Turkish Honeymoon part deux

DATE: October 2007
LOCATION: Selcuk, Turkey

From Istanbul it was off to Izmir by air. I once saw a show on the ruins of Ephesus on the discovery channel, and have always wanted to go. We rented a car and drove south from Izmir. We decided to stay in the small town of Selcuk, not the huge tourist mega complex down the road. We both hate big resorts. We arrived amid a protest. The KGK/PKK terrorists had just abducted 8 Turkish soldiers, and the public outcry was fierce. Outcry against Americans was also fierce as we wouldn’t allow the Turks to attack KGK bases located in Iraq. Great timing for me…I was living my work, and asking questions to anybody who spoke English. Ellis was just plain nervous. As we sat at lunch the first day, we struck up a conversation with an older British couple on a 6 month tour of North Cyprus and Turkey. We had a nice chat with the seemingly goofy couple—she was in a track suit and he was wearing Bermuda shorts. However, when it came time for them to leave, the man adopted a different demeanor, took a sidelong glance at us as he walked away and said, “a word of advice…if you leave the tourist areas, I’d consider becoming British if I were you.” Sage advice, and something about the way he imparted it made me think perhaps there was more to this man than met the eye.

At our hotel we met a Turkish man and his American wife who had been living for years in Houston, and whose daughter attended Texas A&M. We had a nice talk in the garden courtyard, with Ellis reliving glory A&M days. I also had them translate the news for me as there were lots of pictures of marching soldiers and F-16s. Wouldn’t it just figure that I’d been working this problem set for 2 YEARS and when the mierde hits the fan, I’m in Turkey—in the middle of the action but clueless with the language barrier. Anyway, they asked what we were doing the following day, and we told them driving to see the ruins. They were astounded. “You’ve DRIVING in TURKEY?” he asked. Um, yeah…it’s really not hard. Oh yeah, and did I mention the man was TURKISH?!? Amazing--scared to drive in your own country. We felt brave.

Ruins. Two blocks from our hotel were the ruins of the church built over the tomb of John the Baptist. It was raining, and we had the whole complex to ourselves, apart from a friendly cat—whom we did NOT invite home to sleep with us. It was on the hill overlooking Selcuk, and the gravity of who had been here weighed heavy. Legend has it John brought Mary here and they both lived out their final years in Selcuk. We made an attempt to visit Mary’s house, a huge pilgrimage site. They no kidding wanted $20 to see this totally rebuilt one room building. I’ve been to several pilgrimage sites in my life and never paid a nickel, so we scoffed at the man and turned the car around.

We spent hours driving through the countryside to see ruins. We first stopped at Priene, built as the world’s first preplanned city in the 4th century BC. Then on to Miletus, the most important Greek city in the region. Finally to Didyma, a HUGE temple built in 494 B.C on the site where Zeus came down to make love to Leto, who then gave birth to Artemis and Apollo. It was one of the biggest structures ever built by the Greeks. Finally we hit Ephesus. It was amazing. This is the oldest stuff I’ve ever seen. The city was founded in the 11th century B.C, and while mostly ruins, you can still tell how great it used to be—from the Greek city dedicated to Artemis to the Roman capital of Asia Minor. The throngs of fanny pack wearing tourists from cruise ships docked at Kusadasi only slightly spoiled my enjoyment—that is how cool this place is! Of course, even though many of the ruins were Greek, we never once actually saw that written anywhere—it was always “Hellenic” or something else that alluded to Greekness, but didn’t actually come and say it. You’d think after thousands of years, people could get over things.

If ANY of these places were in the States they would have been roped off and protected with some elaborate structure built over everything and would have cost a fortune to enter. As it was, we paid $2-3 and tromped, traipsed, walked and sat all over the stuff. Greek and Roman carvings just laying in the dirt. We even dug up some half buried stones to find Greek inscriptions on the bottom side. It’s funny how old things make me giddy. Just thinking about the people who used to be there, the things they used to do, the legends and stories that we still know and tell. I wonder what will be left from our time on earth? We all want to leave a legacy of some sort, and these folks did it in spades. Art, letters, and public announcements all carved in stone where they’ve remained for thousands of years. I don’t think text messages and TV shows will be quite the same a thousand years from now. The ease of our lives may be erasing proof we existed. It’s sad, really. So, you can all expect Christmas cards carved in stone this year.

Picture of Ataturk. Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, father of modern Turkey is a revered figure. His picture ubiquitous looks out at you from every shop, restaurant and house in Turkey (luckily he was a handsome, dapper guy). Ellis and I, wanting a truly Turkish souvenir and conversation starter in our home, looked to purchase our own glossy Ataturk picture to frame and hang. We especially enjoy the picture of him sipping tea, and the one where he’s in his tux, but any would do. We began our queries early in the trip. We’d point to the picture hanging in whatever establishment it was and ask where we could get one. Normally people didn’t speak English well enough to know what we wanted, and proceeded to beam that we’d noticed their picture. They’d say loudly “Mustafa Kemal” and use every positive word in their limited vocabulary to explain to us who he was. When we made it clear we knew full well who he was, and that we WANTED a picture, they were stumped. How could EVERYBODY have one, but nobody know where to get one? We seriously asked 15 people, all with their own picture. We remain Kemal-less.

Our trip home was uneventful, and unpacked our bags only to pack them up again a week later for a trip to Krakow and Warsaw to visit our friend Artur. I plan to write about that too, but we’ll see. My travelogue track record isn’t stellar of late, and we’re leaving in 2 hours for the airport AGAIN to go to Bordeaux, so we’ll see.

