Sunday, April 28, 2013

Dread Update: week 3



So my dreads aren't doing anything particularly interesting this week. Little chunks of hair are starting to separate out at the roots, and that is kinda exciting, and I have some messy crazy loops forming, which is either exciting or annoying, but overall there is very little movement forward. Nothing is knotting or locking. I know, with my hair and this approach that I am going to have to wait a long time for locking, but I was hoping to at least get a little rats nest after three weeks of no brushing. Alas, I am not that lucky. I think that I will have to spend a lot of time in the sea this year. Since the Black sea has a lower salinity I suppose that I will just have to go twice as often. I am going to have find a nice, secluded little piece of beach that I can get to regularly, and definitely do another bike trip along the south region. I think that with all of that sweat and salt and sunshine my dreads will have a good birth, with many great memories knotted into them.

This summer is something in the ether at the moment. Nikola and I still don't know exactly when we will return to Bulgaria, but we are hoping that my visa will be ready and we will be able to return for July morning. My short visit last week was too little, and served only to reinforce a deep desire to be in Bulgaria. I say that the main reason that I want to return is because I speak the language, and that is true, but I also have a desire to be there because of the feel of summer. People were so happy out in the sunshine last week. They were so friendly. There was sitting and drinking beer and eating kebabche and I was fully, completely satisfied. I can't wait for that feeling to be there for the rest of my life. Now, just to get this job and house situation taken care of... 

Saturday, April 27, 2013

The Problem with Expertise

I spent my spring break in Bulgaria, among other things, getting my tooth fixed again. I have a tendency to do such mundane things on breaks that are supposedly known for their adventures, and generally save the adventuring for days that are a little more ordinary. About a month ago the cement on my front crown decided to separate, and I have been dreading getting it fixed. The quality and fit of the crown and post are so good that I was able to live with it quite easily without fixing it, and honestly I do not want to mix Istanbul, where taking advantage of foreigners (as in most big cities) has been my main experience with the medical industry, which also likes to wring me for as much money as they can. But when I was going back to Bulgaria I figured that it was time to get the tooth fixed, and Nikola's mom made me an appointment.

In my two experiences with Bulgarian dentistry I am quite happy. My first experience was my taking my mother to get a tooth pulled, and the second was re-cementing this crown. In both instances the quality was high, the service efficient, and, most refreshing, they did exactly what I asked them to. In the United States going to a new dentist requires an examination and x-rays before they will even address your complaint. It costs between 100-200 dollars (before treatment) and takes an hour of your time. My comprehension of this is quite Fouccaultian. I believe that we effectively separate people from their bodies by giving too much weight to expertise. Now, I know that there are people who want to second guess experts, and end up crippling their doctors with their Web MD bullshit, and that is not something that I can begin to agree with. However, I also do not believe that the expert has the right to invade the patient's body and tell them all of the things that they need fixed, in order to fix a problem that the patient can clearly state. For example, I am not a big fan of the concept of surface fillings, as most often little divots that they choose to fill can go away with proper brushing and flossing, and the filling ultimately weakens the tooth. I am also upset that I did not even know that I could opt out of Novocaine for most procedures until I was 26. I think that there needs to be some sort of synergistic balance reached, where the expert is respected for their expertise, but they are also considerate of the expertise that the individual has on their own body. I feel like that has been my experience in Bulgaria. For the first time dentists were listening to me, not simply trying to do as much as they can in order to get as much money as they can.

I am really getting sick of money these days. I think that I am really not a capitalist, at all. 

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Irony of the desirable

The other day I had topick up the second half of my course reader for my modern theory course. I bemoaned the constant need to purchase reading material during University, when people have some of the least ammounts of money in their lives, and then put 50tl in my pocket, happy that I was in Turkey and not the US, where used textbooks cost at least $80. I went to the photocopy store, and asked for the course packet. I am still not sure that I got the correct one, but it cost me a total of 4tl. That equates to about $2. Now, it was just half of the course reader, so compare that to $40 instead of $80, and it still holds up as amazing. I went home completely happy, thinking that is how texts should be purchased. The reasons why I like it:

  1. It is cheap. Students cannot always afford those super glossy pages that American universities demand.
  2. It gives the instructor greater control of the course material. The material that we read tends to be more journal articles and fewer books, which we could rightfully print from the University's subscription to the online version of journals. The books that we read tend to be originals, which are often out of copyright anyways, so they are allowed (legally) to be free. Course packets allow instructers to mesh together highly relevent aterials instead of teaching to a textbook that does not quite fit the needs of the course, or making students buy multiple textbooks and constantly access journals on their own. 
I was just thinking of how forward thinking Turkey is in offering these course packets when I arrived at my Middle East politics course. The instructor felt the need to apologize. He requested a bibliography for our midterm, and yet none of the articles included in our reader had the necesary information to complete a standard bibliography. Why? Because all of the photocopy shops are illegal, and do not have the right to print these materials. The shop that he had chosen had been raided by the police and fined, so they had to get rid of all of the cover pages that had the correct bibliographic information. Hah! The thing that I was loving about my school isn't actually allowed. But just like so many things in Turkey, they do it despite the law. 

