Istanbul

Written Monday, Jan 2: I am finally home after two weeks of travel. We got back last night around midnight from our fantastic weekend in New York after ringing in the New Year in style, and spending all of New Years' Day drinking mimosas and playing Skee Ball at Ace. It was a perfect way to begin 2012, and the perfect end to the last two weeks of adventure.

In a fit of productivity today, I did four loads of laundry, cleaned my room, unpacked my suitcase(s), went grocery shopping, uploaded 400 photos, and will now begin the epic task of blogging our trip. Also, it's 7:15 and I'm ready for bed.

The Blue Mosque

We arrived in Istanbul around 10:30am, Eastern European Time (3:30am to our body clocks), and lucked into a near-empty airport. Both BWI and JFK had been nightmarish the day prior - we'd thought we were so clever to book flights out on that Tuesday afternoon, nearly a week before Christmas. Not so. It seems to me that nobody went to work at all that week. Instead, everyone else had the genius idea to get a jump start on holiday travel. We waited in a lot of lines.

But the primarily Muslim city of Istanbul was abuzz in its regular weekday flow, which left the airport pretty vacant. We paid our $20 apiece for 90-day visiting visas, and were rewarded with a comedian border patrolman who looked at my passport, looked gravely at me, shook his head and said, "WANTED," and then winked cheekily. But not before I felt a tightening in my chest that indicated the onset of a minor heart attack. Hilarious.

Welcome aboard Turkish airlines!

Deceptively empty metro car at one of the early stops.

We had already changed money at JFK, and so followed signs to the metro. Purchasing tokens was slightly complicated given that nothing was in English, and we couldn't figure out if purchasing double the amount meant tokens enough for two people. A kind man, fluent in both Turkish and English, came to the rescue, inserted our money for us, and handed us the tokens that came out the bottom of the machine. 

The metro was a cozy little ride; something akin to this. 


Halfway to downtown, we got caught in some nasty traffic due to an intense, albeit entirely peaceful, demonstration that involved hundreds upon hundreds of marchers with signs lining the streets, and an equal number of Turkish police in full riot gear. Having only been in Istanbul for approximately an hour and a half, my Arabic was not quite yet fluent and so I was unable to decipher the cries and signs. I'm pretty sure the demonstration was labor-related, although it could just as easily been a show of despair at the sanctity of marriage pissed upon by the Kardashian family. Either one of those seem to garner intense opinions.

After peeling ourselves from the metro car windows disembarking at Sirkeci, the last stop before the Galata Bridge, we heard the first of many, many muezzin that would form a soundtrack to our stay in the Middle East. The calls to prayer sound discordant at first, and even jarring. But after a careful listen, you can begin to hear the melodic flow and appreciate the precision of vocal control and the beauty of a faith that calls for reflection five times a day. Not all muezzins are created equal, however, and some are more aurally aesthetic than others. But the experience is the same, and it never failed to cause me to stop and listen in the week that we were abroad.

We lucked into an absolutely beautiful day in Istanbul that day - the weather had called for upper forties, rain, possibly thunder showers. Instead, we got mid- to upper-50s and completely clear skies. The weather beckoned us to the Galata Bridge where we wandered to find a spot outdoors for lunch.

Galata Bridge restaurants

Running along the underside span of the bridge is a row of restaurants, each with menus proudly displayed alongside maître d's who will beg you to sample their wares, look at how fresh their fish is, and bargain with them for a deal on some fish and vegetables. They will run alongside, pushing the menu at you, declaring their feasts to be the best. Eventually, you will tire of shaking your head, and you will select a restaurant not because the menu looks the best or the fish looks the freshest, but because a maître d' has worn you into submission and you're simply too tired and hungry to go on.