Turkish Honeymooning

DATE: October 2007
LOCATION: Istanbul, Turkey

Avoid Istanbul Airport. It takes a year to get out of the airport, and is a lesson in appreciating western culture. I’ve seriously missed connecting flights at Istanbul due to the chaos that is the airport, and have gladly paid extra to NOT fly through. When Istanbul is your final destination, you’re kind of stuck. Instead of just an immigration line, you FIRST have to stand in a visa purchase line, something many hapless foreigners don’t know since it isn’t written ANYWHERE, so they spend an hour in the immigration line, only to be turned back to the visa line, only to have to start over in the immigration line. Line probably isn’t the correct word. Perhaps MOB is more accurate. Needless to say there are a lot of angry frustrated people in this general area, which gives the whole thing a seething undercurrent of stress that occasionally erupts in screaming, pushing and police involvement. It would be good people watching if you weren’t actually in the middle of it all pushing, elbowing and then “posting” like a basketball player to keep your place. It’s stressful…seriously…and right when you’re in the home stretch some Russian, Uzbek or Georgian manages to slide in front of you with his family buddies. You can almost tell a Westerner’s nationality by how they handle this. Americans won’t cut, but they’ll “try” to stop others from doing so. Brits stand patiently, looking painfully perturbed that the rules of orderly queuing aren’t being observed, but at some point they loose it start tersely reprimanding everybody. The Spaniards watch for a moment, then try to cut themselves. Meanwhile drunk Russian divas wearing lots of leather and sequins and eastern European/central Asian bearded men with lots of bags somehow stream past…and yell at anyone who dares tell them to get back in line…to include the police. Bless the West and our orderly patient ability to wait in line.

A Room with a View. Our hotel was called the Turkoman…an interesting name since most Turkomen are actually Iraqi, but very few people would know or be confused by this…except me. Our room overlooked the Blue Mosque and the Marmaris. The breakfast room/bar was a terrace on the roof, and we spent most every night watching the light change on the Mosque, and the ships pass by to parts unknown. Most Russian oil passes through this waterway. It’s pretty cool to watch it…until you stop and think “wow, that’s a pretty narrow channel” then instead of admiring the twinkley lights, you start to worry about health and safety, the world economy, and other hefty things. Maybe that’s just me. When it got too much, I just ordered another glass of red, and petted the hotel cat that adopted us.

And a Cat. There are tons of cats in Istanbul. And they’re cute. Really, really cute--as was the cat in our hotel. He followed us to our room, came in and made himself at home purring and rubbing against our legs. When we tried to put him out, he refused to go. We figured he wasn’t feral, so we let him stay. It wasn’t until the second day we saw he went outside to cavort with other cats. But after letting him stay with us the first night, how could we kick him out the next night? He wouldn’t have understood. Of course, I was ready to kick him out when Ellis about pushed me off the bed because he demanded we not disturb the cat who plunked himself down in the MIDDLE. When we both woke up with flea bites…lots of them…we agreed letting cats sleep with us wouldn’t happen again. Learn from our mistake.

The Hamam. The most memorable experience was the Turkish bath in a REAL bad neighborhood. The bath sent a shuttle to pick us up at the hotel, and we soon learned why. There is NO WAY we’d have made it otherwise. We’d have been lost all night, and then probably mugged and beaten. Shame, since this bath is 500 years old, and many famous people bathed here, presumably before the hoodlums settled in. We entered—two Italians, two Americans posing as Brits, and 3 Taiwanese who actually lived in South Africa--and were greeted by a flamboyantly gay Turk with an outrageous hairdo. The Turk quickly asked the Taiwanese family behind us if they were Chinese. They said they weren’t, but he ignored them and promptly introduced the teenage helper boy holding the door as Chinese. He wasn’t. He was Mongolian. No mind. All wrongly identified persons quickly asserted their “non-Chineseness” as soon as the overly coiffed Turk left, and Ellis and I giggled about the fact that it isn’t just Americans who make silly gaffes like that. We changed into red checkered bathing outfits and wooden platform shoes that clicked loudly on the hard floors, and made our way into the marble “hot steam” room.

Normally baths are where the neighborhood comes to gossip while they wash, which left a bunch of strangers who didn’t speak the same languages sitting uncomfortably and trying not to stare at each other, which was hard since the room was round and we were all facing in. We remedied this by closing our eyes and falling asleep. We were roused from our slumber by a small army of Turkish men, loudly slapping wash mitts, a sound which echoed ominously throughout the chamber. There was no doubt they meant business, and we would all end up cleaner than we really cared to be.

Ellis and I were first into the wash room. I looked behind me and finally made eye contact with our little “UN” bath compatriots, who, when faced with the scary bath men seems like my friends. They shot me glances of sympathy mixed with dread as I made my way into the room labeled “Sultan Suleyman used to bathe here.” I then made eye contact with Ellis, who gave me a look that very plainly said, “I can’t BELIEVE I let you talk me into this.” We were told to sit next to sinks, and were unceremoniously and without warning doused in cold water. We were scrubbed vigorously with what felt like brillo pads and doused with more cold water. When I thought I couldn’t take anymore, and with my cotton bikini thing falling off, I was led to a marble slab table, hoisted up, and told to lay on my stomach. I steeled myself for the worst…and was greeted with bliss. A soft, hot, foamy, thick bag of suds was spread over me. Imagine laying in a warm marshmallow. And then a massage and a hair wash, with more sudsy goodness every few minutes. The pain at the beginning made the pleasure all the better. They had to drag me out of that place. From the” hot room”, we went to the “warm room” where we sat drinking apple tea. The South African -Taiwanese spoke English well. They were in Istanbul for the world karate championships. Their older son was the reigning champ. Their younger son was with them, and was 8th in the world in his age group. We sympathized about their nationality being misidentified by the Turk, and they invited us to South Africa. It was great.

The sites. We hit most everything in old town, which is actually only a small fraction of what there is to see in Istanbul--you could easily spend a week here. The most amazing was the Haghia Sophia. Originally built as a Christian church in 532 A.D.—I need to specify A.D. since many of Turkey’s sites date to 500 B.C. The building was one of the most important churches in Christendom for 1000 years, and became a Mosque in 1435 when Constantinople fell to the Ottomans. It is now a museum celebrating both religions. It’s crowded, expensive to go into, pink and falling apart, but it’s the most moved I’ve been by a building, or anything else manmade in a long time. Perhaps it was the sheer size, the soft lighting, the smell of antiquity, the breathtaking marble, the beautiful blend of the two most influential religions in the world in a time when there is so much hate, or the artistry. It’s hard to say, but I was speechless as we wandered the perimeter looking at the sparkling gold mosaics of Jesus, Mary, and John the Baptist from the 9th century, next to intricate bold colored Islamic paintings.

