Change In Plans

Greetings from Ataturk International Airport, in Istanbul.

As I stood in the “All Other Passports” line at Turkish immigration yesterday, I realized that this may be the most exotic place in the world (or at least the most exotic place that my travels have taken me).

From where I stood, I could see Russian mafiosi (and their spectacular-looking gun molls), burqa-clad Muslim women, a team of black youth soccer players from Flanders, Belgium, migrant laborers from Pakistan or Bangladesh, and doughy Eastern Europeans of all varieties. Life’s rich pageant, for sure.

This impression was strengthened tonight as I waited for the 11:50 pm flight to Singapore, taking me halfway back to my family in New Zealand.

I spent a very entertaining 90 minutes drinking beer with 3 South African mercenaries, They are all ex-SA Defence Force officers, Afrikaners, working security in Iraq.

At first they discouraged me strongly from considering a move to Cape Town. They cited statistics on the relative violence in Baghdad and Johannesburg. They explained that they sleep with their weapons under their pillows in the Free State, but over in the corner in Iraq.

Eventually, one said, “Move. We need white voters.”. In the end, they were very patriotic and proud, and resollutely South African. For what it’s worth, they were not impressed by the US Army (although they respected the Marines), and they were certain that Iraq will explode into civil war, approximately 10 minutes after the Americans “retreat.” They claim that they come under fire - guns, grenades, or IEDs - twelve to fourteen tImes per day when they are on mobile security details. Not in Kansas anymore, dot com.

While we were talking, several dozen white-sheet clad monks, a trio of Mongolian women in traditional dress, two score Japanese tourists, a few Hasidim. and countless proud Turks walked past us. The variety and beauty of the human species could not be more apparent.

The last 10 days have been fun - more than fun- but I am thrilled to be finally on my way back to India and the kids. I miss them terribly, and feel as though I have missed a large piece of their childhood (horse riding, math homework, new friends) in the short time I have been away. It isn’t like being a South African mercenary, gone for months at a time, and exposed to tremendous danger, but it is long enough for me.

Incidentally, the South African mercenaries were not impressed at all with the Haute Route trip. They were interested in the fact that I could speak Afrikaans a little, but ultimately realized I was a chardonnay-swilling brie eater. Tough guys.

Next stop, Singapore!

This post recaps family consensus on the most spectacular sights we saw in Turkey. As India and I wait anxiously for Tallulah in the lobby of a surgi-center in Nashville (the baby is having dental surgery), we are catching up on posts from the second leg of the trip.

Overall, Turkey is pretty spectacular: the religious and secular history, the natural beauty, the grandeur of Istanbul. We had a difficult time reaching consensus, but here are the Top 5 picks:

Top 5 Most Spectacular Sights in Turkey

#1 - Cappadocia. My favorite was the view from the terrace of the Museum Hotel (where Zola and I got haircuts), looking down the valley at the rock formations. The view from the hot-air balloon was also breathtaking, but I was too busy worrying about Tallulah. The hikes and the outdoor museum were also amazing.

#2 - Old Istanbul and the Haghia Sophia. The stretch from Topkapi Palace past the Haghia Sophia to the Blue Mosque, around to the old cistern, up toward the grand bazaar, and down to the Bosphorous, is all amazing. We should have spent days just admiring the architecture and absorbing the history. The Haghia Sophia is particularly special because of its mosaics and its history as a grand cathedral, a mosque, and a (compromise) cultural center.

#3 - Turquoise Coast. Everywhere that we anchored during our week on the gulet boat was pretty spectacular. The picture at left was from a sunset hike up St. Nicholas Island, just as the sky was turning pink behind us. Rugged beauty all around us.

#4 - Istiklal Boulevard - Istanbul. Istiklal is the huge pedestrian boulevard that slopes gently for about a mile from Taksim Square down toward Bestiklal. Unlike Las Ramblas in Barcelona, which feels intense and very crowded, Istiklal is so broad (maybe 70 feet across) and has many fewer flow impediments (kiosks, shops cafes, street performers), so it feels spacious and unhurried. That said, up to a million people will walk on Istiklal in a given weekend. There is so much to see, and such beautiful views down to the Bosphorous off the sides, that it is a truly spectacular place. We only spent an afternoon on Istiklal, but if we lived in Istanbul, we would go all the time.

