It's a hard-knock life

We woke, showered and dressed, and headed out the door. Not wise, I must note, to ask me to leave the house un-coffee-ed, but today, it was worth it. We took lunch at a charming little restaurent in Bebek, overlooking the Bosphorus. (As the hills obviously slope down towards the water, there are a number of restaurants and bars that overlook the Bosphorus; at first I was impressed with every single one of them, but I am now beginning to be able to distinguish a good view from a poor one.) Then, after a quick cab ride, we took a very short ferry out to the man-made island in the middle of the Bosphorus. It's about the size of a footie pitch, and a health club rents it out in the summer. On one side is the dance club; the other is littered with white mattresses and large umbrellas. It has a handful of larger sofas under gauzy sheets, and a huge, L-shaped pool full of sea water. We lay in the sun, read, napped a little, sipped espresso and white wine, chatted. Life is hard, people. Life is hard.

I'll post a pic when I get it.

do-it-yourself

Faced with a lack of hand-held mirrors, I took a picture of the back of my head to check out my hair-do.

Shazz: "What are you doing? You're mad! Mad!"

I had rather thought it a quite practical solution to living in a camp-like situation, or, alternately, a creative use of a digital camera. A french twist is a serious thing, you know.

I think I'm cracking up

Shazz is running around the apartment yelling, "I'm the best! I'm the best! Everyone else sucks!" because he figured out the wireless internet. He also just asked himself for permission for a celebratory beer, and answered himself in the affirmative. It's nice to know that the family insanity gene has been firmly passed on.

a new direction

Walking home from dinner last night, after imbibing some rakı, through the winding cobblestone streets, the cafes and restaurants spilling out onto the streets, a thin layer of cigarette smoke hanging in the still night air:

Shazz: "You should stop writing about people who talk all the time, stuff where nothing ever happens. You should write about a guy like me!"

We pass a band playing in front of a small crowd; the bass player and drummer pound out a slow, rhythmic beat, and as we walk by a woman with big hair starts blowing on a sax-a-ma-phone.

Shazz: "Oh, I forgot. I have to join a band and become the lead singer."

Me: "Right. I'll write a story about this suit who quits his job, moves to Istanbul to start his own company, and then quits that to form a merengue band. And then his father disowns him."

New Rule

[Watching MTV]

Me: Have you seen these guys? They’re called the Pussycat Dolls. Only one of them really sings, but they all dance around skinny-ly.
Shazz: That’s Snoop!
Me: He’s creepy.
Shazz: What?
Me: Snoop Dog is creepy.
Shazz, standing: You do not dis Snoop! He’s Snoop! While you’re living under this roof you will obey my rules! And the most important rule is, you don’t dis Snoop!

are you there god? it's me, j

I now exactly enough Turkish to get around. The problem is, I can pass for Turkish. So I get in the cab and say, "Sultanhamed, lutfan" and the guy starts chatting away. For awhile I play along, just kind of nod, until it becomes apparent that I am expected to answer a question; then I am forced to expose my non-Turkish-ness, and the game is up.

I went to the Aya Sophia and the Blue Mosque today. The Aya Sophia used to be a church, then a mosque, and is now a museum of sorts; there are many mosaics still in place, which I think are made out of gold; either that or really, really shiny paint. The mosaics are impressive, and beautiful, but I may have been more moved had they not all depicted Jesus.

The Blue Mosque on the other hand - that made me want to believe in god. The inside is covered almost entirely in ceramic tiles; these are mostly blue and white, with a few splashes of red (on the arches, I think). Strategically-sized chunks of the wall are made of tiles of a given pattern; the groups of the same pattern are placed in such a way as to follow the line of the wall or arch; the result is symmetrical and graceful. It was, of course, beautiful beyond belief, but I didn't stay for long - the whole thing felt rather intrusive. I spotted some tourists taking photos of people praying!

My brother needed his camera for work, so I don't have photos. He does though.

declaration of independence

Yesterday I went to a coffee shop and ordered an iced coffee all by myself! I was very proud of myself. I also now know how to get back to my brother's apartment from the local square, and, as such, have been granted keys. Keys equal freedom, and from now on the plan is to wake up, make coffee, write, and then explore. It doesn't matter if I get lost - which is inevitable, given the lack of street signs - because I can just get in a cab and get back to the square.