When I say that this fish is fresh, I am not kidding you. You will be invited to peruse their wooden crates of whatever was brought in that morning, and you will look at row after row of glassy-eyed fish and select one. You tell the chef how you'd like it prepared (sauteed, fried, filleted, whole, grilled, however you like! We make for you!), and you sit down and allow for a rush of hospitality so detailed, they might as well work your jaw for you to chew your food.

sauteed spinach, tuna mezze

Shepherd's salad

            















The Gentleman and I chose Shepherd's salad 
(fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and radishes in a light-as-air vinegar and oil dressing), fatty tuna with capers, a platter of fresh fruit, and bottled water to start. We selected three exquisite bluefish from a wooden crate filled with ice chips, and asked for them to be grilled and served whole. While eating our salad and appetizers and waiting for our meal, we basked in the warm sunshine and tried to fight off dizzying jet lag. Fishers on the bridge above lined the walkway with lines, cast out into the bright blue, churning Bosphorus River. I half-wondered if a fish drawn right in front of us would end up on our plates.

A young Turkish lad wearing pants like a Newsie and an Armani jacket strolled up with a wheelbarrow packed with shaved ice and fish. I shit you not. The maître d' came outside, and manhandled a few of the fish with a practiced eye, before shouting a stream of words that were either condemning the fish seller to hell or proclaiming these fish to be bigger than Justin Bieber. He motioned towards us.

"You want fish? Fresh? You want try? My chef cook for you, however you like. You pick the fish. We cook it." We looked at the dead fish nestled snugly in the wheelbarrow of ice and politely declined. We'd already done our selecting for the day.

Delectable. And kind of snarly.

And, let me tell you, the fish that was brought to us was a work of art. So simply cooked, without so much as salt and pepper, but delicately buttered and sprinkled with lemon, it fell right off the bone. The papery skin melted like puff pastry around the succulent meat. We shared three of the tiny fish and felt completed sated. 

"Baclava"

We ordered baclava and Turkish coffee for dessert and were presented with a strange, grainy nut composition. My first Turkish coffee in Istanbul still sits in my memory as one of the best things I've ever tasted. We asked for no sugar, as coffee and tea in Turkey and the Middle East tend to come heavily sugared. This coffee needs no sugar, no milk. It is stark, rich, almost buttery, with only the slightest, enjoyable bitterness at the end. My jet lag was at bay after that coffee, and this began an unfortunate wanton lust for Turkish coffee that lasted throughout the trip to fight off fatigue. Coming back, I am now hooked on caffeine again after kicking my triple-latte-a-day habit, but nothing will satisfy this jones.

Coffee now is disappointing and stupid. My hands shake for the real deal.

Must. Have. More.

We walked off our delicious meal and made our way to the Blue Mosque. We were asked if we were German, British, or Californian. All might have been plausible - with our blonde hair and blue eyes, my boyfriend and I were frequently mistaken as various Nordic nationalities throughout the trip. (Also as brother and sister, but thankfully only when his parents and brother were with us, and they assumed the five white people had to be a family.)

The Blue Mosque was incredible, and disappointing only in that we happened to get there at prayer time, and were not allowed inside. But the courtyard was pretty breathtaking:

We made our way across the park area to the Hagia Sophia which was further awe-inducing. The Hagia Sophia is an ancient basilica-turned-mosque, and is a jaw-dropping montage of Islamic and Christian motifs, cradled together in towering domes.

 

We had to leave Istanbul after only a few hours to catch the flight to Amman. My sincerest wish to spend more time there came true - sort of - but I now have an ardent desire to spend a good week there. So much history in this beautiful city, where the Middle East, Europe, and Asia collide and influence and remain.

Next on the docket: A little spiel about Middle Eastern food, aka "Why Even Whole Foods Now Disappoints."

Hate Returns Hate

"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." --Martin Luther King, Jr.

Where The Voices At?

All we are saying....
....is give peace a chance.

Just finished watching The U.S. vs. John Lennon.

I kept thinking about my generation, and who might be seen as the cultural, radical, innovative thinkers. Greenday?

With "the medium is the message" distorting sensationalism and creating something out of nothing, there seems to be nothing left in this world that is truly original or groundbreaking. And, when it comes to political spheres and protests and ways in which we react to the Powers That Be...well, you can plan five thousand benefit concerts and it will never- in any way- come close to what The Beatles, and John Lennon in particular, did for political movements in the 1960's and 70's.

My generation appears lazy, jaded, and cathartic. The children of the flower children, and what wars are we fighting? Sure, we're the first to embrace things like recycling, organic living, and green initiatives. But we've also watched so many wars, a ballooning defense budget, and attacks on the right to the pursuit of happiness. Where are the radicals in this country where gay people are denied basic civil rights? Where are the demonstrations and, maybe the more important question, what could anyone possibly do in this day and age to really garner attention?