Shopping. We went to the spice market and the central market which came highly touted in the guide books. After having been to Marrakech, neither market was actually that impressive, so I won’t bore you. However, we spent quite a bit of time with Haldun, our new friend the Turkish carpet dealer. Ellis is incapable of walking past a carpet store. Normally we go in, are greeted by a pushy uninformed salesman who quotes us an outrageous price, and we walk out. Either that or we walked out several thousand dollars later with a bunch of carpets (cough cough Morocco cough cough). Haldun was GOOD. REAL GOOD. We sat in his restaurant and drank several cups of apple tea while discussing politics, religion, and life. His wife is German, and he spends 2 months each year selling carpets in the states. He hires a Mexican to drive his van from New York to LA stopping at former customer’s homes with his gorgeous wares. Only after ample tea and conversation, when we all understood our respective positions in life, did we head back to his shop. He had a knack for knowing our taste, and wasn’t in the least pushy. When we got down to talking price, he started with something reasonable, and told us it was no problem to go home and think about it—UNPRECIDENTED for any carpet dealer I’ve even come in contact with. He knew he had us. When returned to buy the rug, we were treated to more talk, more tea, and I even got to help weave a rug…he hires a woman from eastern Turkey to sit and make a rug in his shop so people can appreciate how much work it is. Ellis and I couldn’t agree on a green one or a pinkish one, so we ended up with two rugs. Damn, Haldun’s good. He’s going to add Phoenix onto his stateside tour…we’re supposed to have our friends over for a party. Sort of like Tupperware…but not.

Starbucks attacked. Okay, not really, but Ellis chooses to think we witnessed an attempted terrorist attack on Starbucks. We were minding our own business on the way to the Roman aqueducts when we heard a crash a block away. A car ran into the bollards in front of the Starbucks and a crowd gathered. Then the police came and cleaned it all up. That’s all. The car was not packed with explosives, there was not a person packed with explosives, in fact nothing caught on fire or even smoked a little. I think you’ll agree with me that this was just a dumbass who ran off the road. I’m sure Ellis will tell you his side of the story if you ask. He went into full intel gathering mode, telling me I should call into work and we should watch from a safe distance. I gave him a pat on the head. So cute.

Turkey: It's not just for Thanksgiving

DATE: May 2006
LOCATION: Ankara, Turkey

This was my second trip to Turkey. The first time around all I did was work and eat. Unacceptable, I know. I was new to the job, and had no idea that Turkey has more history and culture in its little finger than much of the rest of the world put together. Turkey has been home to MANY of the greatest civilizations ever known, Assyrian, Hittite, Hellenic, Persian, Roman, Byzantine, Seljuk, and Ottoman just to name the major ones. Every group has left a distinct mark which leaves the traveler in awe. You could spend months traveling in this country roughly the size of Texas and still not see all the AMAZING things it has to offer. Not “neat” or “pretty cool” things…AMAZING things.

I was in Ankara to attend a series of meetings with my counterparts in the Turkish establishment. It is an annual “feel good” exercise to show how much we love our NATO partner who also happens to control most of the major supply routes to our troops in Iraq (but we won’t mention THAT). We stayed at the Sheraton, the nicest hotel in town, and were given police escorts and bodyguards that looked scary and official and helped us on and off the vans that speed us, sirens blaring, through downtown traffic. I felt REALLY important, to the point of absurdity. Seriously, we were just a bunch of mid-level wonks. We ate 5 course lunches with silver and linen, waiters at our beck and call and sat in great conference rooms with marble hallways and tea and cookies at every break. Apparently last year this conference was in DC, and we sent everybody down to the base cafeteria to fight with plastic trays and over-cooked hamburgers before paying for their own meals. Nice.

Our work center was the US Embassy, which is a 1950’s edifice just as ugly as all the other US embassies I’ve seen. It actually fits Ankara, a modern city with little style or grace itself. Thank goodness we spent most of our time in Turkish spaces. Much nicer.

Since we were an official American delegation, we were invited to lay a wreath on the grave of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, founder of the modern Turkish republic in 1923. Ataturk, a name he gave himself which means “Father of the Turks” has a god-like status in Turkey. Read the hyper link I added above, and you’ll see why—impressive stuff. There are pristine statues of MKA on every corner. Photographs and portraits adorn every office, store, taxi, and next to Turkish flags hanging from people’s windows, banners with Ataturk’s face stare omnipotently. Good thing he was a good looking feller. And a snappy dresser. With the god-like status comes the state-proscribed respect that must be shown. Saying nasty things about the man, or in any way defacing his likeness will land you in jail. As will chewing gum while laying a wreath. No, I didn’t find out the hard way, but some poor mayor in eastern Turkey did a few days before. With this in mind we got into a formation (hilarious since I was one of the few in the group with any military experience), and a Turkish government-provided wreath 3 ft across was brought forth by some very tall and well-pressed soldiers. We processed at a formal pace up a flight of stairs, and down the ½ mile cobblestone lane to the main building where we met 2 more flights of stairs before the soldiers placed the wreath for us. Thank goodness I don’t have much fashion sense, otherwise I would have been wearing stilettos like the other females in the group. After the ceremony we were each handed a certificate of appreciation with Ataturk’s disembodied head glaring disapprovingly from the background. I’m going to frame it. Total conversation piece!

Ellis came out to meet me, and enjoyed a short while as a “kept man” in my $350 a night hotel room. When I came home from work he was sprawled on the king bed, “comfortably attired”, drinking a beer with the TV on and a comatose smile on his face. When the conference was over, and I managed to get Ellis dressed, we rented a car, and headed out of town. Or tried to head out of town. Turkey has some of the worst drivers anywhere I’ve been, the streets aren’t marked, and rental cars come on empty. Ankara is also surrounded by hills, and there are only 4 roads out of town, one in each cardinal direction, so if you don’t make the right turn, you’re SOL. So, 2 hours and several snippy conversations later we ACTUALLY headed out of town. Ellis was a champ driver. “This third world driving, it’s all about nose position” he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. And he made it look just that easy.