The lack of street signs and necessity of cab-taking does put a strain on the budget, though, even though the cabs are cheap. The worry is that they will figure out (from my horrible accent) that I'm a foreigner (although if I don't open my mouth I can pass for Turkish) and take me on a round-about route. I think, though, that getting lost will be fun. It is impossible to be lost in New York, except, occasionally, in the West Village, and even when I'm travelling, I'm never really lost because of the map in my purse. This is going to be glorious.

My brother is annoyed because I'm not over my jet lag yet, and go to bed at 3 am and wake up at noon. It occurs to me, though, that, really, when not bothered by family members, teaching, or unfortunate 10am classes, this is body's normal schedule. So it's not that I'm not over jet lag, it's that my body has finally rebelled against my crazy, daylight-loving family, and has demanded to be treated properly.

Dang Jet-lag

It's just about 3am and I can't sleep.

This is fine when I'm in New York and just dealing with grad school, but here in Istanbul I have to deal with Shazz in the morning. He gets grumpy if I'm not magically awake, caffinated, showered, and ready to go when he decides - without warning - that he wants to leave. He mutters under his breath and I go get ready, and when, fifteen minutes later, I come back and declare myself ready to go, he says "Just a sec" and sits with his computer for another half-hour.

Maybe a tipple of scotch will help...

How to Learn Turkish in Three Days

I am learning a bit of Turkish by watching the Simpsons with subtitles:

evet = yes
peki = okay
ne oluyer? = what's going on?
ayyas = slang for alcoholic

adventures in babysit- I mean, in Turkey

Describing Istanbul won't be easy, but I'm determined to give it a try, if only as an exercise in description.

Istanbul is either laid out on a series of hills, or one hill, I'm not sure which. I have no sense of direction normally, and in this grid-less city, with no street signs to orient me, I am constantly lost.

Me: So, wait. How do you know where you are?
Shazz, irritably: You just know.

The streets are winding; they don't seem to go straight for more than twenty yards, if that. They snake their way up and down the hills, broken up by strategically (I assume) placed stairs for pedestrians. Almost all the streets are stone; there are a few streets made of pavement which have things that approximate sidewalks, but they seem to be in the more businessy or touristy areas. The stone streets have what I think are aquaducts running alongside - I'm not sure of the word, is what I mean. They're like gutters, they serve the same function, but are made of a series of rectangular stones sloping downwards to form a triangular gutter. It hasn't rained, so I have no idea if they're effective or not.

The traffic is terrifying. I am convinced I will be killed by a taxsi driver before I leave. They charge down narrow streets which clearly should be marked "one way" (albeit in Turkish) with joyful abandon. Why is it that NYC cab drivers can turn on a dime, but that Turkish cab drivers have no problem mowing you down to get somewhere? Maybe it's cause the NYCers would just sue.

Big Swinging Sal

Big Swinging Sal is not to be confused with Aussie Sal. As such, Big Swinging Sal will be referred to as BS.

Setting: Shazz's living room.

BSl: So this girl, total whore, says to me -
Me: I'm sorry, hang on a sec. Isn't it good that she's a whore? I mean, for you.
BS: Yes.
Me: So you're not using the word 'whore' in a derogatory way?
BS: No, not at all.
Me: Ok. Wait, don't you mean 'slut', technically?
BS: I don't like the word 'slut'. I think it's demeaning.

Istanbul is awesome.

Memo, To C.M. and PSNA

I would like to lodge a formal complaint with Captain Malaprop and Mrs. PSNA.

There is no coffee in Shazz's house.
Not a drop. Not even that awful instant stuff.

How do you expect me to get any work done? How do you expect me to graduate??

