satellite television. To distract herself, she told me, she came to Istanbul to live for a while. She knows zero Turkish.<br />
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Then there are the two Russian woman, Maria and Natalia. Maria is there because, she tells me, she was crazy enough to marry a Turkish man. She doesn’t seem particularly happy about it. Natalia is some sort of economist. She won’t say much more that. Rounding out the class is Christian, an Italian who also married a Turk; Cana, a German girl of Turkish decent who has come from Hamburg to live with her aunt; and yours truly, the American with the back story more dubious than the rest of them combined. <br />
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There we sit before Erendiz: A more poorly-dressed version of a United Colors of Benetton ad. Fortunately for me, everyone in the class speaks English to one degree or the other. Turkish? Mm, not so much. For all intents and purposes, not at all. He runs his fingers through his spiked hair, takes a deep breath as he rubs the razor-cut beard along his jawline, and lets the Turkish fly.<br />
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<em>"Merhaba! Nasılsınız? Benım adım Erendiz. Sizin adınız ne? Nereden geliyorsunuz? Ne iş yapıyorsunuz?"</em><br />
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</i><br />
As the multi syllabic words pour out, Manu seems to grow a bit terrified. Natalia looks around the room and appears like she just might possibly throw up. Maria crosses her arms across her chest and scowls in disgust.<br />
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"How are we to know this!" Maria finally blurts out. "This is beginner’s class! We don’t understand you! We do not speak Turkish!"<br />
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Erendiz finally drops the Sean Penn bit and cracks a smile. "I know," he tells her. "Trust me; this is my job. I’m going to teach you."<br />
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* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">Welcome to <em>Yabancı Dilim Tü</em></span></span><em><span style="font-size: medium;">rk</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: medium;">ç</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;">e No. 1</span></em><span style="font-size: medium;">, which roughly translates to the mildly insulting "Turkish <i>for Foreigners.</i>" You have to expect a bit anxiety on the first day of any school, I have to think. Turkish from Scratch (as the course should be called) – taught by in the heart of Istanbul by a guy wearing a shark-tooth necklace – takes it up a notch. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> We find out later that Erdeniz’s favorite movies are "Rocky," "Rambo II," and "The Terminator." His friends affectionately call him "Psycho." But like the smoking green liquid on the Turkish coffee serving tray, his act is mostly just for show. Erendiz turns out to be a patient and good-natured teacher, who apparently just enjoys screwing with the neophytes for a while before launching into the first few hours of intensive Turkish lessons. But this is not immediately apparent in the first hour.<br />
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The lesson continues. Erdeniz asks Maria the Russian where she lives in Istanbul. <i>"Nerede Istanbul’da oturuyorsunuz, Maria</i>?" After a three-second death stare, Maria again explodes.<br />
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"I cannot say this ... this ... <i>oturye yo yo ye! </i> It makes my brain to hurt!"<br />
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"Yes you can say it."<br />
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"No, I can not!"<br />
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"Yes you can."<br />
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Erdeniz seems unwaveringly confident that he can teach Turkish to anybody. But at this point I’m not so sure Maria isn’t on to something. It feels a bit like you’ve landed on another planet, and it will take years to crack the alien code.<br />
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Still, this just is the first week, and I’m determined to do this. I pay attention in class and do the homework. I go home each night and write out the vocabulary, inventing word games to associate the Turkish word with some absurd image in an attempt to memorize it. "Ok, the word for "high" is <em>yüksek</em> (youk-sec). Yuksek. Yuksek. Yuksek. Ok, if Bob Uecker (Youk) drank a lot of triple sec (sec), he would get high. Yuksek." "Pepper is <i>karabiber</i>. Karabiber, karabiber. Ok, if Justin Beiber had a sister, her name would be Kara. And I would have to assume she would be peppery. Karabiber." "Ice is <i>buz</i>. Buz, buz, buz. If you eat ice too fast, you get one of those cold headaches, and it gives you a buzz." For hours I do this. Yes, it is stupid as hell. But you tell me a better way to try to memorize that <em>Çarşamba</em> is the day before <em>Perşembe</em>.<br />
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* * *<br />