Now, I am not usually one for rule-breaking. Those of you who know e well know that I have what would almost be considered a fetish for rules. I love the safety and security that I feel within a well-outlined structure of rules. I love knowing what the social expectations are, and the permissible degrees of deviance. Overall I am all about rules, and the clear communication and the following of them. (Now, how people make and update rules, especially laws, needs a lot of attention and renovation, but that is a different story) However, this particular law is one that I hate, and it stems directly from capitalism. People need to be compensated for their work. Sure, I get that. I consider academics, and writers, even writers of textbooks, to fall under the category of artists, and I consider the copyright of books and magazines to not be that much different than music and films. However, music and films are generally for pleasure whereas academia claims to be for the advancement of sociery and individuals. That information should be free and accessible. I remember watching a film last month about a kid who solved some medical test issue (pancreatic cancer) by accessing free journals via google. THAT is what the world should consist of. Not a bunch of publishing houses hording academic thought (for I truly do not believe that it is the academics that have an issue with copywriting their work.). There needs to be some way that authors can still be compensated for their work and yet people can have free access to the results of their work. I think the main way for doing this is the grants that experts get to DO their research, and that is what should be covered, not the final product. <Sigh> Oh world, you have a lot of growing to do, still. 

Now, my final reflective question, is would I want to publish a book and not get paid? No, I wouldn't. But if I got paid a living stipend the entire time I was writing the book, that would be quite enough for me. And I get that the printers and publishers need to be paid as well, and I am not all about the electronic age of books... but still, there must be some solution. 

Sunday, April 21, 2013

A New Journey

So, we are finally moving out of the mistake that we made 7 months ago. I honestly cannot believe that we actually survived winter in this place. Already I have tried to tell myself that it will make a good story for the kiddos someday; I'll be able to relate the times when their father and I snuggled up in a hole of a home in a foreign land with nothing but our love to keep us warm. But honestly it doesn't seem worth it now that I am realizing how much I have missed.

I have often reflected at the differences between what this year was supposed to be back when I was applying to my study abroad program, and what it became after I met Nikola and actually moved here. I thought that the main difference was that I was in a relationship, and a new one at that, but now I realize how much living so far away from anyone else in our demographic, and away from the heart of the city has had an effect on me. So between our gambling-money-hungry landlord asking us to pay the utilities for his factory, and the coming spring, Nikola and I had had enough and started to look for a new apartment.

We had a few options. We weren't sure about living with roommates, or getting a place of our own again. We didn't know where exactly we wanted to live. All we really knew is that we wanted a place that felt safe and welcoming, where we wouldn't be taken advantage of, and we could end our Istanbul experience on a positive note. Within 4 days we found something, and I have particularly high hopes for it. It ended up being an apartment shared with two flatmates, who seem to be rather chill, and on a similar vibe to us. They met each other through a flash mob group that the guy of the two had organized, so that scores extra points in my book. The flat is warm, welcoming, and in a completely different side of Istanbul, the older part, near to the Grand Bazaar and Sultanahmet, but not so close as to be too touristy. It is decorated with a lot of care and attention, and in a super fun way.

Soooooo... tomorrow I am going to Bulgaria to drop off a load of things, see about getting my tooth fixed, and visit friends for spring break... then, when I return it is packing up the house, and setting off on a new adventure :) 

Friday, April 19, 2013

Dreads, week 1 update

So, in my enthusiasm to 'stop the violence' that I inflict on myself last week I might have missed quite a bit of logic. (Of course, spirituality and logic do not always overlap in the most coherent of ways, but I think that they should at least be able to coexist in me at a decent level.) Luckily my husband read my blog, listened to my shiney-eyed ideas, and gave me some feedback. The simple question that he asked was, 'Sure, you are getting rid of shampoos and dyes, but what about the stuff that you are replacing them with?' It's a great question, as I immediately reached for vinegar, salt, and baking soda to help my dreads lock. Usually the argument regarding using these cleaning solutions is that they are more natural and less abrasive to hair. This forces me to call into question what is natural, and whether apple-cider vinegar is any more natural for me than some shampoo.

People claim vinegar is natural because it is not overly processed, and because we can see the process from nature to product. It is also something that is safe to ingest, which shampoo is not, so I feel better about putting it on the outside of my body. However, I do not find the bottle of apple cider vinegar any more natural, for me, than a bottle of shampoo because I am just as distanced from the vinegar production as I am from the shampoo production. Ideally I would not use, 'natural' products, but home-grown and home-processed products, that I have a relationship with from planting to product. Now this is not really feasible for a lot of products and so I have to consider why I am using vinegar and baking soda, except that it does not leave residue, gets rid of dandruff, and is cultishly followed among hippies and other crunchy people.

Secondly, from the list of products that I just shared it is obvious that I have done nothing but shift from one routine to another routine. This does not help me practice patience or acceptance and is just another way for me to impose my will in a way that is more fashionable and acceptable among alternative people. That is not really the goal of this experiment. The goal is REALLY patience, acceptance, and nonviolence. How do I go about experiencing that and expressing that without getting truly gross hair (I mean, I can't just not clean it at all)? My answer to that is, first of all, patience with my self. Of course I cannot quit all routines in a single day. I cannot just immediately switch to being the person who I want to be. That is why this is a practice-- a meditation-- and not just an immediate work of art. I feel like just raising my awareness of the rituals and routines that I put myself through is the first step, followed by listening to my body a lot more. None of this requires dreading, of course... I am not really anti-combing my hair, and in fact, I find that combing it can be pleasurable both for it and for my body. BUT these are important philosophical questions that can be raised through such personal projects.

Well, here is a picture of me after the first week. As you can see, not much is happening yet. It is starting to become a little messy, but tangles aren't even starting to form yet. There is no need to separate, and there is every possibility that I will still back out. 

