Bashar and Oljay

The bus ride from Konya to Sivas had taken eight hours. It had left at 9 pm, and my unrealistic plan had been to sleep on the bus and get off to a start early in Sivas. I had slept, but uncomfortably and fitfully, as anyone could have predicted. It was still early in Sivas, and except for Turks sleeping on the terminal benches as they waited their connecting bus and the small crowd in the ubiquitous chai stall, and, oh yes, the man at the entrance to the bathroom whom you paid afterwards, there was no one. A fleet of taxis were parked outside, but not a driver in sight. Well, not in my sight. I was in his. He called out to me, 'Taxi,' and we were on our way.

(That's Bashar at the and Oljay below.)

The hotel door was locked, but the driver gave it a couple of good knocks, and soon I was admitted.

I slept until 10, already late, and hurried out to find the park where the old Seljuk madrassas lay. Oh, I felt crappy. When I'm awake, I'm disoriented, here in this unexpected land. And I wasn't fully awake. But on a mission--take pictures. Why'd I choose that as a mission for this trip. Damned heavy camera. The big kind, an slr and three different lenses in my backpack. And all the apparatus--batterıes, memory cards. All just because of that fantasy I'd had and never quite shaken off of being a photographer. Heavy. Tired. Late. Late for the best light, early morning.

And let me tell you, the citizens of Sivas looked none too friendly. This was a provincial town more accustomed to Japanese tourist with an interest in architecture than lone Americans with the big kind of camera swinging from their chests. The old men in their gray caps and raspy beards eyed me disapprovingly unless, as would happen when eye contact was made, I'd brush my heart--meaning salaam alekum--an nod in greeting. The dour eyes would look alarmed, and surprised, and then warm. Well, warmer. Anyway, not hostile. And you know, if I'm the one invoking God in the custom of their land ın that stroke of my heart, what can they do but welcome back?

So I turned left, turned right, touched my chest, carried the weight of the camera and apparatus, and finally came to the park with the old monuments.

Now, remember the touts--my many friends of Istanbul. Many people on this trip had walked up to me, offered their assistance, expressed a desire to just converse, to be friends, to share chai, to become friends. But until Oljay stopped me on the park sidewalk, after the chai or the conversation came the sell.

So when Oljay stopped me and asked if I would spend a few minutes with him and his friend at the chai cafe just there, perhaps to share some chai, I told him thanks but I didn't want to buy a carpet. No carpet, no carpet, he said. Yeah. I'd heard that before. And yet, this young man in the neat suit and tie, I believed.

His friend, Bashar, was similarly dressed. Oljay, a little shorter than myself, was tightly built. Later, I would learn that he has international standing in the martial arts. He had that shock of thick black hair many Turks are blessed with, and an olive complexion.

Bashar's features were European, about as pale as myself. Like me, as well, his hair was thinning, and he wore black, wire-rimmed glasses.

They showed every sign of being genuinely happy to have me at their table, not for the sale, but for the language. Both were English teachers in the nearby high school, but here in Sivas, they had very little opportunity to practice English. And because of economic constrainst, they'd never had the opportunity to practice abroad. How was their pronunciation? they wanted to know. It was, Bashar emphasized again and again, a rare opportunity to speak with an actual native speaker of English. The closest they usually got were the Japanese tourist (who often have some command of English). And that I was myself a teacher of English was an extra blessing. We were, again it was the more talkative Bashar who said it, colleagues.

And opportunity? I don't know if I ever convinced them what an opportunity this was for me, to come wandering into a city in central Anatolia and now have someone--two--to give me some glimpse into the lives of Turks.

And yet, I soon learned, they were frustrated by the limited resources the stogy school bureaucracy provided. Awful, state-mandated textbooks, a badly equipped language laboratory which even then had been a struggle to attained. They were young and wanted to teach their students in better ways. They wanted to innovated, but were stymied by the old school master who cared more about how you dressed and the level of your Turkish nationalism than in your class performance.