Once out of the smog and chaos of town, the landscape quickly turned picturesque. In an hour we were surrounded by stunning scenery. Green hills gave way to snowcapped mountains gave way to clear blue sky. Our destination was Cappadocia, a short drive from Ankara but worlds away. Cappadocia is famous for interesting (and if I might add, somewhat racy) rock formations and caves which have housed residents for thousands of years, and still do. I booked us in the Hotel Museum. It was pricey for the area, but worth every penny. It was traditional and in harmony with the spectacular surroundings. Some rooms were caves, others made of the soft stone of the area. A mosaic-bottomed pool, great restaurant, very cool open air bar, and a maze of garden paths with hidden benches and turtles completed the understated and classy design. The patio looked over the valley with the snowcapped volcano looming, surreal, in the background. In the evenings they lit a small log fire to keep off the chill as you sipped wine and enjoyed the luxury of it all. In the mornings you could get a traditional Turkish shave on this same patio. Those of us who needed a shave took full advantage.

We spent two days wandering under the towering volcanoes in our rented Ford Fiesta, dodging turtles wish a death wish. We saw the Goreme cave churches, carved out of the soft volcanic rock sometime shortly after Christianity arrived after the 4th century, and ornately painted in the 11th century. The interiors, not exposed to light, or any other element for that matter, are in near perfect condition after1,000 years except that many of the figure’s eyes have been scratched out. I supposed hate and small mindedness can be considered the most destructive elements there are. Christians in this area were attacked on a off for, well, forever. This was the impetus for the creation massive underground cities, built large enough to hide entire communities from their enemies. If you are fat or claustrophobic, you might want to skip the underground city tours.

We shopped for pottery in Avanos, a trend started by the Hittites who first started making clay vessels here in 1300 BC. That’s right. BC. We wandered among the cave stores, probably the same cave stores, shopping for plates and vases and tiles made in the same way and painted with the same designs as some couple that lived…well, I can’t even think…it boggles the mind.

Have I mentioned food yet? No? Geesh, what am I thinking? Turkish food is amazing, and we enjoyed the gamut, from doner kebaps (meat roasted on a rotisserie and sliced off with long machete blades) off the street to formal dinners of traditional cuisine—lamb in yogurt, chicken shish, dolma (stuffed grape leaves) and baklava. As my boss who has spent lots of time in Turkey and Greece put it “The best Greek food is found in Turkey”. Having been both places myself, I agree 100%. I wouldn’t say that around a Greek though.

One night we headed out on a walk before dinner. A thunderstorm was slowly rolling in, and the air was thick. We passed a group of kids trying to fly a ki…. plastic grocery sack taped to sticks. They laughed and waved and said “Bon jour” and “Guten tag” and somehow we ended up in their house, with their mother smiling while she put Muslim headscarves on me and told me I looked beautiful…at least I think that is what she said. The kids giggled at the spectacle, and I ended up buying the scarf because I’m a sucker, the kids were cute and filthy, and their floor was made of dirt. The headscarf is actually illegal in all public buildings (to include schools) in Turkey thanks to Ataturk. The more traditional country folks still wear them where they are allowed.

The hotel booked us a table at an expensive restaurant with starched linens and stuffy waiters. The menu had schnitzel and cordon bleu and other European dishes at European prices. We kindly excused ourselves. We found a cave restaurant with a balcony, and settled in to seriously cheap and seriously good soup, dolma, and chicken while the storm raged around us. The waiter was friendly and gracious with a wonderful smile and apologized for EVERYTHING. I think sorry was one of the few words he knew in English. The owner was the proud cook and danced for all of us, the other patrons were German and being German (which is entertaining all by itself), and the owner’s wife was plump and jolly. We all sat for a long time, both because it was such a pleasant place, and because the rain was torrential and the lighting frighteningly close. My friend showed me how to read fortunes in grounds on the bottom of your Turkish coffee, so we all gave it shot. Our waiter looked at Ellis’s and said “ooohhhh, scorpion!!!” “WOW!” We exclaimed back, pretending to see it too. Then we asked him what that meant. “Sorry” was the reply.

Our last day we rose late, and Ellis got a shave on the patio from a man in a Fez named Mustafa. Then we slowly wound our way back to Ankara through the Martian looking rock formations that look a bit like pink meringue. The lower layers of volcanic rock are just tightly packed ash, so weather faster than the upper layers of actual stone. The end result is a formation the shape of a traffic cone with a hat on, or sometimes a shape just downright phallic. Either way, its pretty darn cool. We spent the last night in Ankara before heading back home.

I’ll be spending a lot more time in Turkey, both because I have to, and because I want to.

Are Tuskan Raiders from Morocco?

DATE: April 2006
LOCATION: Marrekech, Morocco

I haven't sent out a travel log in a REALLY long time. I've been traveling, just haven't felt like writing due to traumatic life changes. Luckily about the time I felt like hitting keyboard again, I had a trip planned! What luck! I have a new and as of yet untested travel buddy, and I'm out of practice, so bear with me! Maybe I’ll get motivated enough to go back and do short ones on Latvia, Paris, Champaign, Oslo, Ankara, Tuscany, Amsterdam, and the English West Country. But probably not. For now we’re off to Morocco!!!!

Ellis and I arrived in Marrakech using the scenic route; by way of Paris and Casablanca. As in most third world nations, a host of cab drivers waited anxiously to rip us off the moment we set foot outside the airport. I’ve resigned myself to getting ripped off on the first cab ride of a vacation. You haven’t got the exchange rate down yet, and haven’t had anyone tell you how much you’re supposed to pay for a cab. Ripe for the plucking. I used to get mad. Now I just accept it as inevitable ‘cause it’s easier that way. We’d booked a hotel before arriving, and Julie and Nat (my second and fourth sisters respectively) were already there to meet us. The cab driver tried to give us a tour as we wove our way at breakneck speed through pink buildings and city traffic. Unfortunately, my Arabic consists of writing the alphabet and introducing myself, and my French isn’t what it used to be. Both were better than his English. Ah, there is the prison he said with a laugh. And here is your hotel. Got that part.

