A different city

Maybe it is just the summer time creeping in on alternating hot and cold sea breezes that carve out the space around the channel with freshness. Maybe it is just the finally shining sun that illuminates the dirty, gritty grim held between cobblestones and on every public surface. But I don't think that is the case. Life up in Ferahevler was too sanitary. People mainly kept to themselves and there was not a whole lot of diversity. I am not saying that people weren't nice enough, but really, it felt like everyone else wanted to do exactly what Nikola and I wanted to do: be left to their own devises and live their own lives. Down here it is very different. The layering of the people, the engagement, the eye contact. It is invigorating after an entire winter of missed conversations and interactions.

Today I was getting on the tram to come home when I glanced to the side and saw a young woman wearing shorts and large sunglasses, with her slender fingers wrapped around a large frappicinno. (I can't even spell the word it has been so long since I thought about it.) The entire moment seemed so foreign and out of place to me. Now, I know that Istanbul is a metropolitan place, and there are starbucks, and every copycat that can pretend to be starbucks, and I know that plenty of people here have the money to spend on those drinks. But it has been so long since I have had one- years- that the size of it struck me as grotesque, and I could not imagine drinking one. Strange that now things that are normal in a foreign land, from my homeland, have become foreign to me?  

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... 

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. 

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. 

Prepping for Paris

Paris was not on my list of places to go. Of course, my list of places to go includes only Spain, Moscow, and Georgia (with a slightly blossoming prospect of Kazakhstan), so not many places are actually there. However, like Athens and Rome, my marathon running is taking me to a wonderfully romanticized city, and I find myself yet again considering my latent expectations for this experience.

The first thing that I am starting to realize is that Paris is huge. There is no way for me to see "all of it," or even enough pieces to cover the standard Paris-trip. My vacation is only five days long, and two of those days will be spent in Cheverny, actually running my marathon. It was a difficult decision to try a smaller marathon outside of Paris this time, but we think that the intimacy of the situation and natural environment will be much more conducive to a pleasurable run. However, that means that even though I will be flying into Paris, I wont really be going there as much as I will be stopping through. This means that those five day tours, or even weekend tours, are no good. Really, the three of us have time to build 2-4 really good experiences in Paris, and with almost no knowledge of the city I am not sure where to start constructing these experiences.

First of all, these are the things that I think about when I think of Paris: love, Hemingway, Moulin Rouge, coffee, wine, food, the lourve, notre dame, the seine, writers, cafes, artists, photography, sarte, montmarte, hot, flowers, alcohol.

So what I've got so far as ideas to make these preconceptions into experiences is:

1. Taking a river boat on the Seine. There is apparently one that stops at both the Eiffel tower and notre dame with on-off tickets. 
2. A walking tour of the Latin quarter, with possibly a few stops at cafes. 
3. A sunset picnic in a park, maybe near to the Eiffel Tower, or in the gardens. 
4. Renting a bicycle. 
5. Doing a random photo shoot, although I am unsure of what kind. 

All of the writing and Hemingway that is wrapped up in Paris for me seems like it will have to wait until I am there for a longer time. Two days doesn't seem long enough to waste hours writing in a cafe, ignoring my friends. 

So, Paris. Yet another big city. With my dissillusionment of Istanbul and my hate of metropolicity I am a little concerned for this "vacation," but I know that so far my vacations with both Jez and Nikola (Athens, Rome, Venice, Skopje, and Nis) have been fantastic, and so despite the overwhelming impossibleness of the location I expect nothing less this time around. 

Romancing Venice

I went to Venice, once.

I am not really the type to read books that are tied to a time and place. The books that I read, and the stories that I write, could happen anywhere. They involve bodiless entities floating in an ether, spiraling inwards. They are books that discover the self, and ideals. They rarely muck themselves up with time and space. If setting is required it is generally a minor feature, gratuitous, less than a backdrop. However, I had a friend who read me a book in which one of the many story lines was set in Venice. The book was gorgeous. The author said so much by saying very little. She eluded. She drew on history and stereotypes. Her writing drew me into Napoleonic France, the Russian front, and ultimately a love story behind closed doors along the water-ways in Venice. The book, in case you have not already guessed it, was The Passion, which is not really about any of those moments or places at all, but it does an excellent job of drawing the stories out of these places, and putting a new glaze over them. It is just brilliant writing. It was so brilliant that among my "places I really need to go while in Europe" list, Venice was on the top, followed with Hemingway inspired Spain and a large empty space beneath. When I had the option of tacking Venice onto my marathon trip to Rome I did not hesitate. I went to Venice.