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

2013 Boston Marathon

Did you hear about the Boston Marathon this year? I am sure you have, it is plastered all over the news: 2 bombs went off at the finish around 4:09, killing at least 3 people and wounding many, many more. When I first read the news I sank. Really, honestly, I sank into myself with a feeling of confusion and mounting dread. It was painful to read. Over the past few years I have read a lot of disheartening news stories happening in the United States, and each of them were tragic in their own way, but none of them hit me with a wall of emotion like this one has.

First of all I would like to say that nothing is KNOWN about the bombs yet. Words such as terrorism are leaking out, which, what else could it be? But the word 'terrorism' in the United States is loaded with ethnic and religious assumptions which renders the word less than helpful in times like this. Already newspapers and websites are posting content that points to "a dark-skinned man with an accent," when the police have released nothing regarding who might have placed the bombs or why. I recommend to save your hate and save your judgement until more information is acquired. Actually, even then I recommend saving your hate and judgement, forever, and instead really just seeking understanding and healing. 

As a marathon runner, I am shocked at this. Marathons, to me, are the safest place on earth. Runners spend months training for a marathon. During that training period, unless they are a very elite athlete, they are mostly on their own. Running 30-40 km all alone requires some creativity and resilience. For me tactics have included mapping out routes where I was safe from dogs, from predatory men, from weather, from vehicles who don't respect my sport. It includes having to carry fuel and always knowing where the next stop for water might be. It is an exhaustive practice, not just because of the physical activity required, but because it is a somewhat dangerous sport that is embarked on alone. If you fall, from exhaustion or a tree root, chances are there will be no one around to help you up. If you get out too far and can't make the run home, you have to walk it. But then, after all of the training, there is race day and it is an amazing reward. On race day you are babied. You are taken complete care of. Regular food and water supply, wet sponges, a warm wrap and a massage waiting for you at the end. For once, in many many months, you can just run. And the finish line at the end of a marathon is not 42.2km away from the beginning. It is hundreds of kilometers. It is hundreds of hours, buckets of sweat, days of questioning yourself. To have the sacredness of that race, the safety and support of a marathon taken away at the finish of all places, is unbelievable to me. 

Running is such a peaceful sport, taken on alone it harms no one except yourself. Marathon running is more than that though. It is a monument to the success and endurance of humanity. I cannot imagine who or why anyone would even consider spoiling such a beautiful thing. 

I did not finish my last marathon. My training was poor, and I was sick for two weeks before the marathon. The plane ride to France was the final straw and I was coughing and unable to sleep for two days before the marathon. I made it on schedule to kilometer 30, but, being unable to speak French and let the race coordinators know that we had every intention of finishing around 540, we were scooped up in the trailing van. Not making it to the finish line is tragic, and I felt an immense sense of guilt. However, the experience of the race was still there, and still a positive one because of the way that others supported and cared for me on that race day, by playing music and offering food, and eventually a ride to the end. I felt like I wasn't alone in a solitary event. I cannot imagine that finish being taken away by anyone. It is such a shameful, terrible action. 

Friday, April 12, 2013

Debating Locks


Once upon a time I had dreadlocks. The story of my locks went something like this: On a motorcycle trip across the Western states I stopped in the middle of the rockies to see a lover. He happened to be shaving a mohawk into his girlfriend's son's head, and I had just had a disappointing experience based on traditional concepts of beauty at a photo shoot, so I asked him to do mine as well. I spent that summer with a mohawk that changed colors, but hovered between blue and pink most of the time. At the end of the summer I went to Burning Man and ended up bringing a new friend home with me. One night, in our basement apartment on haight street, I asked her to dread my hair. We bought a jar of bedhead wax (Which I STILL have quite a bit of), a metal comb, and a package of small rubber bands. She spent hours backcombing my hair into poofy pink dreads, and at the end I looked like a very disappointed side-show-bob. I then spent the next week freaking out about how hideous my dreads were, and applying wax liberally. Eventually the dreads started to calm down, and to even lock up a bit. I went surfing and snorkeling in the pacific ocean and the salt did wonders for the locks. Then, one day at summer camp my campers got bored and decided that they were going to decorate my hair. They put all sorts of ribbons and string in the dreads, lengthening them down my back. I absolutely loved the look that they created and I started regularly adding bits of different colored yarn to my hair:
For several years I kept the mohawk with dreads going. Sometimes I added yarn. Sometimes I dyed the dreads strange colors. It was quite easy and satisfying to bleach out a dread and add blue, or green, and for the first time in my life I felt like I had control over how my hair looked, and I thought that it looked rather good.












Regarding the question of spirituality and dreads or fashion and dreads I really could not have cared less. Of course dreads only became an option because of the community that I was part of. Within the burning man community dreads were not just an acceptable style, they were often times desirable. I was more or less oblivious though, and so my dreads were more for me than for anyone else. I was also minimally aware of the spirituality connected with dreadlocks:


Now, I was not a rasta, and I am not even sure what a rasta is. I did not smoke marijuana, and I did not feel like my dreadlocks somehow connected me to the earth in some powerful, mystical way. I also did not feel like "god," wanted me to wear dreadlocks, and I did not care about spiritual leaders wearing locks any more than I cared about the fashion of it.


Eventually I left the bay area, where shaved heads were somewhat sexy, and moved to Arizona where I lacked a roommate to help me shave, and I started applying for more grown up jobs. I started to grow out the hair beneath my dreads to have less of a drastic appearance. When I got my acceptance into peace corps it was stated, rather murkily, that I should attempt to have a more conservative style. Since the tattoos were not going anywhere I decided to compromise by combing out my remaining dreads. Five years later they had still not locked completely, and they combed out. Not easily, but I was able to save most of my hair and did not loose any length.

