Recall something done between writing each of the postcards or recall an image from memory.
Between August 3 and August 4
The sun shone on our backs. The group and I were about to walk along a concrete bridge. We WERE about to, at least before we stumbled upon a brick pattern with the words “Berlin Mauer” written on it. Straight, the former wall was not. It curved. Its path wriggled. Considering its history, it’s a wonder that people carelessly step over the former border. Had the group not stopped to examine this, I would have walked by without a second thought.
Between August 4 and August 5
I recall the tour of the East Side Gallery just ending. The empty void in my stomach rumbled. We crossed a bridge. Some people got “China Box” – stir-fry noodles with vegetables and hot sauce for cheap. I opted to try a Dürum Kebab. Just like the Döners I described earlier but instead of a flatbread, the dish is made burrito-style. The meat was well seasoned but the tortilla was unfortunately stiff. I decided that I would not come back.
Between August 5 and August 7
Out of the heat-wave in Seattle, into the hot Berlin weather. August 5 was no different; my sodium channels worked at max capacity to cool my body down. And then, it appeared. An oasis amidst a desert. Out of the grey, rectangular blocks that make up the holocaust memorial, it stood as a dirty-yellow beacon of hope. The AC welcomed me in all its glorious wind currents. Into the Dunkin’ Donuts I went. I haven’t had as tasty of an ice-coffee since.
Between August 7 and August 7 (Brandenburg Tor --> Sachsenhausen)
Into the subway the group went. Twenty-two undergrads with two teachers and a tour guide named Adam. The underground scenery changed to outdoor Berlin as we transferred from a subway to a train. “We have until the end of the line” we were told. I closed my eyes to the sunny weather, the trees whizzing by, the buildings decorated with graffiti. Sleep. Deep, restful and dreamless. I woke up at a station, with everyone else disembarking.
Between August 7 and August 8 (e-postcard; on Rote Grütze mit Vanillesauce)
A sense of gratefulness. Cheese pizza never tasted better. I sat on a bench conversing with my mentor/friend/groom-to-be. What a journey to get here. Only after going back to an internet café and realizing I reversed the directions did I find the place. D’oh!
……
Lost. The sense of helplessness, vulnerability. I wandered around the town center of Göttingen for around two hours. The address lay on display on my laptop—held to my side as I wandered. It should be here. Instead of an apartment or house, there stood a church. Nope. The novelty of seeing various shops and restaurants wore off as fatigue started to set in. Time to go to an internet café…
Between August 8 and August 9
The country rushed by. Fields, farms, houses, and spinning wind turbines. A countryside that I never got to explore. A set of fleeting images as the train heads down the rails. The Germany outside of Berlin. Open. Vast. Charming. I turned away and glance over at an elderly German woman read a novel of some sort. Conversation being impossible, I shifted my attention to my own book. My reality whizzed by too quickly—time to slow down and escape into someone else’s…
Between August 9 and August 11
My mind draws a blank with regards to what I did between the events outlined in these postcards. Funny how memory works—I recall some exquisite details like the pattern made by a fountain spurting out water but not why I was there. According to the postcard, I sat around Alexanderplatz on a cloudy day. Great. I’m supposed to be in my prime at 22 years in age, but times like these make me think I’m going senile. I think I’ll grab a beer…
Between August 11 and August 12
Walking on a cobblestone street. I knew to avoid the red-colored bike lane to my left. I remember being weary—we traveled around the area and missed the bus. So we walked. Past children with their mothers, past shrubs and trees. Beneath the cloudy sky, we were mosque-bound. I had never been in one, and knew not what to expect. Minarets juxtaposed with a shop selling chai and ice cream. Red tables where we sat and pondered the day ahead.
Between August 12 and August 19
Istanbul. A long period without writing a postcard. Hills and valleys filled with buildings of the same architectural style. Streets and cobblestone paths winding through the city; their paths capricious, unpredictable like a small child. The city swallowed me up. Any hopes of getting my bearing straight were engulfed by the buildings, roads, and sea of taxis.
Language. I couldn’t understand them. They couldn’t understand me. I sat under the sunny August sky while Turkish men and women went about their daily business.
Between August 19 (Figur des Neptun-Brunnens) and August 19 (Public transit map)
Walking through Alexanderplatz. From the park with fountains, through the main station, and out onto the cement square filled with hot dog vendors and surrounded by shops. The variety of people walking through never fails to amaze me. Buskers, locals, tourists, and officials all mingling together, perhaps with a hamburger or bratwurst in hand. I got asked on two occasions if I spoke English, after which a postcard asking for money was thrust into my face. Yes, it’s how they make a living, but I still can’t help feeling a hint of anger when they shove their fake sob story in my direction.
Between August 19 (Public transit map) and August 19 (abstract painting of woman on bed)
From the underground, we emerged. The strong stench wafting through the air from the piles of brown that littered the cobblestone path. The stairs lead to a rays of sunlight—the overworld, a place to synthesize some vitamin D. Still, it was hot. Beads of sweat rolled down my neck. We were going to a park, but only one person knew where. A theater, a venue, a stage to act out our first composition assignment. A mystery, an adventure.