Venice was everything that I had hoped for, but then my hopes had not been concrete and were, therefore, easily met. My partner and I strolled lazily along the streets, letting monuments reach out to meet us, if they so wished. We were more concerned with relaxation and good food than site-seeing. Our ultimate experience in Venice was sitting by the water, eating bread and cheese from a deli and drinking tap-wine from an old water bottle. We repeated the situation several times, culminating in a final morning of sparkling wine and an old woman grumbling at us for plopping down in the middle of a set of steps rather than finding a proper piazza to infest. It was a glorious holiday, and as I look back I am still grateful that the city was able to live up to that bubble of romance that long days listening to my lover's voice drone out Winterson had created for me. I am grateful that although the city dipped into stereotypes I was able to ignore them and to bathe in that romance.

The romance and the stereotype of a place are two very different things. The romance of Venice involves the idea of love, adventure, risk and trust. It is courtship and sacrifice. It is dedication to your cultural past and current ideals. It is political engagement, slyness, and creativity. It is darkness, mystery, shadows and an ever changing world. In romance you meet a person on the streets and they show you a secret passage, inviting you into their existence. Or, in romance you don't meet anyone. You end up on a deserted dead-end path and wonder, briefly, where you go from there before caving to consult the map. At least that is my romance of Venice. My stereotype of Venice involves a typical stereotype of Italian males: arrogant, forward, constantly pressing for more, loud, and trustworthy only as long as you remain sober, with an added threat of pickpockets, irritation at foreigners, and touristic prices at every cafe in town.

I realize that neither my romance nor stereotype is founded in much. A book or two, a movie or series, and a few interactions is not really much to make a judgement on, which is why I am trying to refrain from judging and allow space for myself to be wrong. I want to be surprised, both in the thought that more than romance is possible and that stereotypes will not actually be met. At the same time I am curious as to where I constructed these two, slightly oppositional views, from the same material, and how I am able to keep them separate in my schema. What I have decided is that romance and stereotypes come from two different emotional places. Romance comes from hope and excitement. It comes from desire and is developed only through medium that allows a person a safe space to explore their desires and dreams, such as a one-way media experience including books and films. Stereotypes, on the other hand, come from a place of fear. They are formed through personal insecurities and awareness of weaknesses and are developed through bi-directional interactions that contain risk of threat or actual threat. So even though I have built my stereotypes and romance from one experience I am able to keep them separate because romance is everything that I deem good about a situation, and the stereotypes come from the threats and bad things. I am threatened by an aggressive male that might take advantage of me  physically or emotionally, and so he becomes a stereotype that I can protect myself against. However, I romance the same actions when portrayed by a male that might love and protect me, or offer safe, consensual adventures. That man becomes romanced.

An example: Night time on Saint Mark's Square. My friend and I arrived after nightfall, hoping to enjoy a bottle of wine and a snack. Two men approached us, trying to get our names and obviously trying to engage us for the evening in some form. According to my fearful, stereotypical telling of the story these were aggressive men and their intention was to either swindle us as tourists or to ply us with alcohol until we had sex with them, or something along those lines. According to my romantic telling this attention was very flattering and those men might have been the person that we were supposed to be with. My romantic telling saw much more, positive potentials from the same interaction. Romance allows you to take risks that stereotypes warn against. However, that night the stereotypical viewpoint was much stronger and we evaded the boys to continue on our own. My question then is WHY? What makes the stereotype triumph over romance?

Perhaps it is a cultural thing, or a sexist thing. Women live in constant fear. It isn't a gripping fear, or a disabling fear. Maybe to call it fear is wrong. Women live in an awareness. Women live in a land of possibility. Women have to be more aware of possibilities than men do, which makes us constantly evaluate situations, often basing our judgements and risks on our experience of romance or stereotypes. The higher the perceived risk in a situation, the more likely a woman defaults to he stereotypical view. If a situation is low-risk by being in an environment that she knows or with people that were introduced through someone that she trusts, then the woman is much more likely to default to her romantic view. This leads to women  romanticising assholes just because a good friend introduced them to us, or we met them at a burner event, and stereotyping potentially nice guys as creepers because they didn't have the right introduction.