I loved my dreads, but I did not think that I would do them again. They are a lot of work, and a lot of commitment. However, recently the desire to dread up has been returning and I thought that I should at least look into it. Now the idea of natural dreading (or locks by neglect) is a lot more appealing to me than it was back then. When I first wanted dreadlocks it was an immediate decision and I wanted immediate gratification. After reading some material on the internet today ( http://www.naturaldreads.com/ ) I am much more drawn to the spiritual discipline required to grow natural dreads. I am figuring that with my history and the current length of my hair it will take over three years for me to achieve actual dreads. It is a huge commitment, but undertaking it as a spiritual path rather than just a fashion journey, makes that time commitment much more appealing.

Here are some of the ideas that I gleaned, and hope to consider with the growth of my new dreads:


  1. Growing natural locks is a practice of non-violence. I know, it might sound ridiculous that we can even be violent to our hair, but I think it makes sense. I am very violent to myself in the name of beauty: I dye my hair, cut my hair, force my breasts into uncomfortable bras, wear jeans that are a tad too tight, wear high heels, pierce myself and tattoo myself. All of these are ways that I express my will or my desire and attempt to assert control. Some of these habits are violences that I am aware of, like the tats and piercing, and some of them are so culturally ingrained that I do not even recognize them as forms of violence (Bleaching hair). By allowing my hair to grow the way it wants to, at the pace it wants to, and not cutting it or combing it, I am practicing an extreme reminder to remain aware of these violences in the name of beauty. It reminds me to be kind to myself, and to others, and to put love into the world instead of adding to the heap of power struggle and violence. 
  2. Growing locks is a practice in patience and commitment. I tend to get enthusiastic about an idea, and then to loose interest suddenly. This can most often be seen in my hair, because as soon as I get the itch for a change it is usually my cut or color that changes, and then eventually other areas of my life. Yes, I can suddenly back out of the dreads, and I am leaving that option open, but I know that once they get going it will take a long time to get back to that point, and so I feel like it will raise my awareness in the area of patience and commitment. 
  3. I am looking for a new spirituality that is more connected to the earth, and to my body. Some form of shamanism. Because hair holds a person's history, including the ingestion of substances and being around toxins, I feel like dreads are a great reminder of that earthly connection, and a motivation to remain more pure. 

So... will I do it? Not sure still. But, in case I do, here is me on dreads #2, the nonviolent way, day 1: 


Thursday, April 11, 2013

Out on the French Countryside

One of the main issues that Nikola and I have encountered since the beginning of our relationship has been the question of where we will live. Originally this was more of a non-question as he completely surprised me by not giving a second thought to coming with me to Istanbul. It was an immediate confirmation of the deep passion and trust that we had for each other. Now, as we move away from the theoretical implications of "living together," we find ourselves in the midst of a logistical nightmare.

Being a student in Istanbul it was easy for me to get a visa here. Nikola had a bit more trouble, and his visa was certainly not cheep, but he succeeded. Now our clocks are ticking down. We have valid resident permits until October of next year, and by then we need to have figured out a somewhat more permanent solution. This, logically, involves me getting a visa for Bulgaria, or Nikola getting a visa for the US, both of which are drawn out processes, thanks to the US government. Ultimately there may be some months between when we move out of our place in Turkey and before we can settle anywhere else. Because of this I have been looking into some options for travel.

The problem with travel and working is that anything that fits me does not fit him, and although he can work anywhere, I cannot. It is definitely an issue of fish and bird when it comes to making our careers fit together synergistically. But I have been looking at workaway, wwoofing options anyways, as they offer me a chance to train in certain specific permaculture areas that I want to implement once we have our own place. Some of what I have found seems intriguing but most of it is rather upsetting.

I have always been a firm believer that a person should be free to set their own prices and make their own contracts. If something is too expensive for you, then don't buy it. It is that simple. Except that it isn't. The idea of volunteering on a farm or hotel for free room and board is a great idea, until I find that most of the places now days are not offering stimulating work that allows the worker to learn (such as design concepts, or skills- instead it is unskilled, manual labor) AND requires the person to work 7 hours a day, 6 days a week for room and board. That just seems a little extreme to me. Working for that much time in a position that gives you skills is one thing, but just pumping out physical, mindless labor for almost no return is absurd. And yet, the more people who offer that, the more people can exploit those who want to travel and volunteer. It seems like yet another great idea is fading into history through selfishness and exploitation.

After our vacation to France I thought about possibly doing a summer working at a camp or a hostel there. In theory it is a great idea. In reality, once again, it doesn't really fit my life with my partner.

So many dreams and sensations are surrendered during a marriage... but so many others become achievable. I am considering new paths and new ways of doing things that never crossed my mind before. I never thought that I would be married to a computer guy. I always assumed that any long-term relationship would be with someone working in my field. Now I am starting to see why that is necessary. Most fields have allowance for deviation. Mine, not so much.

A bird and a fish may fall in love, but where will they build their home?

--- Probably not on the French countryside. 