So why am I blaming Captain Malaprop and Mrs. PSNA for this? It's their son's house. How the hell did you raise this boy? If I have guests, I make sure that their requirments are met well before they arrive! If they are Earl Grey drinkers, there's Earl Grey in the house. If they are Orange Pekoe drinkers, there is Orange Pekoe in the house. If they are crack addicts, I take them down to the village. I always keep sugar around, even though I don't take it myself, just in case a sugar-taker drops by.
Honestly, my coffee-drinking is an addiction, and should be treated as such. If I were a crack addict, everyone would feel sorry for me! And maybe give me money! But no! I'm merely addicted to coffee! I'm expected to wake up without the psychological comfort of knowing there is coffee in the house! I'm expected to iron my skirt without any coffee in my system! I'm expected to walk a damn mile, uphill, no doubt, to get to the coffee!! What kind of uncivilized, useless, philistine-ish lardo have you raised?!

To make this up to me, I demand the following: I want your coffee maker. You use it three times a year. A coffee maker like that deserves someone who will love it every day. I don't care if it's bigger than the counter in my kitchen. I'll put it in the living room. Or kick one of the roomates out and use her room as a cafe! And charge people for entry! And I'll put all my books in there!! I'll call it the Kitchen Cafe! It'll be awesome!

I'm having flashbacks to the Great Coffee-less Caper of Oct '05. If I weren't too tired, I'd link to that post. As it stands, I think I'm gonna cry.

Turkish Delight and Other Matters

Ok, you knew I had to reference Turkish delight in a blog post title at some point. I've had some, and it's nothing like the stuff they sell in England. I kind of like the stuff in England better, because it involves chocolate.

I would dearly like to write about Captain Malaprop's hilarious surprise birthday party, but this is a family blog, and some things might offend parts of my audience. Also, something are meant to be told, not read.

So, on to Turkey. Turkey, so far, is very Turkish; that is to say, it is full of Turkish people who speak Turkish and eat Turkish food. It's very confusing. There's not a Mickey Dee's in sight... how can I orient myself without a Mickey Dee's, people?

It's gorgeous. We flew over what I think was either Romania or Bulgaria, and the fields below were very symetrical and even; when we flew over Turkey, the fields started getting totally wonky, long and curved. The Black Sea was so blue that, if it were not for a chunk of Europe off to the right, I'd've thought the sea was part of the sky, and that we were so high as to be lost in the blue. When we descended through clouds while still over the sea, flecks of rainbows flew by; I've never seen this before, and can't figure out why it would happen now. Why only above the sea? Is it merely the chance of angles towards the sun? Or does the sea have something to do with it? (Really, any science types around? I'm very curious.) It was beautiful; they were short, still curved, just below me. Weirdly, only one appeared at a time, and stayed where it was for just a moment, before seemingly dancing off into the wispy clouds.

My brother's apartment has slanted walls, which I love; Jo March used to write in a garret with slanted walls, and I identified too much with Jo when I was a kid. (Seriously. My myriad guilt complexes are probably, in part, LMA's fault.)

What else? I am, predictably, exhausted. I'm keeping myself awake by drinking lots of water, so I keep having to pee. Hey, if it's good enough for B. Simpson, it's good enough for me!

I'll write more (theoretically) interesting things when I'm more awake.

for better or for worse

I don't really know what to say about the final.

I think you can all guess how I feel: happy, yes, that my Azzuri won, but unhappy that they won on penalties; and, although I wasn't rooting for France, sad that Zizou ended his career in that way. Terrible.

Sal said to me, "What are we going to do now that it's all over?"
Me: "I dunno... work, maybe?"

Anna asked how it felt; she pointed out that while I love footie, it does make me tense. (Seriously, there's a line of knots in my shoulders.) She suggested, "Maybe this is like that sad/sweet kind of relief you feel when you get out of a stormy relationship with someone you love madly, but who you just know is not quite right for you and therefore gets you all wound up??"

It is like that; but no matter how relieved I am, how grateful I am to have the time to work worry-free, the fact of the matter is, I will always go back. Yeah, there are days when I'm furious, when I don't understand why I stay, where I slam doors and threaten to leave forever; but the charm and the beauty always overwhelm me, and, come Sept 2, I'll be watching England's first qualifying match for Euro 2008. Rooney won't be playing, Becks won't be captain, and everything will be a little tense round our house for a bit, but, I keep my vows: I'll be watching.

