Change In Plans

Greetings from Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport, where the rich diversity of human culture is always on display.

We have played the ‘packing for Paris’ word game with Tallulah about 9 million times. It drives her crazy when I say I am packing “a Tallulah.” She says, “I’m a person, DAD! You are supposed to be packing things, DAD!” It is difficult to capture in written form the mix of exasperation, humour, and polite indulgence (as if for a not-very-bright puppy) that Tallulah expresses with the word “DAD!” The mix may shift toward exasperation over time.

So yesterday we were packing for Paris for real. India, Tallulah and I all felt woefully dowdy and un-hip, in our Cape Town duds. It’s a paradox: South Africa has great design and housewares, but ugly clothes and shoes. Not sure why. Zola was oblivious. India and Tallulah have made clear that they will be packing a lot more on the trip back from Paris than on the way there. The woman at the check-in counter even remarked, “You are traveling light.” Ha ha. Wait until she sees what we come back with.

On paper, Turkish Airlines is a convenient way to get to Europe. Direct flight from Cape Town to Istanbul, with an hour stop in Johannesburg. Easy connection to anywhere. The planes are brand new, and the in-flight entertainment is great (important for traveling with kids). It is also much less out of the way than changing planes in Dubai or Abu Dhabi.

So in theory, this should have been easy and pleasant. Back in our travel-round-the-world days, I think it would have been fine. We are out of practice, though. No one slept well on the flight. External factors played a role. The screamingest baby in the history of air travel was seated one row in front of us. Even the flight attendants, who are used to this kind of thing, realized it was a hazard to flight safety: someone might pull the emergency exit to get away. They seated the mother and baby in the galley for most of the flight. Seriously.

Even though the flight was not very bumpy, a half dozen passengers around us got airsick and barfed. Zola was awakened when the woman sitting behind him spattered projectile vomit on his hand and arm. Nice.

About an hour after the vomiting, the cabin was filled with a horrible smell of rotting meat and pumpkins. Zola had gotten his unintended revenge by taking off his shoes. I double bagged the shoes in plastic, and put them in the overhead compartment. His socks were still pretty offensive, but at least we didn’t get moved to the galley with the screaming baby.

Finally, my fingers swelled a lot during the flight (sympathetic reaction to watching ‘127 Hours’ on the awesome in-flight entertainment system). I switched my wedding band to my pinky, which wasn’t quite swollen enough to hold it on. Somehow the ring dropped deep into the mechanical bowels of Zola’s seat, clanking as it fell. When we landed, after all of the other passengers had disembarked, they sent an engineering team to disassemble the seat. 15 minutes later, we all applauded as a flight attendant slipped the ring back on my sausage-like finger.

We straggled down the steps to an airport bus, jammed with our fellow passengers, who had been waiting for all of this time. If looks could kill, all four of us (even sweet little Tallulah) would be lying dead on the tarmac. I felt badly for a few passengers who must have had tight connections, and shoved us out of the way as they sprinted out of the bus at the terminal.

So, we are slouching around the airport in Istanbul for a few hours. Tired, ratty with each other, and generally off of our peak travelling form. When we get to France in 5 hours, we can rest a little, unpack for Paris, and start enjoying our holiday. Adventure awaits.

I’m heartsick about missing Tallulah’s birthday today, and generally I hate being stuck somewhere for hours with not much to do. The only saving grace is that I’m stuck at the Istanbul Airport, which is one of my favorite places in the world.

Full disclosure: for the first time, I am waiting out the hours until the midnight flight to Johannesburg in the business-class lounge. And it is nowhere near as exotic as the rest of the airport. Mostly middle-aged business guys watching soccer on TV and reading newpapers. Collectively, we miss our families, and wish we were at home.

Many of my other experiences in this airport have been memorable. I spent hours one night drinking beer with South African mercenaries who were going home from Iraq on leave. I stood in an endless passport queue with the Latvian national basketball team. They weren’t as tall as I would have expected.

While boarding a flight to Istanbul, my small children got elbowed aside and nearly crushed by a mob of Mecca-bound Algerian pilgrims. I have idled away time wondering what the appropriate collective noun is for a large group of women who are completely covered by black tent dresses, head and face coverings. Pails of veils? A boatload of burqas?

I romanticize this airport as the epicenter of exotic.

A few sightings just now have made me laugh, and think of our family trip around the world.

I waited in a check-in line with a planeload of passengers bound for Ashgabad, the capital of Turkmenistan (of course). Every passenger had a trolley piled high with 5-f huge soft-sided bags, wrapped in tape and plastic. Every single passenger. I gather that: Turkish Airlines doesn’t charge for extra luggage, that consumer goods must be hard to come by in Turkmenistan, and that customs enforcement must be a little lax. The sheer amount of stuff being transported made me think that we could have carted a lot more around on our trip if I hadn’t been such a grouch about luggage.

In the lounge they are serving a cold drink that reminded me of one of the funniest moments of our entire family trip. We were in Gocek, Turkey, geting ready to go out on a sailboat for a week. We stopped for lunch at a pizzeria before boarding the boat, for what we thought would be our last fishless meal for a week. The restaurant had this awesome drinks machine, that was gushing a frothy, creamy, vanilla milkshakey drink in a circulating fountain. Both kids locked onto this spectacle, and ordered by pointing. The anticipation grew when the waiter pulled two giant frosted mugs from a freezer, and made a huge production of filling the mugs, and blowing the foam, and making comic sounds like “Mmmmmmm.” The mugs he set in front of the kids were overflowing with magical, cold, foamy white stuff. Zola grabbed his first, and took a big sip. It turned out to be sour milk, and I thought he was going to keel over, barf, and scream, all at the same time. The gap between how awesome it looked and how awful it tasted was as wide as any food experience I’ve ever had.

I bought an ice cream cone from a classic Turkish ice cream guy, wearing a white top hat, and scooping with a long metal paddle.

This trip to Istanbul was too short to see or do anything in the city. Still, I just love it here. The energy, and the determination, and the pride of the people are powerful and exciting. The economy is booming, and there were more English and American banker types around than I have ever seen before. Turks believe (with great confidence and some justification) that this is their time, and here they come.

I think I will go out and wander around the main part of the airport for my last few hours. Maybe I can transport some of that confidence and energy back to self-doubting South Africa.

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.