I am not sure where I am going with these thoughts. I have only been to Venice once, after all. It isn't much to base anything on.

A Tale of Two Worlds

Today I went to the American embassy in Sofia to get my paperwork processed in order to be legally able to marry in Bulgaria. When we drove up across the building and I saw the state seal, and the American flag flying, I got strangely excited. Peace Corps has been invited to several embassy events, but me trailing the usual antisocial baggage that I do, I did not attend. I did not expect to get such a little thrill from seeing the carefully enclosed ground that is, for all intents and purposes, an extension of my "homeland." It rippled through me, strait down to my belly. We parked, walked along the icy street and arrived at the door only 2 minutes late. I was antsy. My strong need to be on time, which kicks in when I am 1) doing official, legal, state business or 2) hanging out with Americans, kicked into overdrive as I was about to do official business among Americans. But, by the time we checked in, and had to wait for another five minutes outside of the security room, I had settled.
We went in. We were asked to remove our jackets and all things metal, and to leave any electronics at the front desk. After passing through a metal detector we were ushered by a security guard towards the citizen services building. At the front desk we were again asked our names and looked up on the computer. We were then sent to the cashier to pay the fee. I think I got some sort of discount for being in Peace Corps because the marriage form was supposed to be 75 dollars. I was going to pay in lev until I saw the exchange rate and the kind gentleman helping us suggested that we pay with an American credit card, which I had luckily brought with me. We then went to another desk where a man appeared to know what we needed and who we were and was very helpful answering questions about emigration and marriage. There was another five minutes of waiting while he prepared our document and then I met with a very nice, enthusiastic vice-consular to sign my document and get it stamped. In less than an hour I was back at the front desk, picking up my electronics and smiling from all of the warm congratulations.
After the American embassy we had to stop by the Bulgarian ministry of the exterior to get the document legalized for Bulgaria. Now, I realize that I should not compare the two, and that offices within the United States are not as nearly warm and efficient as what I experienced here. However, the difference between the two places was just too hilarious to not mention. We arrived at the ministry and we were greeted by a guard outside. When we explained what we were there for he began to explain our options for collection of our documents and told us that we would have to go to a post office to pay for the service and then return. However, he noticed a group of older women inside and instead ushered us inside. There he asked if any of the women (who I assume must have been notaries) had extra stamps that they could sell us. One did, and so we bought 20 lev worth of stamps to attach to our documents. We filled out a form and took it to the cashier but were told we would need more stamps to do a rush service on our document. We returned to the older women who provided us with more stamps and showed us how to properly attach them, and then looked over our forms to make sure we had checked the correct boxes. We then gave the form back, were given a receipt and told to return tomorrow.
Both places were exceptionally warm today. I think that doing paperwork for marriage is somehow more heartwarming than any other type of paperwork. However, the warmth at the two different places was somehow very different, and it is hard for me to touch why. It was something to do with formality but not necessarily about professionalism. Perhaps it was something to do with the modernism found in the American embassy contrasted with paying through stamps at the Bulgarian ministry.
Well, two countries down and now only one more country to get our status as legally married recognizable. Life is interesting these days. 

The War Against Wet

I have a love-hate relationship with our apartment. I love its location, up north in a nice, quiet suburb where we feel altogether safe. I love that it is ours, even if only in lease. But it is definitely a poorly constructed apartment. It is cheaply made, probably for the sole purpose of renting out at a profit that will be gained in less than the year that we will be here. The pipes leak, the roof leaks, the floor is saturated... I keep thinking that if we could only have a dry week that this place would dry out and there would be some hope for salvaging it. But apparently dry weeks don't happen in Istanbul. The locals are used to it. I don't know how they survive year after year in this constant wetness. It is a battle that I am not prepared for. The level of cleaning and amount of bleach required just to keep the mold at bay is... well, let's just say that I never even purchased bleach in Arizona. Oh, how I miss the dry, warm safeness of the desert.