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Lies I was Never Told- The Making of an Expat Part III

I suppose that a good reason for studying abroad is the dissolution of your current ideas about the world. It wasn't my reason though. I do happen to enjoy my dissolution and so I tend to be open to it, but my placement in Istanbul was more about staying in the East than pursuing any type of deeper understanding. It was a moment of retrenchment. I needed a breath and a bit of recollection before deciding where to go with my life after my time in Bulgaria, and a return to University sounded deceptively relaxing. I was not prepared for some of my courses, which are taught very differently than my curriculum in the United States. I thought that I would spend a year in a state of pure static reflection, and in the end be able to return to the US with a sense of completion and a bit of direction. Instead I have been constantly challenged.

One of my courses this semester questions the concepts of 'state,' and, 'nation.' It is taught by an amazing man. He is from Iranian Kurdistan, and is Kurdish. His knowledge of the topic of the middle east is expansive to say the least. He is quite passionate. Sometimes I catch him correcting little mistakes in his delivery. 'The Germans,' is corrected to, 'the German government,' and today a, 'we,' had to be corrected to, 'they.' The personal perspective is amazing, and that he is willing to separate it out in his lectures is even more impressive. When he starts to speak I melt into story mode. He crafts with his words, and he feels a lot like the desert that I miss: dry, warm, and filled with hidden beauty.

Now, this particular class is about the middle east: Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Syria, Palestine, Israel. A class like that has to include the influence and power of the United States in that area, and coming from the perspective of anyone who is not American (and some Americans) a bit of sourness is to be expected. I am shocked to learn little tidbits of American participation, or lack thereof, in the political situation over there. What things were influenced by wealth, and what by religion? The Jewish question. The Kurdish question. The Shiite question. These are all things I never even knew to ask. For instance, in the war between Iraq and Iran, when pretty much everyone was supporting Iraq, the final blow was that Iraq was blowing up oil tankers that were funding Iranian munitions, and Iran could not retaliate because Kuwaiti, and Saudi Arabian (Iraqi as well?) oil tankers had been given permission to use American flags for protection. Now, I understand nothing about this, but I feel like it is somewhat important to know and understand. To question. The thing that really gets me in that class though is not the US being put in a non-patriotic perspective. It is how little I know about the US.

Often times my professor will make a comment about US political stances, or military movements and either pose it as a question to me, or glance at me to confirm a detail, such as the name of Operation Desert Shield. Most often I just have to shrug in embarrassment, because I have almost no knowledge of the middle east. I can name the countries and some of the leaders, but I cannot name which religions are situated where, and which countries were against whom, when. I cannot even name which side the US was on in any given year because I do not know what the sides were. Of course, as the daughter of someone in the military this is a tragedy, but even without that connection, I feel like as a US citizen I am failing, or was failed.

I was never taught about the middle east in school. It was never stated that we, as a nation, are currently participating in wars. I learned about the revolutionary war, and the world wars. I even learned a bit about the Vietnam war and Korean conflict. But after that international events just stopped, or became focused on peaceful European interactions. Suddenly everything was about what was going on domestically and, in my education, the US lacked any sort of international presence. I realize that I dislike politics and so I never sought out this type of information, but one would think that these would be things that would be important for our future leaders to know about, and that it would be required knowledge.

I know that it is not just me. I am guessing that the average American would not be able to explain any of the US participation in the middle east. Of course, here is where all of my politically engaged friends jump in and say that they know everything that is going on. But really, where did they get that information? They had to seek it out. Research. University. Even then information is fragmented and biased. It isn't that we are told lies about the global situation, it is more often that we don't talk about the details- just broad sweeping concepts of supporting troops, greed, and human rights. But the average person should KNOW if their country is engaged in conflict. They should be able to articulate what individuals are dying for, what their country is or is not supporting. Somewhere along the line there is a gross lack of transparency. Whether that is the government hiding things, or the schools not adjusting their curriculum to changing times, or families not caring, or wishing to shelter their children I am not sure. What I am sure of is that something is not adding up and it makes me sad and frustrated to realize it.

I guess the logical thing to feel after the horror and disgust would be a sense of relief that I am out of that murky mess, free to gain whichever perspective I can travel towards. However, this is one of the issues that makes the question of ex-patriotism infinitely more complex, because this is one of the few things that makes me want to return to the United States. I feel a great sense of responsibility in this matter. I see a problem, and I have the ability to contribute to fixing it. If I returned to the US, permanently, I think that I would have to take on the role of a revolutionary. I would have to be one of those people who demand change, and then, instead of just demanding it, they get out and make change. I would have to be loud. It would be very difficult, but in some ways it would be truly rewarding, because I would be contributing to a better world, something that I have the power to do much more easily on "home soil" than I do in any other country. It is this loyalty and sense of care and belonging that force me to question whether I would be a successful expat, and whether that is something that I really want. 

Processing Paris

I used to remark that I wanted Istanbul to be my Paris. Of course this makes very little sense unless you know about my obsession with Hemingway's writing, and specifically the teasing of dark morsels of life that he either achieved while in Paris, or later wrote reflected on his memories of the city. When I saw Istanbul for the first time I thought that it was a city that I could dissolve myself within. I thought that I would become pen and paper and light and shadow and nothing more than words. Nothing more? Nothing less. However, moving here brought about a quite different reality, which probably has a lot to do with the husband that I have acquired since my initial interaction with the city. I occasionally have a desire to write, but it is no stronger than any other place in the world, and most often I do not find the time or the space to write. Istanbul lacks the cafe culture that is important to my writing style. I need the bars and cafes, or at least a window looking down on a busy street, to begin stringing together lines. Yes, the stories are finished in the dark quiet of night, always alone, but they need to start from a place of life, which just isn't here for me. However, it is only after finally visiting Paris that I can properly express the reasons behind my disappointment.