The hotel Ayoub was nice enough from the outside, probably not the 3 star it touted on the website, but whatever. It was also FULL of European bus tourists, all checking their daily schedules in the lobby and making a ruckus as they piled on to their giant air conditioned capsules each morning. We preferred a more tried and true method of travel…two feet and crazy-ass taxis. Nobody was going to organize us. NO SIREE, we were going to do things OUR way, at OUR pace. Yeah right…

We dropped the bags, grabbed the girls and headed to the medina, or old town center. First we had to pass the prison. Once past the prison thing got better looking and smelling. The roses were in bloom on every corner. Huge massive fields of them. Not what I was expecting in place I’d heard described as filthy.

We entered the main square at dusk, and it was like nothing I’ve seen. And I’ve seen some things. It was massive. Not Tiananmen Square massive, but the closest thing I’ve seen in a country NOT obsessed with shows of military might for their dictator. In the middle of the square were food stalls. Hundreds. They were organized in perfect rows, all numbered with tables surrounding the white tents. All were brightly lit and steaming. The bright lights made the steam from each tent sparkle and glisten and the mass of humanity swarming around and through the isles seem hazy and dreamy. On the outside of the food tents were red juice carts, stacked with perfect piles of bright shiny oranges that reflected the lights and made your mouth water. We worked our way to a restaurant touted as having the best Tagines and couscous in town. Tagines are meals of chicken or lamb slow cooked over hot coals in clay dishes. The bottom dish is deep, and the lid is cone shaped. I’m totally hooked. After dinner we got orange juice…a large glass for 30 cents! Julie couldn’t resist getting a henna tattoo. Ladies lined up all around the square with little stools and bags of the henna paste. She got done all up her leg. It was beautiful, a work of art. Then the lady did her wrists too, as a gift. It was apparently the thing to do during a night out. The square was packed with local women getting henna on every exposed part of their bodies. Since it is a Muslim country, there weren’t many exposed parts. Nat and I got smaller tattoos the next night.

The square was full of locals wearing hooded robes, donkeys with carts, incense dealers, snake charmers, water sellers in red costumes clanging brass cups, henna artists, mysterious food (snail soup STINKS!), steam, lights, the call to prayer from the Mosque, the warm evening breeze. All tinged with the pink of the buildings and the sky.

On day 2 Julie had a grand plan to see things. Apparently she and Nat got side tracked by shopping the day before and did nothing cultural. Unfortunately we made the mistake of stopping by a shop. The store was so cute…kittens playing on bags of walnuts and in rolled carpets, how could we not? The store only had a few items, but they were varied and nice. The owner Fisial was gracious bearded man, and talked to us about lots of things. It turns out our friend Fisial was, we determined, a finder. In his small shop, he noted the things we looked at, and then he hauled us all over town to larger shops. One of the stops was a carpet seller. We sat on couches drinking mint tea and chatting as carpet after carpet was rolled out for us. The shop owner was Moses. Robert Redford bought some carpets from him. He had the pictures to prove it. The stop took an interesting turn when Ellis whispered in my ear, “hey, watch this”. He then proceeded to buy 4 carpets. Must have been something in the tea that inspired him start an import/export business on the spot. Personally I’d have slept on it before laying down that much cash, but good on him for just putting it all out there. He’s currently trying to unload the goods on ebay. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Julie was by now really chomping at the bit to “see” something. Off to the Jewish quarter which turned out to be nothing but more shopping. For dinner we ate at an upscale place in the new part of town where we could get a bottle of wine. The Muslim conservative Medina part of town is dry as a bone and we needed some Cabernet. It was amazing food, to include the pigeon tart appetizer which Nat refused to try. Nat refused to try a lot of things. Beside us was an obviously wealthy family. Mom (British), Dad (possibly French), and 2 teenage girls one of whom was very inappropriately dressed. Think Paris Hilton. We had fun eavesdropping about plans for their next vacation, and Ellis about blew our cover laughing when the dad exclaimed, “Well, we’re all going to San Tropez, next month and THAT’S FINAL” to his pouting teenagers. Rough life.

By day 3 Julie was demanding we “see things” and anybody who got us sidetracked was going to be in trouble. Unfortunately it was Friday prayers that got us, and the first 2 places we wanted to go were closed. Time for another chicken Tagine! We finally managed to enter the Palace Badia. It was ancient, stone, pink, and big. We took tons of pictures, dutifully read all the signs and left. Then we did some more shopping…for shoes. It’s the thing to buy in Morocco. They aren’t quality, they aren’t comfortable, but dang it if they aren’t cute.

Camel trekking in the Sahara is on the agenda for today. We got up early and piled into a mini bus with 3 Aussies, a retired French postman and a Canadian family of 5, which included 3 boys under the age of 7. We headed out of Marrakech and toward the Atlas mountains with their ancient Kasbahs and the Sahara beyond. The drive was windy and treacherous, and the views stunning. Lush green valleys, followed by craggy brown cliffs followed by red sand plateaus, followed by desolate moonscapes. We stopped at a magnificent Kasbah, which I can’t describe in any way to do it justice, so I put in a picture. The Canadian children amused themselves by shouting EVERY TIME they saw a donkey. Do you have ANY idea how many donkeys are in Morocco? Mom finally told them to stop yelling “donkey” so they starting making up animal sightings. And not just ANY animals. They saw ocelots, penguins and meir cats. While I commend the Canucks for wanting to educate their children in the classroom called the world, and overall they were good kids, cooping them up in a van for 8 hours with 8 strangers, none of whom have kids of their own was not responsible. By the time we arrived in Zagora, the town at the outermost edge of the Sahara we were ready to murder Ben, Sammy and Max. Seriously. You can only listen to “Down by the Bay” shouted so many times.