Meeting me, and my willingness to talk to them, was a real opportunity. And it would be such an opportunity for their students. Would I come to their classes.

Well, I still wasn't quite awake. But of course.

To be continued...

Sıvas

I take me seat at the Internet cafe on the maınstreet of Sıvas, my third tıme ın this particular place. As he has done on my other vısıts, the i-aged proprietor clicks on the ıcon bar on the bottom of the screen and pulls up a window for the 'Porn Block' applicatıon. I don't know whether he does for all the client or whether this ıs special for me, the foreigner.

Odd if it is special for me, because porn is what I was surprised by upon my return to my hotel room last night. I flicked on the TV and there was porn of the grossest kind (probably produced in 'the Valley,' the porn industry capital in the Los Angeles suburbs). The hotel is recommended by my guide book, and indeed the staff has been exceedingly helpful, but, as the guidebook explains, the hotel is used primarily by businessmen.

Boys will be boys, but don't let me give you the wrong impression, Sivas feels very wholesome.

The Seljuk buildings I've come to see are in a long park bordering the main boulevard. They both flow down a gentle hill, crested by a fountain. Four or five cafes inhabit the park. In each, the waiter fills a tray with a dozen cups of chai and walks from table to table distributing the tea and later collecting the lira for each. The customers are all men. Here's what I remember from a few minutes ago--

At the table in front, two men play backgammon. One is young, clean shaven, with thick locks of well-groomed, shiny black hair. He wears a sweater. His partner is much older, perhaps his father, hair cut short, military style. He wears the neat, trimmed mustache Turkish men of his age often favor, and he wears a suit. Behind me I hear the clackıng of backgammon pieces as another pair play.

A man comes passing between the tables, about a hundred leather belts slung over one shoulder, and in the other hand is a box of about as many leather wallets. He's dressed in loose pants and a flannel shirt and a dark sport coat, and the lines is face call out the effects of a hard life. But his calls of belts and wallets for sale go unheeded.

Just outside the cafe, five shoe shiners had set out their elaborate boxes. They fan open like my wife's sewing basket, squat brass 'v's. One, taking a gamble, calls out hello to me in English, and I stop because my black hiking shoes are covered in beige smudge from the mud and rain of a few days back. I sit, and he motions for me to put my shoe on the stand. He rolls up the cuff of my pants and with a brush sweeps off the loose dirt. He's probably thirty-five, a handsome face, deeply yellowed teeth. He loosens the shoe laces. This is his life. Looking up, he asks, 'English?' By this time, he is smearing black paste on my shoe. He is careful to get every bit of the surface.

'Amerıcan,' I say. He nods with a little surprise. In Sivas, I am exotic.

After the black paste comes something white, and then some wax. He brushes the shoes, buffs them out. They look superb. He hesitates just a moment when I ask him how much because he must realize that I would not know if one dollar or five is fair in Sivas. He goes high. And I pay. What the hell. I can walk away.

Turkısh Dress

1. Dısclaımer: If a 'ö' symbol slıps ınto the post, I'm not meanıng to ınsert an emotıcon, but have forgotten that the key where we usually fınd the comma has the Ö ınstead.
   
   
   What do the Turks look lıke? There's a wıde range of ethnıc features. A few are faır and lıght complected, ın others you can see some trace of the Mongols. But the majorıty are dark haıred and dark eyed, theır skın has some of the tones of Latın Amerıcans, and theır features are more causasıan than anythıng else. I don't thınk there'd be obvıous dıfference ın the ways younger men dress from, say, Italıans. They lıke to dress well. The men often wear stylısh, poınted shoes of a type you mıght fınd ın Nordstrom. Older men of a more tradıtıonal bend--and there are many--wear loose pants, a vest, a button-down shırt, and a grey or beıge cap.
   
   None of thıs, though, gıves a full sense of how men dress, because economıcs have a role, too. Two men mıght be dressed ın otherwıse ıdentıcal ways, but one looks a lıttle more fresh, another more worn. But both are tryıng to look good.
   