#5 - Dolmabahce Palace. This is the $900 million residence that bankrupted what was left of the Ottoman Empire in the mid-19th century. Zola, in particular, loves to tell people about the palace: the opulence, the symmetry of the furnishings, that Ataturk died there at 9:05 am. I am sorry that I could not join India and the kids to see it, but will go the next time I am in Turkey.

Overall, again, Turkey is a pretty spectacular place.

This post is about our long day of travel yesterday, taking us from the gulet boat on the Turkish coast to a seaside hotel in Positano, Italy.

We got into the gulet’s launch a few minutes after 8am, after saying goodbye to the crew (kisses on both cheeks for all of us). By 8:30 we had transferred our bags to a minivan, and were on our way to Dalaman airport.

For the first time on this trip, we cut it a little close at the airport. There were long lines at seurity check #1 (x-ray and metal detector to get into the airport), baggage check in, passport control, security check #2 (to get into the departure gates). For some reason, our seats were scattered all over the plane, and even getting us seated in two groups of two (ie, not having the three year old sit by herself) put additional strain on the system. It is nearly the end of the 9-day post-Ramadan holiday,and Dalaman airport and Turkish Airways were not coping.

The layover in Istanbul was about three hours, which gave us enough time to wander around, spend money on magazines, look for a few gifts, and get the kids lunch.
Even without our checked baggage, I was hauling three heavy daypacks and a big steel drum (souvenir of Morocco). A better man would have borne these burdens stoically, but as I got sweatier and more frustrated with our rambling, I was pretty grouchy company. We definitely need to drop ballast when we get back to the US next week.

When we boarded the flight for Rome, the cultural change was immediately evident. Most of the plane was filled with Italians in their 60s and 70s, on their way home from a package tour of Turkey. The chatter, in sing-song Italian was comically loud throughout the flight. When we landed, everyone applauded wildly, and half of the passengers jumped out of their seats and started for the exits while we were still taxiing. Reinforcing wonderful cultural stereotypes.

Our 45-minute flight from Rome to Naples would have required another 4-hour layover, so we cancelled that, and rented a car. After a week on the boat, we felt as though we were seizing back control of our destinies.

The 250-kilometer drive from Rome to Naples was fast and very easy (unlike my last driving experience in Rome, which was horrendous), and included a dinner stop at the Italian equivalent of a Howard Johnson’s. Our kids fell on the pasta and pizza as if they had been starved during our five weeks in Islamic countries. Zola said, “Finally this meat is from a pig, isn’t it?” At least he learned something about Islamic dietary restrictions.

The 50-kilometer drive from Naples south to Positano is hairy. Narrow, twisty roads perched hundreds of feet above the sea.

Finally, we arrived at our hotel in Positano at about 10:30pm, almost 15 hours after we started moving. Aside from my sweaty grouchiness in Istanbul, and a couple of raucous-kid moments, everyone was on good form throughout a long day.

We woke up to see the spectacular views of rugged mountains and of the sea several hundred feet below our hotel balcony. The sun is bright, and the temperature is perfect. We are off to explore the Adriatic Coast, the last segment in our Mediterranean circle.

This post is about some of the elements of Turkish life which we have found surprising, and that we would not have known without being here.

First, unlike every other European country that I know of, Turkey is a gun culture. Although gun ownership is generally forbidden, there are an estimated 25 million guns in private hands (population of 75 million). Gun violence, somehow, is still very low, maybe because of nearly universal male military service. Men we spoke to about gun ownership said they had them at home, “for security”. Yesterday, India were on a run in the mountains of the coast. We were surprised to hear (and later see) several quail hunters blasting away with shotguns. We were told, by the mayor of Gocek (random!), who we met coming down the mountain with his Italian 12-gauge and a rucksack full of quail, “Turkey is a country of hunters.”

Second, the popular adulation of Kemal Ataturk seems quite real. In many other countries it is required to put the President’s or the monarch’s photo in all public buildings and places of business. In Turkey, Ataturk is depicted in all of those places,but also in every house that we have been in. There is even a nautically themed Ataturk portrait, sun faded and salt-stained, on the bridge of our gulet. One man said, “I have the pictures in my home because I want my children to grow up knowing who we are as Turks, and what we stand for.” The national identity that these pictures symbolize is powerful. We have not seen any pictures of the current president, Gul, nor of any generals.