In the age of YouTube, Facebook, blogspot, and all the other ways we can communicate our hard-earned (albeit certainly not by us) rights to voice our opinions publicly and safely, where's the sensationalism that is required in radical schools of thought? It seems, in this day, you have to drink the Kool Aid or marry a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls or shave your head and come after a paparazzi's van with an umbrella to get any semblance of attention.

John and Yoko spent 7 days of their honeymoon in bed, allowing reporters and filmographers and photographers access to their most intimate of moments. And it was ground-breaking. It was real, it was raw, and there was nothing to hide. They had their message, they had a captive audience, and although we might now look back on their escapades with a decided yawn (you mean they weren't photographed climbing pantiless out of the back of a limo or caught doing lines of cocaine off of an LA club toilet?? How boring.) it was absolutely radical, it was absolutely new, and it was absolutely a media-frenzy. Regardless of whether or not it made a difference (and I think it can be argued that the fact that my generation; some of whom weren't even alive to see Lennon walk the earth let alone bed down with his Japanese wife; has a very visual mental picture of Lennon and Yoko in bed together with flowing hair and white pajamas shows just how permanent sensational media images can be) it was seen and heard and held a presence.

Who's holding a presence now? I would argue that John Stewart and Stephen Colbert have made significant contributions. Maybe Family Guy and The Simpsons. South Park, to a certain extent. But where are the artists? Where are the sensationalists? What could they possibly do that hasn't already been done?

Where are our generation's John and Yoko, fighting back against Rupert Murdoch and ridiculous bigotry and the nauseating reactions to building a center that promotes religious tolerance in the Financial District of New York City? Where are they fighting against the evil of BP, against a government that will leap into action for crises halfway around the world but take five days to send aid to one of our very own cities in an act that, I am more and more convinced, is evidence of the presence of institutionalized racism here in this country? Where are our battle cries, what cards are we burning, and how long do we have to grow our hair before it's anything more than some hipster's idea of a fundraiser?

I wish I knew. I'm just as guilty as anyone else. I'm not eschewing the system; in fact, I'm very much working alongside of it. To be fair, I'm doing so in an effort to enact change and promote advocacy and activism, but honestly I'm not existing outside of any boxes here.

What will the documentaries about our generation look like? Obsessed with ourselves, with our personal growth, with our "journeys," and Facebook and personal achievements? We are the most selfish generation to cross this earth; the most highly-educated and, by far, the stupidest. And, please understand, I in no way credit myself or place myself outside of it. I'm just as enmeshed and embroiled in it as anyone else, but I watch documentaries about anger, about a genuine care for humanity and the art and beauty and innovative thinking that can arise, and I wonder just what the hell we think we are doing.

If Lennon were alive today to see what BP has done, to witness our ridiculous "Operation Freedom" and "Patriot Acts...." what would he say? What would he do?

Where's our John Lennon?

My Country 'Tis Of Thee

Can it, Palin:

We have come here to Governors Island to stand where the earliest settlers first set foot in New Amsterdam, and where the seeds of religious tolerance were first planted. We’ve come here to see the inspiring symbol of liberty that, more than 250 years later, would greet millions of immigrants in the harbor, and we come here to state as strongly as ever – this is the freest City in the world. That’s what makes New York special and different and strong.

Our doors are open to everyone – everyone with a dream and a willingness to work hard and play by the rules. New York City was built by immigrants, and it is sustained by immigrants – by people from more than a hundred different countries speaking more than two hundred different languages and professing every faith. And whether your parents were born here, or you came yesterday, you are a New Yorker.

We may not always agree with every one of our neighbors. That’s life and it’s part of living in such a diverse and dense city. But we also recognize that part of being a New Yorker is living with your neighbors in mutual respect and tolerance. It was exactly that spirit of openness and acceptance that was attacked on 9/11.

On that day, 3,000 people were killed because some murderous fanatics didn’t want us to enjoy the freedom to profess our own faiths, to speak our own minds, to follow our own dreams and to live our own lives.