On Movement aand Experience

Yesterday the sun was shinning and aas I walked from campus to campus I trailed my fingers on the rails and had a itching desire in my belly to allow my feet aan extra freedom of movement. I saw the world as so much more than flat. It had so many surfaces that begged to be jumped upon and enjoyed. I watched my cohort moving from class to class, a line of efficiency. One foot in front of the other, shoulders back, head up, destination and goal. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to express in some physical way, but mostly just to move. Bodies are meant to be enjoyed. Movement should be something pleasurable. But I restrained myself. I wish I could say I don't know why, but I knnow that I caaved to the restraints of social expectation. I covered my joy, and life because I didn't want to attract attention.
This morning I dug out my mp3 player to have some music on the bus. A world seen through music is quite different from a world seen in its native sounds. It takes on the story of a music video. I was listening to Parov Stellar, aa nice swingy beat, and the buildings came to life more vibrantly than they have for the past 4 months. I thought about intentional meditation and when you can actually start teaching a child awareness practice without frustrating their natural developmental progress by demanding too much, too soon. I felt the sunshine and although it is wet here I can't help but compare it to Tucson in its mildness this late into the season. Then it started. A little head bob, the tapping on my fingers. Curbs became much more than a step but an excuse to elongate my legs, stretch out my toes, to pause and feel weight and gravity. To understand movement.
Oh, how I yearn to dance. None of this hiding in dark discotechs with drink in hand. I want sober, intentional, playful movement of bodies under the full exposure of the sun. I want a campout filled with love and joy and laughter and above all, expression.
Desire is fun, movement is better. Life is good.

Fall in Istanbul

I have never been very impressed by fall. In fact, I have been known to be downright hateful towards any season that was not summer. However, leaving the safe haven of my eternal summer deep in the southwest I have come to experience, timidly at first and then with a bit of curious anticipation, other seasons.

For me fall has always been a time of ending. It reeks of decay and death. The leaves turn brown, the sap in trees runs slowly, and it tells the coming of winter. Winter, which could be appreciated for what it is if we didn't try to control it... if winter consisted of blankets and hibernation  books and knitting and hot chocolate and mindless movies, then it wouldn't be so bad. But winter consists of bad drivers, waiting in the cold for public transportation, heaters on too fully in public buildings, and sickly lighting schemes. It is not something to look forward to in the way most modern humans experience it, or try not to. Winter is an awful dissonance between realities (the desired and the experienced) and a time of humans waging war against the eminent will of nature, and fall is just the ramping up to that disgusting display. Or so I thought.

Here, in Istanbul, fall has a completely different feel than what I have experienced before. It is mid-October now and the weather changes daily- some days a bit windy, some days warm and mild, occasionally chilled and rainy. Every day is a surprise. I enjoy the juxtaposition of short sleeves and scarves, or long sleeves and bare necks. I love the gentle breeze that, somedays, comes up off the bosphorous, kissing along the neck of my university campus. It is a breeze without temperature, neither cooling nor warming, it just lifts the small hairs on your arms or neck and then places them down again, ever so gently, without any effort or crude moments of shock. Everything seems peaceful. People are settling into their routines, they have unwound from summer vacation, and they are drinking coffee and talking in low voices with small, satisfied smiles.

I never knew that a month could be like this. Or else I forgot. What I do know is that right now, in this time and this year, I am exactly where I need to be. The place of Bogazici opens up to me and folds over me, and I feel safe, and tickled with tiny promises of experience. Fall or not, October in Istanbul is perfect. 

Subtle Gear Shift

When the cub came back from Bulgaria he brought a delightful array of presents for me: a family ring to solidify our fake marriage, coffee mugs from his parent's trip to moscow, and a bicycle to take me here and there and, on a good day, back again to him. The bike is something that makes me squee inside. A friend once defended his reasoning for getting his daughter a bicycle as it being a rite of passage and an experience in responsibility and freedom. In the gridlock of Istanbul that freedom is a breath of fresh air. There is nothing quite like being able to control my pace and speed and get to where I want to be, hills and effort be damned. But the bike has one thing strange for me: the gear shift. I am used to indexed gear shifters. You know, the type that click thoughtlessly into place with the flick of a finger. This shifter requires a little more thought and finesse. Effort, time, whatever you will. It isn't that I can't handle it, but I definitely have been spoiled by magic for my entire life.