Third, we walked past a war memorial in the town of Fethiye yesterday. It was a 30-foot obelisk, with the names of war dead, and the dates and cities where they fell, carved in black letters. Around the base were dramatic black cast-iron figures of fallen soldiers, weeping women, scared children. What was strange was that the dates were recent (mostly in the 1990s), and the battles were in cities like Van and Hakkari and Sirnak, all down in Southeastern Turkey. This small town lost at least 20 of its sons fighting the Kurdish separatists. All in, my understanding is that more than 25,000 Turks were killed in this fighting.

Fourth, Turkey and Greece had a big population exchange (roughly 150,000 people) in the 1950s and 1960s: Muslims heading east and Orthodox Christians heading west. This was somewhat similar to the India/Pakistan exchange, but one twentieth the size, and much less violent. Many of the emigres traced their family roots back 1,500 to 2,000 years or more, inluding some of the earliest Christian settlements. Presumably it was at this time that the Greek village of Megrim renamed itself Fethiye, after “Turkey’s first aviation martyr,” who crashed trying to fly from Istanbul to Cairo in the 20s.

Fifth, apparently Turkish public schools teach history starting pretty much with the founding of the Ottoman Empire in 1300. The idea is that Turkish national identity starts with ethnically Turkish people, who came from Central Asia. The thousands of years of Hittites, Greeks, Lycians and Lydians, and Romans and Byzantines is ignored as being “not Turkish.” I would like to know whether this is still true, but public-school eduated adults indicated that it was the case when they were growing up.

Our time in Turkey has been wonderful. We will give some thought to the bigger issues, and will try to connect some of these dots after we leave for Italy on Saturday.

This short post is about buying ice cream from sidewalk vendors in Turkey. As you might expect, with two small children in a hot place, this has been a frequent occurrence.

Who knew that Turkish ice cream vendors are also required to be comedians?

Turkish ice cream is kept very cold, and balls up into a big glob in the freezer bucket. The vendors, who invariably seem to be large, chef-hatted and mustachioed men, poke and prod and stir the ice cream with long, thick-bladed metal spatulas. The spatulas are all metal, with handles about 4 feet long, and small-but-thick crescent shaped blades.

When a child asks for an ice cream, the comedy routine starts. First the vendor scoops out some ice cream with the spatula, sticks a cone onto the bespatulaed wad, and twirls it all around a few times. Just before presenting the ice cream and cone to the child, the vendor deftly pulls off the cone, and the child grabs at air. Then the vendor slyly attaches two cones to the ice cream wad, twirls the spatula around a few times, and the child grabs an empty cone. Finally, the vendor twirls the spatula evasively a few times as the child tries to grab the ice cream and cone.

After a total of 2-3 minutes, the ice cream and cone are finally in the child’s hand.

If the customer is an adult male (me, for example), the routine is the same, except that the customer gets a few pokes in the belly from the metal spatula.

This whole routine is actually funnier than it sounds, and we have seen it repeated several times all over Turkey. Maybe there is a centralized ice cream comedy training center.

This short post is about the strange sensation of watching the great financial crisis of 2008 from far away.

For the last three weeks I have been reading the New York Times and Yahoo Finance feverishly on my BlackBerry.

It has been strange to watch the drama/trauma of the meltdown through this five-square-inch lens of abstraction, while surrounded by foreign places and people who are unaware and/or indifferent. Yesterday’s failed bailout and equity-market implosion did not seem to register with the holidaymakers and boat crews of Fethiye, Turkey.

We were living in South Africa as the Internet bubble (inflated and) burst, and I felt as though I watched it all through a Bloomberg terminal and calls to business-school friends. It would clearly have been a more visceral experience if we had continued to live in Palo Alto.

On September 11, 2001, We were on vacation with friends in Italy. We were overjoyed with our one-year-old son, and we had just found out we were pregnant (with the baby that we lost several months later). We watched the coverage of the 9/11 attacks on Italian television, and tried to imagine what our friends and neighbors in Manhattan were going through.

The current financial crisis is quite different, of course, from both other eventss. That said, once again it feels as though we are watching history through an unusual medium, rather than being there, where we should be. We are emotionally and geographically detached.

I am definitely glad that we accepted a low-ball bid, and sold our house in New Jersey in June. We would have otherwise gotten creamed, I think.