We found our camels lounging around waiting for us. We all bought turbans and water, and loaded up. It was getting dark as we headed out of Zagora in 3 small trains. Soon it was completely dark, the moon and stars hidden by clouds. The only sound was the wind through the trees as we skirted an oasis. One of the guides (who was probably about 11) started singing a beautiful song in Arabic. The warm wind, the desert at night and a Berber song…could it get any better? YES YES and YES. The clouds shifted, the stars came out, and before our eyes a large ball of light came from the west. It lit up the night sky, and illuminated the sand. It moved overhead, and broke into glowing pieces that trailed behind. We all sat mesmerized as it disappeared to the east. In my imagination I believed it was a divine sign, life is perfect, remember the moment, appreciate the small things, what must the magi have felt like all those years ago? Were they really on camels in a desert as well? I’m pretty sure it was a satellite re-entry, probably some old Russian thing. That is pretty cool too though. Julie thought Morocco was getting attacked by Algeria over some disputed border area (which we may well have been in) and spent a moment visibly concerned. We arrived at the Bedouin Camp and sat for food…an amazing Tagine of chicken and potatoes with fresh bread followed by tea. The moon came up, and I had a walk out into the desert alone before climbing onto a sandy mattress and covering myself with a sandy blanket. My butt was REALLY sore from that stinking camel.

Easter morning. No better way to start the day than a walk at sunrise and sharing 2 boxes of Peeps with your Bedouin, French and Aussie camel trekking friends. The French postman wasn’t impressed with the pink and purple sugary goodness. The Bedouins LOVED them. We let them have the rest. Julie may have hauled peeps all the way to the Sahara, but she wasn’t hauling them back. We got on the camels for the ride back to town. We could actually see the landscape…and let Julie’s Star Wars comments begin. Boy, I hope no Tuskan Raiders come out to get us! But she SWEARS she’s not a dork. The 8 hours back to Marrakech was longer than 8 hours, and we all got car sick. The driver was a maniac, passing cars around curves on mountains with sheer cliffs on one side. We all have to die some time. If my number was up, getting hurled off a cliff in the high Atlas of Morocco on the way home from a camel trek would be a spectacular way to end it. Nobody seemed to agree with me. The Canadians made some other excursion plans, and left us 4 hours into the trip. Ellis sang a little song…Ding Dong the Canucks are gone” ah…peace and quiet….

Julie and Nat headed back toward Spain the next day, and Ellis spent it in bed with a really high fever. His fever broke before dinnertime, and we headed downtown for one last Tagine at a restaurant overlooking the Medina. We got lost in the winding alleyways behind the souks, and drank ginseng tea with the locals. Two thumbs up. WAY UP for Marrakech.

Off to Ankara again in a week or so. Ellis is coming to meet me when I done working and we’re going to take a few days at the back side. Can’t wait!!!

In Riga with Diga (and Rick)

DATE: March 2005
LOCATION: Riga, Latvia

We (Mom and Dad are in town) just spent a few days in Riga. Now I know you’re probably asking, “Sarah, what on earth would draw you to the capital of Lativa?” Actually let’s face it; what you’re REALLY asking is, “Where in the heck is Riga?” Well, it's easy (why I went, not where it is. I’m not going to tell you where it is…look it up). We actually wanted to go to Barcelona, but the tickets were pricey. We went to the Ryan Air website and found the cheapest fare to a city we hadn’t been to yet. Riga was featured in National Geographic Travel magazine last summer, so we thought we were set! Let’s just say we found out quickly there is a reason tickets to Riga were so cheap. It was cold. REAL cold.

We booked a bed and breakfast outside of city center. It was a huge new wooden house in a neighborhood full of old mansions. It was the highlight of the trip. The proprietress was Diga Daga, and living with her was her husband (we think) a Kiwi named Rick. Also in the house was Diga’s mom whose name we never learned; she was introduced as, and referred to throughout by everybody as Diga’s mom, and since she didn’t speak any English, at least not that she let on, we couldn’t ask her. She made amazing jam, reportedly the best in the world. Not having tried all the jam in the world I can’t confirm the claim, but it WAS darn good jam. The house was enormous, and filled with the craziest assortment of furniture, paintings by Diga, and other curios like a huge paper mache globe Rick was doing something with. There was a cuddly but very needy dog named Sara, a schizophrenic black cat named Nelson Mandela, and a shy cat named Cinderella. Nelson Mandela was a known cereal killer, known to attack unsuspecting boxes of cornflakes at every opportunity.

We arrived late on a Thursday night, were picked up at the airport by Diga’s son-in-law who drives a cab, and spent the first evening drinking copious amounts of cheap Latvian beer with Rick. We got up early, but not too early to a huge breakfast; eggs, ham, potatoes, fresh rolls from the oven (with Diga’s mom’s jam), cereal, yogurt, and huge crepes filled with lemon and honey. No need for lunch! One look outside and we were in no hurry to leave the coziness of the house. The only other guest in the house was a pudgy gay German named Martin. He was the epitome of every stereotype, both German and gay. He came to Latvia every couple of months, and always stayed with Rick and Diga. There were pictures of him on the wall like he was family. Finally, at some point in the late morning, after a rousing breakfast conversation with our very international crowd, we bundled up and walked to the trolley. It was about 30 cents for a 25 minute ride. We ended up at the main train station, which was right next to the central market, a series of zeppelin hangars, each with a different theme. The meat hangar, the cheese hangar, one was almost half pet food! They really like their pets in Latvia. Surrounding the hangar were open air stalls. Insulation in hangars isn’t so good, and hanging from the edge were some of the hugest icicles I’d ever seen. Apparently every year several people are unlucky enough to die from icicle impalement. After scouring the market, we headed toward downtown. The temperature was so low we didn’t make it far before being forced into a café and ordering hot chocolate.

Our next stop was the Museum of Occupation. As far as a low-budget sort of third world museum goes, it is quite well done. Not exactly uplifting, but informative and telling. You never stop learning. When you think of the horrors of the Soviet Union, the situation in the small but independent country of Latvia isn’t normally what comes to mind. From there we went to the Cathedral, and, since Jan Kline was with us, we had to go up the church tower. It was possibly the coldest I’ve ever been in my entire life. The temperature was already in the teens…add a brisk wind off the water and some altitude to it. It was an amazing view of the city. The river was frozen solid as far as we could see...and it isn’t exactly a small river. The city isn’t the most picturesque, Soviet occupation seemed to have that affect on places.

We started to walk again, but again, didn’t make it far. We found the Dickens Pub, what appeared to be the ex-pat hang out. We had some British beer and traditional black bread that was fried in garlic butter. There were several soccer games on, and given the good beer, cold weather, and comfortable surroundings we stayed quite awhile. We found in our guide the restaurant we wanted to try for dinner, unfortunately, there didn’t appear to be a good way to get there except on foot. We bundled up, and forged out into the cold. There were several detours into supermarket and couple other stores along the way to get warm. Our destination was heralded as the VERY BEST traditional Latvian food. It was only okay--I'd hate to try mediocre Latvian food. Lots of pork, and heavy potato dishes. We were all kind of full from the bread at the pub.