   And then there are the professıonals who dress ın what we'd consıder normal busıness attıre--slacks, tıe, jacket.
   
   But, of course, how women dress ıs more ınterestıng--and here the blend of old and new, eastern and western, ıs more apparent.
   
   Many women dress ın a tradıtıonal way--althugh there seems to be several varıetıes of that. Many women dress ın a way we'd fınd dıffıcult to see as very dıfferent from how Amerıcan women dress, wıth one bıg dıfference when ıt comes to younger women--there ısn't much flesh showıng. No bosoms overflowıng from tıght bustıerres or bottom-brushıng hemlınes.
   
   Among the more tradıtıonal, there's great range, wıth a few women ın the black head-to-toe coverıng (I forget the name of the garment). More wıth scarfs, often, but not always, accompanıed by knee-length overcoats. But under the overcoats she mıght be wearıng somethıng drab, or a skırt, or jeans. She mıght wear no make-up, she mıght be fully made up.
   
   In the Istanbul fruıt bazaar, one pretty young woman caught my eye as she darted across my path. She wore the scarf, and the overcoat, thıs one black, and dark blue, tıght-fıttıng jeans, and poınted-toed black boots wıth three or four ınch hılls. Now, the overcoat was worn tıght and fell to mıd-thıgh rather than the knee, so that the affect, along wıth the tıght jeans, was lıke that of a woman ın a short dress. And yet of her flesh, I could see nothıng more than her hands and pretty paınted face.
   
   It ıs not an uncommon sıght to see paırs of frıends or groups of frıends or famılıes wıth thıs whole range of dress. Two frıends walkıng down the boulevard, one ın fully western dress, the other ın a scarf. A famıly, two women ın scarves, three wıthout.
   
   What strıkes me most ın thıs ıs how comfortable they all seem wıth these varıous styles. From the outsıde at least, there seems no conflıct among the more tradıtıonal and the more western.

Same mosque ın the rock concert pıcture.

School gırl. All the kıds seem to wear unıforms lıke thıs one, all the gırls wıth the whıte tıghts. She saw wıth wıth the camera and my long lens and ınsısted I take her pıcture.

Festıve lıghts ın the cıty of Edırne.

Thıs ıs ın Edırne, a vıbrant town on the border of Greece and Bulgary, and for about 100 the capıtol of the Ottoman empıre. Thıs was a rock concert markıng the end of Ramadan, held ın the square of the maın mosque. That mosque ıs consıdered the fınest of the Ottoman perıodç

Cruısıng along the Bosporus.

Calıgraphy ın the Hagıa Sophıa--stunnıng ın theır own rıght. I thınk thıs names one of the fırst calıphsç

The Blue Mosque. It faces the Hagıa Sophıa across a long park. It has sıx mınarets, at the tıme ıt was buılt controversıal sınce the great mosque ın Mecca had only fıve mınarets. I thınk the Ottoman sultan wanted to make a poıntç

The Hagıa Sophıa.

Trınkets at the Grand Bazaar ın Istanbulç

Turkish Keyboard

Posts will be coming out more slowly as İ fıgure out how to surmount the challenges of the Turkish keyboard. Some photos should be postıng soon.

My ıtınerary has changed consıderably--havıng to abandon plans to vısıt the Aegan coast, ınstead travelıng to Edırne on the Greece-Bulgarıan border. A great town, vıbrant, sophıstıcated, beautıful, fılled wıth parks and outdoor cafes. (Lıke the best of my frıend Jack Swanson's old stompıng ground). I'm now ın Safranbolu, ın the mountaın area ınland from the Black Sea, wıth all the charm of a Swıss vıllage.

Sıgniıng outö

Mr. Too Cheap-to-Buy-a-Laptopç

Scrambled omelet, or David and the Turkish Bath

At most Sunday brunches in fancy hotels or restaurants, you can find the omelet chief. He (or she, though I've never seen a woman omelet chief). He will make an omelet to your specific order and you watch and wait. He cooks with real elegance, but not because his motions are particularly graceful or showy, but because they are so precise, efficient, fast. He flashes some butter in the pan, in quick pecks grabs or pinches the onions, mushrooms, ham, whatever you have request, in exact quantity. Eggs are quickly cracked, whipped, and poured into the pan only when the other ingredients are at the right point. He stirs, flips, folds, and finally pours the omelet into your plate.