Between August 19 (abstract painting of woman on bed) and August 19 (In Transit)
I recall standing. My mental facilities shut down as sweat began soaking through my shirt. Two women talked about something intellectual; I wish I could say more, but again, my mind was turned off. People on bikes, parents with children, owners walking their dogs—they all passed through the clump of people made up of our class. Modern apartments on either side of the street. Balconies sporting clay pots and colorful foliage. An old wooden door behind us creaked open as a resident went out for groceries. I grew tired of standing; I was ready to call it a day.
Between August 19 (In Transit) and August 20 (Checkpoint Charlie)
A grassy park surrounded by trees. In the middle, a group of men kicked a soccer ball atop the sun-yellowed grass. Groups of people sunbathed or smoked away from the athletes. Our group stood beneath a patch of trees. The rest of the class stood ten feet away, watching, observing our performance. A subway station, a U-Bahn to Istanbul, an annoying street vendor, and stasis. Katie, Sally, Robert and I acted or made music for these scenes. A reflection of our collective experience—study abroad as a performance.
Between August 20 (Checkpoint Charlie) and August 20 (Slussen—Adams)
An urban art walk. What fun. Everyday structures with small details missed by the common eye. A fur coat shaped into a rabbit and glued onto the side of a generator. A sign showing a signal etched with layer of gold foil. Arrows protruding from a building’s layer of Styrofoam. We walked the cobblestone sidewalks while our trusty guide pointed these out. On several occasions, we the boundary of the former Berlin wall—now nothing more than a red-brick line running through the streets…
Between August 20 (Slussen—Adams) and August 21 (Fernsehturm)
Many people crowded the fountain area of Alexanderplatz. A fence surrounded the area as the marathon for the world track and field championships ran the vicinity. Aside from this new development, things remained the same as usual; tour buses crowded the streets not closed off, people mingled and chatted about various things. A group dressed in gothic attire sat on evergreen benches and smoked. Teenagers played volleyball on a sandy court behind them. Another sunny day in the park.
Between August 21 (Fernsehturm) and August 21 (Potsdamer Platz)
My stomach growled at me. The evening found Joe and I hungry and surrounded by tall glass buildings and the world’s oldest traffic signal. Wandering around initially proved fruitless—only coffee shops and restaurants out of the budget range of undergraduates.
In search of food, we descended on an escalator into a small tunnel of sorts. Glimmering jewelry, postcards, and funky electronics presented themselves in different stores. A döner and pizza shop. Nope—had too many already. The next shop caught our eye.
A sushi bar. And happy hour. I ordered combo #3 and was not disappointed. The salmon tasted fresh and the rice was of good quality and well packed—it didn’t crumble but wasn’t too firm. The fish, seasoned rice, and soy sauce orchestrated a joyous symphony of flavors on my tongue. Satiated, we paid the bill and left to meet the rest of the class. Who knew Berlin had a decent and affordable sushi bar?
Between August 21 (Potsdamer Platz) and August 25 (Berlin hbf)
A mob of people congregated on the sidewalk. Most seemed dressed for the weather; ponchos, hoodies, and long pants. My leather bag appeared a poor choice given the dark clouds overhead.
Streaks of color. The rushing of Adidas pull-off plants and bright colored t-shirts. Neon green, purple, orange, yellow, blue—the cameras came out as the colors zoomed by. A man head-down at a 45° angle hanging behind a large sign; three men huddled as a totem pole beneath a subway notice; two people pressed up against the wall—the crowd moved from one tableau to another. A scavenger hunt in a crowded subway station. Modern art; modern performance—bodies in urban spaces.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Assignment #3 - Writing Berlin and Istanbul
Amidst the chaos, beauty emerges…
As far as I was concerned, Istanbul was just another city on a map. A dot on a sheet of paper. I had no idea what to expect and what I found surprised me. Whereas Berlin stands as a city reliant on order, modesty, stability and following the rules (no matter how ridiculous), Istanbul represents the polar opposite. The order and stability I grew accustomed to in Berlin gave me a lens that magnified my perceptions of disorder Istanbul.
Chaos in the streets. A sea of yellow taxis amidst black pavement. Just watching made me dizzy—cars weaving with little disregard to surrounding traffic; completely ignoring the lane-delineating lines; liberal use of the horn as though the car’s warranty depended on it.
Pedestrians fearlessly jaywalking over crowded arterials. Little children holding up bottles of water to drivers in the middle of the road as cars zoom by. Only 0.5 Lira.
Shops and sellers showcasing their wares on the sidewalk. Need some knock-off cologne? Perhaps some fine plastic watches? Grilled corn? Not ten meters pass without being offered some food or trinket.
I recall visiting the Blue Mosque. Stately minarets seeming to pierce the evening sky. I stepped inside onto the lush carpet and felt small; insignificant; that I lose my voice to the cavernous area. I imagine millions coming through this building over the course of centuries, struck with the same feeling of insignificance—hopes and aspirations lost into the collective void.