Parts of the city are beautiful, chalked full of art deco buildings and sidewalk cafes. As you can imagine, enjoying both of those things would have been more rewarding in warmer weather. The Soviets built some ghastly buildings, but the town center seemed well preserved.

Saturday morning had us eating the same huge breakfast, but sadly, there was no Martin. Apparently he sleeps very late with some regularity. We ate until we heard our arteries clog, bundled up, and braved the ½ mile trek to the tram. First stop was the Guildhall. We were trying to find a show to see, and went several places trying to find one. Most things sold out. I guess there isn’t much else to do. After checking several places, we ended up with Requiem tickets at a cathedral. After we got tickets we wandered through a sort of art museum, that was haphazardly put together in a basement. We then found ourselves in the main square with an ice skating rink. There were a few vendors selling paintings. In the summer this place is probably packed. We stopped for more hot chocolate at a swanky place with swanky prices. The chocolate was more like sludge.

From there we went to the far end of town to what we referred to as the junk market. Stall upon cramped stall, with pile upon pile of soviet era everything. And probably lots of stolen stuff too. We bought some old Russian money and mom got some Soviet era certificates. They had a shiny red case with a gold hammer and cycle. Then we went back to the big market and got some honey. I actually think we really just wanted to warm up a bit. We got a small painting, then ducked into yet another coffee shop in effort to defrost. We then were enlightened (and defrosted) by the museum of navigation. Pizza Jazz was where we made our scene at dinner before the concert. The concert was amazing, and packed. And cold.

Sunday. We sat with Diga and listened to her life story, and stories she told about the neighborhood from the Soviet era. Fascinating. We had done all there was to do in Riga. I’d read the beach was close, but with the weather, it seemed silly. The problem was we didn’t have anything else to do. Mom brought forth the Soviet memorabilia and wanted translation help. Diga’s Russian was rusty, so she said she needed some time to work on it, but that it would be a fun project for the day. Martin finally surfaced, said we absolutely must go to the beach, and gave us good directions. Seriously--what does Martin DO here all the time? Actually, I don't really want to know.

The train to the Baltic beach was old but sturdy. Once there we wandered the main street enjoying the sun--although it was melting ice and making everything treacherous. Now, time for the actual BEACH. As we got closer and closer, there were none of the normal sea noises of waves crashing or birds pillaging. As we came up over a hill, and onto what was probably sand (hard to say with all the snow), we figured out why there was no beach noise. The sea was completely frozen!!! As far out as we could see. Freaky. We ran out onto the frozen water (insert Jesus comments here) and slid all over giggling like school kids. Apparently in late spring with the ice melts, it is a sight to behold. Huge ice "castles" float away glinting in the sun. We headed back, buying amber jewelry (as you do) and got back on the train to town--then the late flight back home.

I think I like Riga. I'll let you know when my brain defrosts a bit more.

A Very Bosnian Christmas

DATE: December 2004
LOCATION: Bosnia-Herzegovina

WOW! Sarajevo is an amazing city, and visiting provided some life lessons and provoked some soul searching. I don’t recommend it as a travel destination for the faint of heart or less adventurous, but I thought it was marvelous. Discomfort, both emotional and physical can be a catalyst for personal and intellectual growth, and this trip provided plenty of both, but not to such an extreme that it wasn’t enjoyable.

The city is fascinating, influenced by Europe from the West, the Turks from the Southeast, and the Russians from the Northeast, it’s like nowhere I’ve been. The mosques are next to the Catholic churches are next to the Orthodox churches, making the skyline mystical, and giving what we all know is a most deceiving picture of harmony. The picture quickly dissolves when you look more closely at any building. Signs of one of the worst sieges in recent history are everywhere. Bullet holes and mortar round scars pock mark most every building. In some neighborhoods, entire buildings still stand bombed out like skeletons to remind everybody of the horror of 10 years ago. While religious buildings mingle, the people of those religions don’t. Neighborhoods are segregated, and everyone from taxi drivers to tour guides kept us in their own respective areas. The downtown business district was the only exception. We spent much our time sitting in trendy coffee shops and bars surrounded by young hip Sarajevans. This city could be something spectacular if generations of animosity could be put to rest. Easier said than done.

We bought some paintings from an artist named Ibrahim in the Turkish quarter. He liked modern art, but cityscapes for tourists pay the bills. He had his own little shop complete with incense and Pink Floyd on the stereo. He invited us in for tea…which we declined. He said “It’s okay, I’m a Muslim, we buy tea for our guests.” With that, we sat down and had some tea. He told us how his Christian friend lost a leg in the war, how his mother was killed in the war, how his first love had been a Serb girl. He pointed out her apartment building in one of his paintings. We asked how he felt about things now. He said bad people are bad people, good people are good people, and there are stupid bad people in every religion. His English wasn’t good, so that is about as deep as the conversation went. It didn’t need to go much deeper though. He made his point, we agreed, and we all drank tea.

We tried to ski at the run where the Olympics were held about 40 minutes out of town, but there wasn’t enough snow. Once I saw the lift, which doesn’t look like it’s been upgraded since the Olympics, I wasn’t too sad. It still made for a beautiful couple of days. The town itself is a Serb stronghold, and even here, in the pristine mountain landscape, bombed out hotels and houses still reminded you how nasty the Balkans were. We were steered in this direction by a SFOR translator named Dragon, who happens to be Serb. The translator lives in the town next door, and came with a friend (Maja) to meet us for drinks one night. They are both smart, well read people, and we had a long discussion on history, war, ethnic animosity, bias, and the future. Neither were optimistic about the future. There is an overarching sentiment the moment the international community leaves the area, the war will begin again. Even during our discussion on bias, Dragon made some subtlety hostile comments regarding Muslims. The hatred is so ingrained people don’t even realize it in themselves. How do you counteract something like that? The international community isn’t helping matters either. Most of the local employees of the peacekeeping force are Muslim, Dragon being an exception. Most aid and reconstruction money went to Muslims. While this may have eased the world’s collective guilt about allowing genocide, it now serves to increase animosity. At the end of the day, I don’t think anybody can say one side or the other can claim moral high ground. It was a strange feeling, sitting in a timber framed bar, surrounded by some people considered mortal enemies just a few years ago (we obviously passed ourselves off as ski tourists, not American military). When the bar tender found out we were English speakers, he put on English music. It was Guns-n-Roses and Reggae, so I’d have preferred the Bosnian music, but it was a nice gesture. A man at the bar bought us a round of drinks, I’m still not sure why. Bygones?