That's how I was handled at the Turkish bath.

When I have time to revise this, I'll put in here the name of the Turkish bath (I forget in now and don't have my guide book), but I can tell you it's about 500 years old and was designed by the architect of Suleiman the Magnificent, Sinan (whose masterworks, btw, are Mosques that rival the great European cathedrals in their artistic splendor and the way they feel you with a sense of the sublime). Anyway, the bath is really logically designed, but I didn't know it at the time. There is a foyer area where you pay the fee, and on the second and third level of the foyer area are changing rooms. The entrance and exit to the bath itself is the same, which makes sense if you think about it, but I hadn't. Now, this particular bath is in the midst of the tourist areas, so the employees are used to befuddled idiots like me and have developed a series of grunts, nods, grimaces and shrugs to communicate with us. I was shrugged upstairs. A man there grunted at a door. I entered my room. Except for the glass of the door and window, it was completely private--I could take off my clothes and my nudity not be seen by the people on the first level of the foyer if I squatted low. Wrapped in a towel, I stood looking stupidly at the man who'd grunted me into the changing room until he finally shrugged downward.

I bumbled down to the steam room. About four men in towels and nothing else milled around the entrance to some door. How could I know they were the employees. One betoweled man nodded me over to another betoweled man who scowled at me to follow him. This Turk grunted me in, a man, probably my age but looking like how 55 looked in my parents' time. He was about 5'6", round bellied, hair cropped short and the trim moustache that a lot of Turkish men wear.

We entered the main room of the bath, a domed chamber filled with steam and a great, marble slab in the center and alcoves along the side where men sat steaming. I followed my guide around the slab until he finally grunted at me. He nodded on the slab. I sat on the slab. He grunted a no. I stood. He grunted. I sat, he grunted, I stood. He nodded toward the center of the slab and I understood I was supposed to lie on it. I lay feet towards center. He grunted impatiently. I lay feet toward from. A yet more impatient grunt. Finally I lay head to center, and he was content, and then ignored me to work on another client.

It feels very, very pleasant, that slab, warm and damp. The slab was about the same diameter as the dome and right under it. The dome was shot with about 100 round glass covered holes arranged in an ever expanding circular pattern, letting in light. And opening your eyes, it's like looking at the star-lit sky.

After I'd lain on the slab for those five minutes, my guide shook my foot and pointed for me to lie on the edge of the slab. I lay. He grunted impatiently. I lay in the other direction. He grunted with deep exasperation. Not knowing what else to do, having lain in every direction I could thing of, I oonched to the edge of the slab. He sighed relief.

All his actions were like that omelet chief: neat, precise, efficient, unemotional. First he scrubbed me down with a rough scouring pad, the kind used to exfoliate skin, rough just on the verge of being painful. I flip and he does the same to the front. He did a few chiropractic-type things to my back, which nearly broke, and then lathered me all over--well, not what's under the towel. After I was well lathered, he took a bucket of cold water and more or less and without a hint of ceremony dumped it on me. I'm next grunted into another room and motioned to sit on a low slab. He washed my hair, my face, my neck.

He grunts at me. I am done with that phase. He nods towards a door in front of which are five men. I open the door and am yells at in a thick Australian accent that there are no cuts and to get into the bloody cue. I cue.

When my turn comes, my wet towel is exchanged for a dry one--the only moments when I'm completely naked--and the young masseuse has me lie face down on a thin, platformed mat with a half circle for my face. He uses oil, applied light so it's not at all slippery. His procedure otherwise is a lot like those used by a Chinese masseuse who works for in an acupuncture shot back home. Were the Turks were influenced by Chinese medicine (the Ottoman empire stretch from Hungary to the reaches of China, and the Ottomans traded with China, so it seems possible there could have been this trade of information)? The Turks borrowed the baths from the Romans, and I wondered if these massage techniques developed in the west or were imported from China.