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On the second day of class, I am tagged with the nickname of "Superman." Sorry, but I am simply reporting the facts. I think it as has something to do with my black-framed, Clark Kent-like glasses, and the fact that I have actually done the homework. It seems like pretty low bar, but I guess I’ll take it. <br />
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Erdeniz’s lessons continue. Students scratch their heads. Manu responds to questions with the startled stare of a cornered animal. Maria continues to rant about the injustices of the Turkish language. <br />
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But I’m keeping up with Erdeniz, and persisting on the vocabulary. Thirty new words to memorize. Then 50. Then 100. Some Turkish words you luck out on. You can pretty much figure out <i>otel</i> and <i>taksi</i> and <i>radyo</i> and<i> televizyon. </i>But good luck with refrigerator (<i>buzdolabu</i>), or orange (<i>portakalrengi</i>)<i>,</i> or shoes (<em>ayakkabı<span style="font-size: medium;">lar</span></em><span style="font-size: medium;">) or computer (<em>bilgisayar</em>). </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"> Then there are the identical words that mean entirely different things. <em>Yüz</em> means one hundred. It also means a person’s face. <em>M<span class="hps">ısır</span></em> is the country Egypt. It is also corn. <i>Ocak</i> is a stove. It is also the month of January. Upon discovering this, I decide that we also should consider changing the name of one of our months to that of a kitchen appliance. I would be more than happy to celebrate my birthday on the 29<sup>th</sup> of Salad Spinner, or fireworks on the 4<sup>th</sup> of Toaster Oven. But I digress ...<br />
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* * * <br />
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The jig's up on the third day of class, when Erdeniz decides while teaching us numbers that it would be a good idea to go around the room and have everyone say in Turkish what year they were born. I know I am in serious trouble when the first birth year comes in around the mid 1980s, about the time I was driving a Pontiac Fiero and dancing to Scritti Politti. For a split second, I consider shaving 10 years off of my age, realizing everyone here, including Erdeniz, is at least 15 years my junior. But no, I suck it up and take it like an <i>adam.</i><br />
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</em><br />
<em> </em>"<em>Bin, dokuz <span class="hps">yüz,</span> <span class="hps">altmış</span> </em><span class="hps"><em>bir</em>."</span><br />
<em> </em><br />
A stunned silence hangs in the air. You can almost hear everyone in the entire room collectively thinking: "Did he say Nineteen <i>Sixty </i>One?" I am immediately convinced I have just lost the respect of the class, along with my cheaply earned but highly prized nickname. I try to comfort myself by recalling that, back on Krypton, Superman’s father was played by Marlon Brando. Maybe I could be Jor-El.<br />
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The Turkish keeps coming fast and furious. We progress from "Hello, my name is ..." to "What is this? This is a pen." to "There is water in the bottle." to "In general, I shave every morning before breakfast." While the over/under odds on one of the Russians dropping the class is running at around 2.5 days, everyone is hanging in there. Erdeniz actually seems to be enjoying this. And after just a few days, I’ll be damned if we aren’t learning some frickin’ Turkish.<br />
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* * *<br />
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Erdeniz begins the fourth day of class with an announcement.<br />
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"At the beginning each class, I appoint someone to be captain of the class," he says, "to be the leader and coordinate all social arrangements."<br />
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"Superman!" the class blurts out in unison. <br />
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Erdeniz <span style="font-size: medium;">points at me. "Yes, Superman. You are the captain." He adds that my new Italian friend, Christian, will be the second captain (in the event that, like the winner of a beauty pageant, in the next year I am for any reason unable to perform my duties).</span><br />
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"So I guess this means I’m no longer Superman," I say as way of my acceptance speech. "I guess this makes me Captain America." </div>
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"Yes!" Christian points and shouts. "You are Captain America! Ah, Steve Rogers! And me, I am Bucky Barnes!"<br />
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"OK, Captain," Erdeniz says, getting back to work. "Now, let’s hear you conjugate <em>alışveriş yapmak</em>. Positive and negative forms." <br />
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The struggles of the Benetton refugees continue for another day. But after the first week, score one point for the old American guy in the Clark Kent glasses.<br />
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</span>David Richard Teecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00165058118299115541noreply@blogger.com2