Riding home the other day I realized how much my relationship outlook is like a gearshift. I have always been the type of person that locks immediately into place in a relationship. For me there is no "dating - for - fun," phase. There is love, or not-love and there is no reason to dabble in a relationship if the connection is not there, just for amusement or companionship. At the same time there is no reason to pretend that the connection isn't there when it is. I have never been the type to play hard to get. People think that this is an unhealthy way to live- that it betrays some personal attachment issue deep within me. Maybe this is true, and maybe not. All I know is that it has been the only thing that makes sense to me. If you feel love, then say it. If it is important to you then care for it. It seems quite simple to me, not some twisted form of desperation. However, finally, this bike has helped me to understand the other perspective. There is no commitment in the shift. You can get halfway towards the next gear and decide that you were wrong and back down without consequence. There is no stopping, no turning, no jolt in the indecision. At the same time, sliding up to the next level is an awkward experience with a bit of friction until you are settled, sometimes not worth the intention that it requires. I get why people find it so difficult to find a relationship and settle into it; why they date so many people that it will obviously (even to them) never work out with. Well, call me easy and automatic, but I will stick to my indexed life. 

Is this real?

I am sitting in an empty classroom, taking a little of the campus internet to finally update my blog and try to figure out what 2+2 equals in Turkey. This morning I woke up, had a coffee and played guitar and then took a bus along the channel to my university. I walked down the steep university hill towards the south campus, taking in the bobbing boats in Bebek and debating the possibility of taking my longboard to school despite the steep hills and occasional speed-bumps. I grabbed another coffee and a pizza (black olives are briny here, and very tasty in the morning) and wandered the Engineering building to find a room that was not in use. It is such a minor morning. Nothing extraordinary happened, but what I cannot quite believe is that I am back on a university campus after nearly 10 years.

University campuses are  different from community college campuses. Community college lacks the, well, community, that universities try to cultivate. The students are too diverse, focused on different aspects of their lives. Here there is a strong majority of traditional students, all focused on two things: their studies and their social lives. Work and career are still whispers in their souls that they have paid little attention to. They think they are academics. They are here where things are safe. As my instructor for Communications and Media pointed out: here you can try things, you can make mistakes, you can create as many alternative models that you wish, and you do not have any consequences. Academia is a place for the theoretical. It is a place for taking chances. And the students talk about politics and current events and social theory instead of gossiping and complaining about administrative issues. They think that they are academics. Of course, the cats here think that they are lions, so maybe we are all just fooling ourselves, but I will take it while I can get it.

Learning from cats

So I thought that I would take a few moments this morning and write a bit about my newest love. (No, I am giving the blog a break from writing about Nikola... this little guy is newer and slightly more furry.) :

The hostel that I am living and working at is called, "Stray Cat Hostel." I think the name is very appropriate, especially this month as it is filled with the lost little kittens of erasmus who are desperately looking for accommodation for their coming semester or years. The hostel has three cats that actually belong to it: one who just had kittens, one I haven't seen, and one that I have fallen in love with and want to talk about.

He doesn't really have a name. His name was Sofi when a hostel worker found him on the street and insisted that he was a girl. It stayed that way until last week when the creative little guy participated in some sort of adventure that none of us will ever piece together and broke his leg. Sedat took him to a vet who informed him that a) the cat was too small to do anything for the leg, and b) the cat was a boy. At that moment two very interesting things happened to the cat. A) He was confined to a box to encourage him to stop running, jumping and playing and B) His name was stripped from him.

Well, now I am calling him Houdini, because we have learned that he is quite a determined kitten that will get out of any type of box or cat-crate that we put him in. This guy loves to be out and about. He needs constant interaction and human affection. He also needs adventures. He is absolutely perfect for the hostel setting and several of the guests have fallen in love with him as we have nursed him back to health. Over the past 10 days I have grown to respect Houdini very much. I feel that there is so much that I could learn from him.

1) Determination and trust.