It was, in short, marvelous.

The next step was to shower and try to soap off the oil from the massage, which, of course, was not possible.

But now what? Was I done? Where was the exist. No one was grunted at me; I didn't know what to do. I went back to the room with the slab, but no one grunted at me there, either. I went back to out again. I went through another door, and there was was, sopping wet in a skin clinging towel, in the middle of the foyer where the wives were waiting for their husbands. Someone grunted, at me I thought, so I followed him back into the slab room. But then he disappeared. I went back out and into a foyer. A thin Pakistani in a dry towel nodded at me. I nodded at him. I followed him, he followed me, back into the room with the slab. Then, he sat on the slab as if I was supposed to wash him! Oh no, he was a customer who mistook me for a Turkish masseuse. He retreated. I went back out the door I'd come through, and there, a heavy set Turk grunted out, "You finished? Good.' He exchanged my towel for a fresh one (you removed the wet one, toss it in a basket, and they wrap the dry one around you, during this process holding the dry towel near to you to afford some modesty). He threw a towel on my shoulder at patted me down rough, and then threw a third towel on my head and gave it a good rub. Then he grunted me out the door and back to my dressing room.

I wonder how long it took the Pakistani to get his bath.

Only $54,000

I have made many friends in Istanbul. They all sell carpets.

Making friends is very easy. You don't have to do anything, just walk. The friends come up to you, like "Charlie." I met him on the first day in Istanbul at the Grand Bazaar. I was just walking along, looking at the steams of gold bangles and rows of leather jackets when an elderly gentleman, not Charlie, started to walk along with me and asked how my wife was and how the kids were and whether I wanted to look at a carpet in his son's shop, which as just 10 meters up ahead. No thanks.

That's when I met Charlie, who started to walk along with me and confided that it was good I'd sent the old man away because he wasn't anybody's father and was paid a percentage of sales for any person he brought to the carpet shop. But Charlie owned his shop himself so there was no commission, and he was a wholesaler, and I should take a look. And I, thinking what could a carpet cost and maybe Jordan would like one, agreed.

It's basically the same pitch used by a car salesman. You're offered something to drink, in this case apple tea, which of course at once makes you feel like you're making a new friend and like you're incurring a little debt. Then came the carpet. "They call me Crazy Charlie," he told me, "because, believe me, David, these prices are like you'll find no where.

Then comes the carpet. Now, Crazy Charlie, who'd become Reasonable Charlie when I ran into him a few days later, didn't actually roll out the carpet himself, but had a staff of three unfurling carpets at a furious pace. "Do you like this one, David? Of these three, what is for favorite?"

"Well, that's my favorite, but I'm not in the market."

"I know, I know, but just for fun. Wouldn't you like it. Your wife would love you to bring this home."

Now, one thing I've got to say about Charlie was that he didn't have the look or the feel of a sleazy saleman--and I'm not saying this to set up an ironic turn around in which he is revealed to be a sleazy saleman. But, in old Istanbul, the whole city is in a desperate hustle. Charlie was just one of them.

That little carpet, the one I liked, he gave a price of $1,800. It was a crazy low price, he said. I thought I'd be crazy insane to buy a Persian rug an hour after leaving my hotel room on my first day in Turkey. But when I set down the tea and said I really would buy a carpet that day, he looked genuinely crushed, and escorted me like a dejected lover back to the main walkway.

But he was just my first friend. Now I am quite educated about Persian rugs made in Turkey. For example, I know that $1,800 is a really low asking price for these things. The next pitchman began at $5000. The last one really worked me over, and for almost a full quarter of an hour, I had become even crazier than Crazy Charlie as I began to imagine what that carpet would look like in my livingroom. If I paid part on this credit card, part on that credit card. It was only $54,000, and the color to die for.