Paris (and the rest of France that we saw) was absolutely amazing. It was charming. I quickly fell beneath the spell of romance that travelers have come to expect. Of course, for my introverted self, the streets were too crowded with cars and people, the noises too loud and the stimulation a bit too much. From the moment that we set down at CDG, and took the rer into Gare de Nord things were stressful for me. However, our initial choice to stay a bit on the periphery of the city, in a lovely studio apartment, was great. We had a bit of difficulty finding the place, but two women were very helpful, one even calling our host since my phone would not work in France. This immediately dispelled the myth that had me worried, about French people refusing to speak English with foreigners, and being rude to people who do not know French. My French was not much beyond Oui and Merci, with an occasional Pardon, and yet not a single person seemed to be bothered by it. I have a theory that it is less an issue with foreigners not speaking French, and more of an issue with foreigners expecting to be catered to quickly in English. There was nothing quick about Paris except the metro lines, and adding in the communication barrier caused a bit of waiting in cafes, where French people could get quick, efficient service, but I would hardly call that a negative experience and certainly recognize it as my own shortcoming of language. 

The first night in Paris our host showed us a lovely cafe in her neighborhood. I thought that it was lovely. It was completely packed with young, beautiful Parisians. The way they chatted, the way they smiled, the way they dressed, the way they drank. It was complete poetry. It was a very different cafe culture than Bulgaria (and the non-existant one in Turkey). There was almost no space in the cafe. The particular cafe that we were at (I cannot remember the name) was large, but it was filled from wall to wall with small tables, surrounded beyond capacity by groups of friends. The noise level was high, and it was a confusing entry into Paris. One waiter spoke English and recommended a platter of melted camembert, various meats, and roasted potatoes and tomatoes. It was absolutely delicious and way too much food for the three of us. I felt completely awkward, not knowing how things worked, what to say, and what to do, and yet I felt completely at ease. No one cared about us. No one stared. They were all wrapped up in their own very vibrant lives. The people at the table next to us teased with the waiter. The ladies at the table across from us never stopped talking and, above all, smiling. The joy in the place was nearly tangible. Unfortunately my companions did not care much for the cramped quarters or loud noise, and I knew that cafes would not be our main indulgence for the weekend. 

The next day we were completely free to explore Paris. The strange thing is that none of us had anything that we particularly wanted to do. What do you do in Paris? What do you do when traveling in general? These are questions that I have been asking for the past few weeks, and the answers are in short supply. Paris seems to be a very artsy place filled with museums of all types. I am slowly gaining an appreciation for smaller galleries and the experience of collection, but am still not one to actively search out a museum to spend an hour in, let alone a day. That means that the Louvre was out, as were most of the churches, and historical monuments. What is left in Paris when you strip away all of that? We set about on a wander. We wandered to Notre Dame, completely on accident. I found the massive building impressive, but the crowds of school children and tourists made it difficult to appreciate. We wandered along the Seine, up to the Louvre because I like those giant glass pyramids on top of it. We continued wandering up to the Eiffel tower, and then eventually made our way back to the metro. The most impressive parts of the day were the quiches that we had for breakfast from the bakery at the bottom of our apartment, and the THINGS that were in all of the shop windows. Shopping in Paris must be quite an experience, as I believe that everything in the world must be available there, and put together in very aesthetically pleasing displays. From toys and games to clothing, books and journals to tourism trinkets, I was in sensory overload looking in the windows of countless shops. The next morning I did a little bit of shopping, for running tights, and the store, laid out over an entire city block, was an outdoor girl's heaven. It was as if REI had rented out the bottom floor of every apartment building, put together their stock in a pleasing, easy to navigate way, and employed friendly people who were willing to help, and only had to manage a bit of stock at a time. It was amazing. But, with our budgets we were definitely not in Paris to shop. The next impressive thing was the metro system. It went everywhere, it went quickly, it stayed on time, and it was easy to navigate. It was like an entire city beneath the real Paris, and filled with interesting motifs at each station. I could have stayed in the metro all day. 

In the evening we were quite tired from the walking, and I was coming down with a cold, so we decided to dine near our apartment. There was an Ethiopian restaurant just down the road from us, not more than a five minute walk. The food was okay, but not in the quantities or style that I love about my Ethiopian place in Tucson. It was fun to introduce my companions to the style of food, and they seemed to enjoy it, especially the quiet environment that came with it, and i suppose that it was a good break from the people piled upon people that we experienced the rest of the day. 

In the morning it was quiche Lorraine, to pay homage to my name by devouring creamy, ham goodness, and then a stroll through the latin quarter towards the train station. When I first read "latin quarter," and learned that it was a student area I thought about New Orleans, or Havana. I expected something hot and dirty. Then, I read that it takes its name from actual latin, which was spoken in universities, and was a lot less thrilled with the idea of it. It was still a very cute area, and a bit more my pace than other areas of Paris, but I did not attach to it the way that the name implies that I might. I am sure that if I stayed longer it would have exuded a certain charm on me, but overall I was not impressed any more by it than wandering down any unnamed district.