Of all our precious freedoms, the most important may be the freedom to worship as we wish. And it is a freedom that, even here in a City that is rooted in Dutch tolerance, was hard-won over many years. In the mid-1650s, the small Jewish community living in Lower Manhattan petitioned Dutch Governor Peter Stuyvesant for the right to build a synagogue – and they were turned down.

In 1657, when Stuyvesant also prohibited Quakers from holding meetings, a group of non-Quakers in Queens signed the Flushing Remonstrance, a petition in defense of the right of Quakers and others to freely practice their religion. It was perhaps the first formal, political petition for religious freedom in the American colonies – and the organizer was thrown in jail and then banished from New Amsterdam.

In the 1700s, even as religious freedom took hold in America, Catholics in New York were effectively prohibited from practicing their religion – and priests could be arrested. Largely as a result, the first Catholic parish in New York City was not established until the 1780’s – St. Peter’s on Barclay Street, which still stands just one block north of the World Trade Center site and one block south of the proposed mosque and community center.

This morning, the City’s Landmark Preservation Commission unanimously voted not to extend landmark status to the building on Park Place where the mosque and community center are planned. The decision was based solely on the fact that there was little architectural significance to the building. But with or without landmark designation, there is nothing in the law that would prevent the owners from opening a mosque within the existing building. The simple fact is this building is private property, and the owners have a right to use the building as a house of worship.

The government has no right whatsoever to deny that right – and if it were tried, the courts would almost certainly strike it down as a violation of the U.S. Constitution. Whatever you may think of the proposed mosque and community center, lost in the heat of the debate has been a basic question – should government attempt to deny private citizens the right to build a house of worship on private property based on their particular religion? That may happen in other countries, but we should never allow it to happen here. This nation was founded on the principle that the government must never choose between religions, or favor one over another.

The World Trade Center Site will forever hold a special place in our City, in our hearts. But we would be untrue to the best part of ourselves – and who we are as New Yorkers and Americans – if we said ‘no’ to a mosque in Lower Manhattan.

Let us not forget that Muslims were among those murdered on 9/11 and that our Muslim neighbors grieved with us as New Yorkers and as Americans. We would betray our values – and play into our enemies’ hands – if we were to treat Muslims differently than anyone else. In fact, to cave to popular sentiment would be to hand a victory to the terrorists – and we should not stand for that.

For that reason, I believe that this is an important test of the separation of church and state as we may see in our lifetime – as important a test – and it is critically important that we get it right.

On September 11, 2001, thousands of first responders heroically rushed to the scene and saved tens of thousands of lives. More than 400 of those first responders did not make it out alive. In rushing into those burning buildings, not one of them asked ‘What God do you pray to?’ ‘What beliefs do you hold?’

The attack was an act of war – and our first responders defended not only our City but also our country and our Constitution. We do not honor their lives by denying the very Constitutional rights they died protecting. We honor their lives by defending those rights – and the freedoms that the terrorists attacked.

Of course, it is fair to ask the organizers of the mosque to show some special sensitivity to the situation – and in fact, their plan envisions reaching beyond their walls and building an interfaith community. By doing so, it is my hope that the mosque will help to bring our City even closer together and help repudiate the false and repugnant idea that the attacks of 9/11 were in any way consistent with Islam. Muslims are as much a part of our City and our country as the people of any faith and they are as welcome to worship in Lower Manhattan as any other group. In fact, they have been worshipping at the site for the better part of a year, as is their right.

The local community board in Lower Manhattan voted overwhelming to support the proposal and if it moves forward, I expect the community center and mosque will add to the life and vitality of the neighborhood and the entire City.

Political controversies come and go, but our values and our traditions endure – and there is no neighborhood in this City that is off limits to God’s love and mercy, as the religious leaders here with us today can attest.

-Mayor Michael Bloomberg, Landmarks Preservation Commission Vote, August 3, 2010, Governor' s Island.

"Haiti" and What We Can Learn From Katrina

(photo- Katyn Monument, Harbor East, Baltimore. May 2008.)