An invite to a "little" Christmas party at the British Ambassador's house made me feel extra important. It would appear by the crowd however, that every western NGO worker and NATO officer around had been invited. So much for my ego. Still--the mince pies were delish and I got to dress up a bit.

I heartily recommend a day trip to the ancient city of Mostar. The city is one of the most widely discussed when speaking of the Balkan war, as fighting and shifting alliances between Bosniaks (Muslims), Serbs, and Croats were at their worst. For some reason, I actually remember during the war seeing news footage of an ancient and breathtaking bridge connecting the Muslim and Christian parts of the city getting blown to bits. I couldn’t understand then how people could hate each other so much they’d destroy a piece of common history. The bridge was rebuilt, and they tried to use the same stones…when they could find them in at the bottom of the river. The bridge is beautiful, but it’s obviously new, and the fact that it was blown up is still out there. I was glad to see it anyway.

Half an hour from Mostar is Medugorje, the site where apparitions of the Virgin appeared to some teenagers, and still appear on a daily basis to those who are lucky. It isn’t an officially sanctioned Catholic site, but people go by the thousands anyway. I have a strange fascination with pilgrimages. Something about people believing in something so strongly is nice to witness. At most pilgrimage sites, people are looking for healing or enlightenment of some kind, and in order to find it, they must “do something”. At Medugorje is you must hike up a very rocky mountain path barefoot. I'm in good shape, wore hiking boots, and it still took the better part of an hour to pick our way up the jagged, steep path dotted with the stations of the cross. I honestly can’t imagine doing it with no shoes. The top of the mountain looks like a moonscape and is adored with a single white cross. The view of the town and surrounding mountains is breathtaking. I’m sorry to say the only thing I was moved to do when reaching the top was to get the heck off the mountain. The wind chill about froze me to death. One of my favorite pastimes at pilgrimage sites are the souvenirs. I have a Virgin Mary plastic water bottle from Cartago Costa Rica, a Virgin pencil holder from Fatima Portugal, and now a Virgin thermometer from Bosnia.

I went to Paul’s office to meet the international cast of NATO characters I’d been hearing about for months. They were everything I’d been hoping for, and a little more. The Dutch sniper gave me chocolate, the Spaniards were all kisses, and the Brit perfectly sarcastic. The highlight of the day…well one of two…was when a French sergeant unveiled the newest Bosnian ID card recognition poster to the Brit. Every type of conceivable ID card issued on base was shown on the poster…and every one had Paul’s picture smiling down at you with the word “specimen” stamped across it. It was for real too…not even a joke for my sake. I requested a copy of the poster, they were all too happy to oblige me, and it now hangs in my office. The second highlight was presentation to Paul since he was leaving. The Spaniards had made a pack of “Bosnia’s Most Wanted” playing cards complete with photos of those in the office and little nicknames. Under Paul’s picture was the word “Narcissist.” I busted up laughing, pretty uncontrollably for awhile. Since the Spaniards work in the ID card office, they had free reign of the lamination machine…so the cards are actually pretty nice.

When I came home I watched a movie called Miss Sarajevo. It was a short documentary shot during the war. There it was…the place I’d just been with footage of teenage girls and old men getting shot in the middle of the street as they tried to get water. Humans do some amazingly despicable things to one another. It also showed the city symphony practicing…in secret locations lest they be targeted by either side. The culmination was the Miss Sarajevo beauty pageant, also held underground with the girls holding up signs asking the world to stop the killing. Not exactly uplifting, but certainly moving.

Amsterdam is on the agenda for New Year, then Grandma and her friend are visiting for 2 weeks. We’re off to Salzburg...

Birthdays and Reunions

DATE: October 2004
Location: Seattle, Ramstein Miesenbach, Germany

As I'm by myself at this juncture in life, I flew home to Seattle for my birthday and my 10 year high school reunion. My birthday was great. It was mainly just family and close family friends. Somebody who shall remain nameless got me a singing telegram. It was a gorilla singing Elvis songs. When the gorilla first walked in, my little cousin yelled, “Hey, that’s my Daddy”. It wasn’t her dad, but what does that say about her dad? I actually thought it was her dad too; it is something he’d do. Since I don't love being the center of attention, the whole thing mortified me.

The 10 year reunion was a real disappointment. My estimate is that only 60 or so people out of a class of 325 showed up. Three of those 60 had done jail time. I know this since my sister is working in the prosecutors office. Despite disappointment with the poor turn out and stupid high price, I had a good time. Two of my best friends were there, and I got to catch up with people I’ve known since kindergarten. I was looking for it to be a “right of passage” sort of moment--like in the movies--and it just wasn’t. There weren't even any sort of formal presentation or funny awards. Even winning the “traveled furthest distance” award would have made it better. Oh well, if I hadn’t gone I would have wondered. It was also kind of funny listening to what people said to one another when they started getting drunk (the event was at a brewery).

The time I got to spend with my family was extra quality this time around with no other distractions, so that made the transatlantic/Transamerica flight worthwhile. Even Mt St. Helens was glad to have me back for a few days and sent up little love plumes in my honor.

Next week I’m off to San Angelo, Texas for a conference followed immediately by 6 weeks of class in good ole Montgomery Alabama. Oh joy, another 12 hours of flying. San Angelo is where I spent over a year at Intelligence school, and I had hoped to never go back. Oh well, I am excited in a strange sort of way. There are some great Mexican places on “the other side of the tracks”. As you can imagine, the Mexican over here in Germany is somewhat lacking.