Evidence my parents are losing their minds

1. Captain Malaprop (aka Dad): "I don't understand offside. If the defenders aren't there, it's their own fault!"

2. Scene: The bookstore. J reads a magazine. Cell phone rings.

J: Hello?
Mum: J?
J: Yes?
Mum: Where are you?
J: At the bookstore.
Mum: What are you doing?
J: Reading. What else do I ever do?
Mum: When are you coming home?
J: Soon. When I'm done.
Mum: How are you getting home?
J: Bus, I guess.
Mum: I think the bus is dangerous.
J: Ok, I'll take a cab.
Mum: I'm not sure the cabs are safe either.
J: So, neither the bus nor the cabs are safe... in Ottawa? At 9:30 on a Sunday night?
Mum: No. We'll come pick you up.

3. Captain Malaprop is convinced that he saw Aishwarya Rai downtown the other day. No amount of argument (eg, What in heck was Aishwarya doing in Ottawa?) will convince him otherwise.

Don't worry, Shazz, I'm looking into institutions.

Back in the land of the free...

... free health care, that is. Still, no one jaywalks. Does that make sense?

like little birds outside my window

I woke up this morning to the sound of my father singing Bollywood songs (better than his own made-up songs, the most common one of which goes, "Shit shit shit, shit shit shit, shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!") and my mother yelling, "Stop singing! J's trying to sleep!"

Only In New York

It being one of those days, and short for time, I took a cab down to the Apple Store to investigate those little memory thingys you carry around... no idea what they're called. It was nice, too, seeing the city, quickly, one last time, before I leave for the rest of the summer. We went down the west side highway, and through Chelsea, to SoHo. But the cabbie spent a good deal of the trip looking up sports scores. Not just at lights, not just while idling in traffic, but, occasionally, while actually driving.

I know this won't happen at home. Not so sure about Turkey, though...

Goodbye girl, you know it's only love

It's exhausting, all this chopping and changing. Yesterday I was praying for Italy, and today I was cheering for France, and now that they've both won I'm bouncing back to Italy.

A friend of mine is worried that the guy she likes is enamoured of another young woman.
Friend: "She's cute! And smart!"
Me: "So what? If we were all smitten with the cute and smart people in our lives, we'd be forever cheating on each other."

Watching footie is like being simultaneously smitten with all the cute and smart people in your life. And cheating on them, and getting away with it, because they're cheating on you, too. It's kind of awesome.

(Not that cheating on people is awesome. I need coffee.)

Burning Down the House

I think the bad thing happened.

I was going to make cupcakes for the Canadia Day picnic tomorrow - baking is theraputic - and turned on the oven to 350 degrees, gathered the eggs and sugar and flour, and then decided to wait till tomorrow so they'd be fresher for the picnic. I put away the eggs, took a nap, washed my face, got dressed, and went to a party.

The morals of this story?
1. I should not be left alone with children on the day(s) England gets knocked out of the World Cup.
2. The Bad Things That Happen When England Lose may be mitigated by good friends like Sal, who figured it out and saved my bum.

The baseless frabric of this vision

In terms of narrative it's actually quite tidy.

The self-referential echos are, in fact, so neat, that one might argue that England lost precisely because they were thinking about the game against Argentina in 98, when they lost a golden boy (in that case, Becks) to petulance, miraculously held out till penalties, then lost 4-3 on penalties.

Rooney's an idiot, and my heart is broken. Now it's just a waiting game; to paraphrase Piglet: I wonder what's going to happen tragic today?


"Our revels are now ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air ...
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with sleep."
- Prospero, The Tempest, IV.i.

Panic

Me: (panicking) I think England are going to lose!
Mum: Why do you think that?
Me: I couldn't get tickets to a party tonight! Everytime England lose something awful happens! You know that at this party something amazing will happen - like, Bono'll show up and give an impromptu concert or something!
Mum: Don't be silly.
Me: Seriously. The last two world cups, when England lose, double devastation has been wreaked on my life.
Mum: Go drink your coffee. And, look, just go to the game and enjoy it.
Me: Enjoy it? Enjoy it?! Football is not about enjoyment!!


It isn't, people. It's so painful. It's devastating. It's heart-wrenching. It gets your hopes up, then dashes them against the pub floor like so many tomatoes against a ref's face.

Why do I watch?