"Choosing the humanistic approach to other people’s misery brings certain obligations. The first is humanitarian: the generous response of ordinary Americans, along with the quick dispatch of troops and supplies by the U.S. government, met this responsibility, though it couldn’t answer the overwhelming needs of people in Haiti. But beyond rescue and relief lies the harder task of figuring out what the United States and other countries can and ought to do for Haiti over the long term, and what Haiti is capable of doing for itself." - "Suffering," George Packer, The New Yorker, Jan 25 2010

This March, I am headed to New Orleans for a week to volunteer for a Habitat project that's building a community of homes along a devastated stretch of land by the river. The decision process in my choosing to embark on this mission came in equal parts sudden and prolonged.

The prolonged aspect was this: for the past several years, I've been at odds with myself and my place in this world. I've waxed poetical on this blog (often injecting narcissistic ruins and self-deprecating moments of doubt) about the process and, from a standpoint although not quite yet fully outside of it but clearly on the other side of something, I realized that all of this soul-searching and circular thinking was yielding....nothing. Was it wasted? Certainly not. Was it necessary? Of course. Was it productive? Depends on how you measure. But was it moving forward? Not anymore.

The realization that inaction is a form of action was no longer working culminated in a moment where I realized how very small I am, how very large the world is, and how very interconnected we are. All of this rationalizing and theorizing brought me to the idea that I should take all of this excess "I don't know what to do with myself" energy and put it to good use. And so, I decided to volunteer, to do something big, to plan and execute some sort of project that would, in some way, directly help others.

Whenever you commit yourself to something, it seems that doors open. Within the week of my decision to attempt to find some outlet for this newly-found goal, an email found its way to me via various outlets seeking volunteers for a Habitat trip to New Orleans. I met with the organizer of the trip a week later and signed the paperwork.

Once I started doing research, I became more and more fully committed to the idea of the RHINO project (Rebuilding Hope In New Orleans.) The thing with great world crises (think Katrina, the tsunami, etc.) is that there is a great momentum at the onset to help. Media outlets are on the scene, showing us graphic images of people in desperate need. We reach out to our fellow human beings, we give everything we are able, and we rush in to help in the moment of crisis.

But this is problematic because, like anything with a great initial momentum, at some point it falters if not fueled. And the state of New Orleans and the destruction of Katrina are still dire and present. However one might argue about the initial lack of help and response, it was certainly on the nation's radar through much of 2005-2006 and initiatives to help gradually snowballed as the tense political scene danced around trying to downplay the damage while putting as much emphasis as possible on the supposed outpouring of help.

But now, so many years later, is when the desperation reaches its apex. Funds are running dry and being redirected towards newer, more vogue causes. When people think to donate money, time, or other resources, Katrina is slowly but surely falling off the map. And the consequences? The levies, which were so far below code before the hurricanes, would not be able to withstand another hit. Not because people "shouldn't be living in lowland areas near rivers," as it's been argued, but because the need for stringent rebuilding procedures and uncorrupted contractors, and local politicians with an eye on the future of New Orleans as a thriving and healthy city as opposed to one hand in the pocket all require long-term help and care. Once the immediate sick and injured have been tended to, once all of the victims have a bed to sleep in and meals to count on, that's where the real work starts.

It will be the same with Haiti. One of the world's poorest countries cannot come back from devastation like this without long-term planning and continuing efforts. Five, six, seven years from now when the dead have been buried, what will we be doing to assist? How can we help pull this country up from the rubble, invest in it, and rebuild it so that it actually stands a chance of surviving anything else the universe might throw at it?

Buzz words and catch phrases and celebrity involvement put crises in vogue. Jennifer Lopez answers phones at a donations center while Wyclef Jean tearfully begs for donations for his home country. They get involved, but where will they be when the bigger questions need to be answered? When corrupt politicians and a history of desperate poverty prove to be the true ruin of Haiti?

And so, I pack up my jeans with the holes in the knees and hope that they'll have a hammer on-site (because you can't fly with jack shit these days, even in checked luggage) and I'm heading down to NOLA to put my money where my mouth is, five years after the initial fact. And five years from now, maybe I'll find some initiative in Haiti to join.

Hope and help aren't just about initial reactions. It's about long-term dedication. It's about a commitment to being there, long after the dust has literally and figuratively settled.