Houdini refused to rest with his broken leg. He kept walking, and jumping off of couches or out of boxes. For those of us trying to get him to rest his leg it was terrifying, but he was not about to give up using his broken leg. He exhausted himself as much as possible and then found a lap or couch to curl up in and slept completely, peacefully. When he woke up he was at it again. It did not matter that his leg was broken, and it did not matter that we were trying to get him to rest. He was determined to live his quality of life the way that he had always known. In the end this exercise actually worked and now he is barely limping, and able to safely jump up and down! (Only 10 days after the vet said that there was a good possibility that his leg would be paralyzed for his life.) I wonder if it did any good to try and stop him. Animals know their bodies and the healing process a lot more thoroughly than humans do. Perhaps the next time I am faced with that much insistance I will just trust the animal to heal itself to the extent that it can, and take that as the fate of the animal.

2) Friendliness and affection.

Houdini is a cuddle-slut. He will come to anyone, look up with those kittenish eyes, open that tiny kittenish mouth, and insist to be picked up and petted. I have not seen anyone with the power to resist him yet. He states his needs both vocally and physically. It is very obvious when he wants to be petted and when he wants to be fed, and when he wants let out. I think that is a trait that people are happy to embrace: stating your needs in an unobtrusive, yet firm and clear way. It is funny that I learn this from a creature that can not even speak.

3) Rest.

When Houdini needs to rest he really rests. He passes out, completely unaware of the world, and goes deep within himself. He stretches and curls his body and really seems to be enjoying his life. If he chooses your lap to rest on then you get a contented purr running over your thighs and you know that he is one happy kitty.

So, I think of all the strays that I have come across in this hostel, Houdini is by far my favorite. Unfortunately I am in no position to adopt a kitten at the moment, but hopefully I get to stay his friend for many months.

Stress takes its toll:

I remember completing a questionnaire about life-stressors that I have faced sometime during my early college years. The idea was to recognize that stress can be positive or negative, that its effects are cumulative, and to give us healthy coping habits. I remember some of the items on the list being: move to a new location, get a new house, change professions, go back to school etc. As my twenties have progressed I have found it quite unbelievable that I am even alive, let alone (for the most part) happy in my life as I have these (what they consider major stressors) at least every two years. In fact, my most stable, least stressful time has been the peace corps, because I knew that I would be staying there for two and a half years, and all of my basic needs were handled for me. Now I am thrown back into the exciting world of dealing with bureaucracy without an advocate, searching for apartments, and learning a new city without a support network (although, I do have 1 wonderful pillar of support hanging out with me).  Reading the posts from the other volunteers in my group it is obvious that they are going through the same thing back in the states- finding homes, finding cars, finding loves, reuniting with friends. Ending peace corps is just as stressful as that first move from the protection the parental home.

I am overwhelmed with Istanbul. I noticed this last night when I had stress dreams- the ones that you can't even remember but the emotion of it sticks with you. I woke up babbling nonsense to the boy, and with a strange, firm new feeling stuck in me. I HOPE that it is just a stress dream. I don't want those feelings.

So, yeah, it is stressful. My life has been nothing but a run through as much stress as I can locate since age 17. However, I am happy, and I am surviving and the world is beautiful out here on the edge. 

I had forgotten...

I had forgotten that love could feel like this: this warm, this exciting.

When he got off the tram yesterday I saw him looking for me. Instantly I melted. No, beyond melting, I exploded. It was a complete dump of serotonin, and I knew that I was in for a joyous little night. A little pocket of happiness broke open and began to sprinkle out into my brain. In the beginning, the moments that it took him to see me, and to smile, and to walk across the street and greet me, my nerves grew excited- sensing more. The warm night air was better, the bosphorous was closer. He held me in his arms and I could barely locate words. My mouth felt cottony around the ones I could find, so they were better left unsaid. Mouths are better used for a different type of communication in those situations. He kissed me; warm and soft and playful and all the things that a reunion kiss should be. I felt drunk. Between the lights, the thudding bass of iskatel street, the tasty smoke of the nargile, and the boy wrapped comfortably around me I had lost my sobriety. Maybe it is somewhere on the street, still being trampled by the light feet of lovers and tourists, but I feel no need to return and search for it.

We fell asleep, exhausted but together. In the morning I woke up with the slightest of headaches, making it difficult to leave the bed that we had shared. Nothing feels better than that, except having no reason to leave bed.