The train station was large and well-marked, which is another thing that I enjoy about Paris. We did some grocery shopping, and hopped on an intercity train to Blois, which was an altogether different, lovely experience that I will write about a bit later. Two days later we returned to Paris for a quick evening before catching our plane in the morning. We planned to see the sites of Montmartre, and, as luck would have it, we had booked a hostel directly between Gard de Nord and Sacre Coeur, less than a kilometer from either. All of the guidebooks had warned us about the steepness of Montmartre, and in that we were unimpressed. It didn't seem any steeper than Old Town Plovdiv, which is not particularly steep. We walked up the steps to Sacre Coeur, and enjoyed the views on the steps of the church. In front of the steps a street artist did an excellent routine with a football and a lamp post, that proved amusing for a bit, and overall I enjoyed the atmosphere of the steps. We then wandered through Montmarte, down to the Moulin Rouge, stopping at another bakery along the way. From the outside the most impressive thing about the Moulin Rouge was not the windmill, but the intensity of the security. I guess all of the good stuff is inside, but not really within our time, energy, or financial budgets. We then walked through the red-light district of Pigalle, back to our hostel. In some ways I was very amused by all of the sex shops and cabarets, nestled between hamams and strip joints, but overall it just made me kind of sad. Artists say that Montmartre is not what it used to be. They say it has become too touristic and artists can no longer afford to live there. I can see what they mean all the way down to Pigalle. It had traces of North Beach, San Francisco, but it was too clean, too monitored, and something makes it not seem quite as real. I suppose that all of Paris is that way, and every city on the planet, really, is being slowly eaten away by the financial force of tourism, and the ease with which modern man travels, not for a week or a month, a year or a lifetime, but for a day or an hour. Paris, although lovely and lively, does a very good job of making me long for a time past that I have never had the opportunity to experience. 

My overall impressions were that Paris was touristy and expensive, as expected, but beautiful and enchanting at the same time. The locals that we met were completely lovely, and really the only thing that would really annoy me is the number of cars, as they are a very loud, demanding force that detract from wherever they are. Paris, as most big cities, is not a place for couples as much as it is for singles, but I think that is true of most big cities, or maybe I just enjoy exploring urban life on my own. I would have loved to spend a summer up in a studio apartment, looking down on the city from behind blowing white curtains, that is, until I experienced the French countryside and decided that would make a much lovelier experience if I was going to make any kind of summer investment in France. 

What I learned about myself in Paris is that I miss writing, and that even though I am an introvert I gather a lot of energy from being around vibrant people who do not require any interaction from me. I prefer urban exploration alone or in pairs, as a trio is a little difficult to manage, especially when I am the only common factor within the trio, and I definitely need to find some friends who have similar ideas of romance as I do, because although I love my husband he does not share the gooey-eyed Hemingway inspired world-view that I have, and neither did my friend that we traveled with. That is a thirsty view, and needs a little bit of love and support, and someone to share it with. I do not like tourism as much as travel, and even travel is not nearly as good as movement within place. 

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

The Passport- Making of an Expat, Part II

Despite my father being in the military I did not travel abroad as a child. His last lengthy stay away from home was on the USS Nimitz during my mother's pregnancy with me. Following that he opted for domestic positions where our family could accompany him. I vaguely knew that my father had spent time abroad, but until last year I did not realize the extensiveness of his military travels: Okinawa for a lengthy stay, calls in many areas of the Pacific, all over Western Europe, and the Mediterranean. Apparently my father is quite the traveled man, and yet no stories ever came up in my family, ever. I don't mean that I didn't listen, and I don't mean that we didn't talk. It was just that my father never mentioned his time on aircraft carriers or foreign bases, and for a kid who has never left the country questions such as, "Hey dad, did you ever live in Germany?" weren't a viable part of my vocabulary. So, according to me, my family's experience with international consisted of a quick boarder hop into Mexico or Canada, for a picnic or to see a sight not more than fifteen minutes from the boarder. This was back in the day when passports weren't required for boarder crossings, and my parent's driving licenses sufficed for re-entry, and so it never really felt like a big deal. I didn't leave the country until I was 24 years old, and even then my "leaving" was technical and accidental.

Through rumor and fairytale I somehow got it in my mind that it was an excellent idea to go work on the island territory of Guam for a winter, and in so many ways it was. I flew from L.A. through Hawaii, landed in Tuman Bay and spent three unbelievable months in a hot, wet paradise. However, Guam is a U.S. territory and since my flight never left the United States I went with just my driver's license. I had to go through customs for the first time, ever, when my plane landed and I suddenly became confused as to the status of the island, the boarders of my nation, and international law. As they opened each of my suitcases and examined my eclectic mix of baggage I had my first inklings of curiosity about citizenship and rights. It was nothing well-formed and I would not have been able to express it in words, but I was definitely feeling the boarders more than I had ever before.

While I was on Guam I grew to appreciate its claim to being, "The place where the sun rises on the U.S." I had always had a conception of the U.S. as being large, but with the diversity of people on Guam- Chumarro, Japanese, Korean and Philippine, and it's huge military and strategic history I gained a new perspective of just how far the United States reached into the world. Yes, Guam is a U.S. territory, but as far as culture and experience it is more of a door to the East than any other part of the U.S. I had been in. It felt like a foreign country in many ways.

As my time on Guam progressed new laws were being passed that required a passport to get back to the mainland. About a month before I was due to leave Guam I applied for my first passport ever. The application, as many official applications are, was particularly stressful for me. Questions that are easy for most U.S. citizens have always been difficult for me. Permanent residence? I had no concept of permanency. Even in retirement my parents moved from house to house to lack of house and back to another house. I definitely had not lived in one apartment longer than a few months since I left for University. Residences for the past ten years? I couldn't remember the addresses and phone numbers. Honestly, at times entire cities dropped out of my goldfish memory. Place of birth? That one should be simple, but I was told at the Social Security office when I was 26 that the place I had thought I was born, the city my parents lived in during my mother's pregnancy, was not actually my place of birth as the military hospital that she birthed in was actually located in the next town over. I hadn't thought of a passport application as an examination, but the questions were difficult and there were many of them that I eventually had to leave blank. For the two weeks that it took to process my passport I was in constant fear that it would be denied as I did not have enough coherent information to identify myself as a valid American. There were no problems, however, and a few weeks later they called me to pick up my passport.