I had forgotten how overwhelming and enticing love can be. I had finally forgotten how addictive it is, making you crave more until you just can't handle it. I had forgotten how it feels to trust this deeply and be so amazed. Or perhaps I never forgot- perhaps I never even knew. 

Why I don't REALLY miss Burning Man...

This is an interesting article that I stumbled upon about bringing your Burning Man experience into your real life.

Do I miss being in the States? People ask me this all the time, and I honestly tell them that I miss some things: I miss the desert. Arizona is incomparably beautiful and I am saddened the further away from it that I get(distance is not always measured in miles, but a combination of time and the chance of return). I also miss the communities that I was a part of, mainly, my outdoor community (SCC et al) and my Bay Area Community (Burning Man and RWB- even though not all of these people are located in or around SF, I still mentally locate them there). So, yes, there are definitely things that I miss.

HOWEVER, one of the things that I do not really miss anymore is Burning Man itself, and the minor treats that are associated with it. This is because I have pulled my real life into that creative space. I began to do that years before I even went to Burning Man, but when I started going to Burning Man I got a little swept up into the cultishness of the place. I had never been around so many people who thought like me, and who I felt free to play with. I had never felt so at home. Eventually I began to believe a very dangerous mistruth: that the place was special, and the community was special. No, that is not exactly how I want to word that, because they were special. There was a magical resonance that vibrated between us for many years. They are little-prince-rose special. But they are not special in the way that no one else, and no place else, has the potential to be like them. Burning Man was a great idea, but it is just that; an idea. It is not meant to be confined to the playa, year after year. It is meant to live, and breathe and grow. This means taking a piece of the idea home with you, and implementing it into your everyday life.

This was something that I touched on after my bike trip at the beginning of the month. I realized that the entire world is like a giant playa. We are constantly wandering around, and if you choose, you can make it your goal to find the best parts of humanity, and the most intriguing art. You can go and play. Every city, although not temporary, deserves to be lived in and played with. I think that many people take their cities too seriously. I know that once I have lived in a place for awhile, I do. However, being in a new place, and a place as large and complicated as Istanbul, one cannot help but see that the world isn't nearly as serious as society has lead us to believe. Strangers are not as scary as our parents told us that they were. They are here for us to interact with and live with. Otherwise, what is the point to life?

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning I decided to go to church. Of course, I don't really go to church as I don't practice a religion, but I decided that I needed some private time to concentrate on my insides. So I went down to the waterside with my guitar and a book, and I spent all morning in the gentle sunshine and wind, playing guitar. It was the most pleasant morning that I have had for some time. People came and sat close to me for a song or two, then meandered on, never actually interrupting me. Then I finished reading, "Invisible Cities" by Calvino, which is overly appropriate for starting as exploration of a city as multi-faceted as Istanbul. For awhile I watched the spray from the waves made by ferries crash against the docks, and then I watched the people around me: young couples, old women with and without dogs, with and without roses, young men, old men, boys selling nuts. No one had anywhere to be or anything to do. I loved it.

But the thing about this park that struck me as most queer is the variety of trees: pine, palm, birch, oak, and others that I cannot recognize, all in the same park- growing in clumps together. It is like the diversity of this city cannot be stopped from even permeating the flora. 

Whatsoever

Arrival

It is never the way that you imagined it, so I never bothered to imagine it at all. Imagination can be useless in these situations. You imagine arriving in the city the way that you first did, with the sun peaking red and the minarets piercing the dawn. You imagine a city brimming with hope, potential and possibility. And what good does the imagination do when you arrive and actually the clouds are bursting up, and the dawn is a watery gray, and still there is hope and possibility but of a completely different, unfamiliar nature? Reality sometimes sits too close to the imagination, and they create a creaking dissonance that is better not experienced. Sometimes it is better to go in blind.

And so I went in blind.

I came here without a real idea of what it would be like. I forgot the vastness of this city. I forgot the men on the streets, with dark, piercing eyes and mischievous smiles. I forgot the sights and smells and sounds. I forgot how it crushes and suffocates, and on the other hand how you feel like you are flying. I forgot it all and I experienced something altogether new. I experienced a vast city, with men on the streets with piercing eyes and mischievous smiles. I experienced new sights and smells and sounds. I experienced an altogether crushing, and suffocating and yet uplifting sensation. It was a great arrival.

The only thing disappointing was that I somehow got into my head that I was special. I fell in love with this place, and so I up and decided to live here, and I thought my idea was unique. Landing in a hostel FILLED with erasmus students is a little disheartening. I see so many people had the same inkling, and I am mirrored. I never like mirrors because they are so very distorted. I am nothing like them. Nothing :)

A Meta-Vacation along the Black Sea

I originally intended to come to Turkey at the beginning of September. I thought that I would take a train over on the first, and spend ten lazy days doing nothing until I had to register for school. Having a single lazy day this morning I realize that it was a terrible decision, and I am lucky that my friends had to bump our vacation forward and I stayed in Bulgaria to the fullest extent of my possibility.

Last week we completed part II of our Black Sea adventure on bikes. It started last year, surely imagined over beers in the bylato or the firehouse, and taken too seriously by Maria and myself. I enjoy people who take ideas too seriously; those who think that thoughts and ideas are silly in themselves and actually turn them into experiences. For the most part I think that has been why Maria and I have gotten along over the past two years. We talk less and do more than those around us. Anyways, I wander in my thoughts. Last year was 10 days from Bourgas to the Turkish border, and it was lovely. Three of us went together, with no experience between us, and came out the other side feeling cranky, tired, sun-weathered, and overall happy. Of course we needed to repeat the adventure. So, this year we grabbed another friend and we went north.

I felt much less connection with the sea this year. In the south we rode for a little way each morning, through the woods, and in the afternoon we drank beer and laid on the beach. Every morning we repeated the ritual of coffee and breaking camp. It felt like we had forever down there, and I was quite happy. This year we spent much more time on our bikes, going less distance. I think that this was mainly due to the cooler weather, the wind, and the lack of cover. We were exposed the entire time, and it wore on me. I wanted to go further, faster, and overall  I could just not admit that I wanted it to go on longer.

Many times during the week I found myself irritated, and thinking that it didn't matter. The irritation mattered as little as the individual pleasures. Everything would weigh together in the end and in 5 years I will not remember the time that maria said this, or eva said that, or gigi pulled a leroy jenkins. I will only remember that one summer I went on a trip along the northern coast of the bulgarian black sea. It will be positive, because it was an experience, and so I surrendered to the pull of averages and tried to let go of my taut emotions.

 The trip started with a failure. I left my lover's bed at 5 in the morning to take the train from varna and meet up with my fellow riders. Unfortunately, the train broke down 1 stop away from our connection to the north, adding 2 hours and a disproportional amount of exhaustion to the first day of our trip.

 After riding for two hours on a weirdly open but pleasant road we came upon this very communist-era statue, overlooking nothing. By nothing I mean absolutely nothing. A bit of grass, but mostly turned fields of dirt. It was queer and classic for me, but I quickly learned that my fascination in communist style sculptures does not echo at all in my modern Bulgarian friends.

 And then, over the hill, there was the sea. We spent two evenings camping at cosmos, although one would have been plenty. However, the first sight of it was a beautiful reward for the year.

 The second day we continued on to Shabla and Tulenovo, which was gorgeous. There was a perfect cave to camp in, a fire to be had, a new friend to meet, and falling stars to watch. The moon was huge and orange and everything was quiet and perfect. I think that it was my favorite night.

And a favorite night was followed by a favorite day. We went to the nature reserve, "qlata." There was some serenity that seeped from that place and I wanted to sit there and meditate for hours. In a moment I realized the importance of ritual (I am older now and so really I remembered the earlier realization) and I decided that I need to form rituals. I have been floating without rituals for way too long.

The last two days flew by, and I actually ended up leaving our company early, just to get some actual beach time and a last night in a bed with my boy.

Overall the trip was not bad, but it was not spectacular. I was constantly gnawed by the thought that in the states burning man was happening. I am not even sure that I would still want to go, but I kept thinking that every vacation is like burning man. We look for the creative parts of society, the beautiful parts of nature, and strive to make connections with people. Actually, that is not vacation as much as it is life, I suppose.