When I went to the passport office I was ecstatic  It was a holiday for me. It was a huge event. The woman behind the counter was nice enough, but lacked my enthusiasm. She had me sign a form, gave me my passport, and reminded me to sign the first page before travelling. I opened my passport- that coveted American Eagle blue book- and read the first page, which happens to be the preamble to the U.S. constitution:

"We the people of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense  promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America." 

You are required to sign directly beneath that quotation, simulating the original signing of the constitution and your loyalty to your country. Now, it is my opinion that most people who get their passports have two reactions to this requirement and placement: 1) The don't even notice it/consider it and sign without thought or delay because, hey, they can travel! or 2) They notice it and think that it is neat. They proudly sign their consent to the constitution. I, however, had a third reaction. I hesitated. I debated. I did not want to sign.

At that point in my life I was not against the way that the U.S. ran things. In fact, I thought that it was a pretty nifty country with many rights and securities that other places don't have. I loved my life and all of the opportunities that I had been afforded. I was not anti-American, and I am still not. I think that there are many beautiful aspects to American governance. However, what I did not like was that I was forced to declare myself as an American if I wanted to travel anywhere. It was at that moment that I realized that I had no option to exist as an individual. I could not get a passport from another country, and I could not get a passport from my own country without agreeing to the way the country was ran. It seemed very limiting to me, and for the first time I had a feeling of being trapped in my citizenship. I began dreaming of times before boarders, when a traveller travelled completely on his own, without papers from the king, and others allowed him into their space (or didn't) based on nothing more than his face and word. However, I wanted to travel, and so eventually I conceded and signed the document, not because I necessarily agreed with it, but because I needed it. Back then I did not recognize this as coercion of the state, or the hegemony of global nationalism. I just knew that it felt somehow wrong, and as I signed I was being forced into the lies of bureaucracy.

Since I had my passport I planned a trip around southeast Asia on my way back to the States. I planned three months in Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam.
You may know it as the classic backpacker's loop. However, due to circumstances of theft (another story in its own right) I had to cancel the trip, ended my time on Guam early, and took the first flight home I could get. The flight happened to fly through Japan, with an overnight in an airport hotel. I was able to use my virgin passport, and thoroughly. Japanese security included, staples, stamps, landing permissions, and visas. It was a beautiful page in my passport. As I stepped out of the airport, looked at the Japanese night sky, I thought to myself, "A girl could get used to this," and at that point I decided the signature was definitely worth it. 

Monday, April 1, 2013

The Most Important Thing


It was 25 degrees today, in Celsius. I have become so well integrated to European standards that I have neither desire nor need to convert that into Fahrenheit. 25 can be understood as quite warm, and after months of drizzly weather hovering between 0 and 10 it actually felt more like, "hot." The boy and I had to make a decision between remaining naked all day, or putting on clothes in order to open the windows and get a breeze in. We decided on the latter and the boy went with his trademark orange shorts from France while I wore leggings and my cut up Pomorians shirt. Of course all of this information is periphery that I am using to set up what really HAPPENED today. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe that is all that happened. We were hot, and it was a gloriously beautiful day. I finished two essays and we cleaned our apartment a bit. Maybe those are the important bits and epiphanies are meaningless. But I am a sucker for those, "aha," moments and so I will continue on to what I thought happened today.

After cleaning, and homework, the boy and I took a little break to cuddle in bed. Laying there next to him with no blankets on top of us, my skin felt tingly and somehow more alive than it has in months. It was as if I had just woken up from a deep sleep and I got such an exciting head rush. It was bordering on overwhelming and I had an urge to laugh or cry or emote in some other inappropriate way. It was as if it tickled- whatever it was- it tickled from the warmth around me, but it also tickled in waves of color and sound within my brain. Was it me flooding back into myself? Summer knocking on my soul? The sensation passed just before it became unbearable, leaving me to ponder it.

Ponder. Ponder. Pondering takes time. Life at age 29 rushes in so fast that more often than not there is not much time left for pondering. But pondering is one of the important things, and if no one will give me time to do it, then I guess that I will just have to take the time myself.

The thing is that the inability to ponder and the rushing explosion in my soul-brain came from the same source, more or less. I am very frustrated with life. While I am happy with my husband, happy with many of the things that I have done in life, I am very upset with "life," overall. And by that I mean the restrictions that society places on life.

Example: For years I have been saying that I wished humans practiced some form of hibernation. I am not saying that we should become completely inactive during winter, but we should scale back on our activities and demands for productivity. Of course, since the invention of electricity THAT is out of the question, and I thought that I was insane for desiring such a regression. Of course there is no way to implement it... well... I am freaking EXHAUSTED from trying to be productive during a season when my body and soul scream at me to be reflective and nothing more. I am tired of feeling GUILTY because I am not as productive as society wants me to be, and I have made a decision. Enough is enough. I refuse to live by these ridiculous rules that focus on progress instead of existence. From now on I am listening to my body and extracting myself from the silly demands of modern invention. Enough.

Now is that important? Maybe. I am going back to caving up to my love and snuggling away the question.