Earlier, a throng of tourists wandered the outer gardens while a call to prayer blasted through the speakers. Grilled corn vendors and watermelon sellers received great business during this time.
I smelled grilled beef, onions, and strong spices on my breath. Still earlier, the late-afternoon sun beat down while I avoided the myriad divots, piles of rubble and trash while wandering around on the cobblestone walkways. Stray cats walked by nonchalantly; not a block passes without me seeing one. In my right hand, I held a 3.50 lira Kebab in pita bread. It satisfied my caloric needs but brought about a longing for Berlin’s better-tasting döner kebabs. Regardless, my breath reeked—probably those onions.
I am spoiled in Berlin. Along with the superior kebabs, many people speak English here. Most comprehend and give an answer should I ask a question. In Istanbul, most people don’t speak English. It stands as a border; a wall; a schism difficult to cross. I had no idea where our dormitories stood. Unless I kept a sheet of paper with an address that I could point to, asking for directions of hailing a cab home proved impossible. Unless pictures litter a restaurant menu, I have no idea what I’m ordering. Suffice to say, my communication transformed from spoken sentences to a series of nods, shakes, and finger pointing more often than I cared for.
Up an alleyway we walked, the narrow cobblestone path turning into an obstacle course complete with the tables and chairs of unfinished diners, shelves showing off the trinkets aimed for Asian tourists, and the smell of hookah wafting through the air. Old men playing rummy. Ducking under a vine canopy, we stumbled upon a white sign. A list of undecipherable names and prices. A finger point and a nod. 5 minutes later, I got myself a kebab.
Rules are rules. Except when they aren’t. Berlin made me accustomed to strictly following rules. Every morning, for fear of being lectured by a stern German police officer and a 40€ fee, I triple-check to ensure my transportation pass is in my wallet. Car traffic flows smoothly, with everyone staying within their lanes and the honk of the horn being a rare occurrence. Pedestrians only cross the street when the green walking man lights up. Coffee shops kick out all non-paying persons from their tables. All dogs infallibly act obedient to their owners.
In Istanbul, rules are only guidelines—and even this stretches the truth. Five cars somehow span three-lane road. Locals commonly play “Frogger” across major arterials. Pirated goods and fake t-shirts line all major sidewalks and bazaars.
And yet, amidst all the chaos and rule-breaking there lies a certain irresistible feature to the city of Istanbul. Perhaps it lies in the melancholy, the hüzun felt by the natives and barely perceived by visitors—the vendors still able to smile and act warm despite barely making a living, the stray animals tucked away in random corners; the list goes on, but I’m no Orhan Pamuk. Perhaps its lies in the Bosphorus—vast, shimmering, and opaque.
Even at 5:30 in the morning, they held their place. Some slept atop a makeshift bed composed of two crates. Others stood. Next to smelly shrimp in clear plastic cups, lines cast out into the dark waters. Waiting; hoping for a nibble, a bite. A bite that allows a roadside food vendor to waft the smell of cooked mackerel into the air. These men once had bigger hopes; dreams of a more comfortable lifestyle. Now they stand on a concrete bridge. They fish. Their livelihoods controlled by the whim of the vast waters. It’s as if they cast out dreams along with the shrimp bait, more often than not losing them into the void; a bare hook being all that remains of past hopes and aspirations.
How do they survive this lifestyle? What makes them smile? I pondered this for some time. Then, some light. A faint glow of orange cast on the water’s surface. The sun peeked its head over the horizon and I felt as though I understood. A ray of hope shining on the patient fishermen. A new day. Sunrise.
Perhaps Istanbul’s irresistibleness lies in the warm, friendly demeanor of its people. Old men play cards or rummy at hookah bars, smiling and conversing. Their eyes expressing an open welcome to all who walk by. Café owners chat before the morning rush and are more than happy to point out the nearest burger joint or bakery. It’s difficult to describe, but the people in Turkey possess a certain aura of “welcomeness” about them. A certain something where I am not hesitant to walk up to a stranger to ask directions.
Morning. Sunny as usual. The cool breeze from being near the Bosphorus blew into our faces. The growl of our stomachs. Hunger. Our feet led us into a maze of alleyways nearby our dorms. Peeling paint, disintegrating brick. A ceiling of green vines that keeps the area cool mid-afternoon. On tables stationed outside of neighboring cafes, the owners conversed for all to hear except for we who cannot understand. They smiled. They took us into their shops. Only pea soup and bread stood on display. We asked for the nearest bakery. Two finger points and another smile. Baklava for breakfast.
As attractive and often irresistible Istanbul seems, I felt glad as I flew back to Berlin. Certainly, I miss the friendly demeanor and at times, the chaos, but five days was not enough time for me to get situated enough to call the area “home.” Berlin (well, Mitte and Kreuzberg), became my home after a week of living in the dorms. That’s how long it took to create a spatial map of the area—through runs and field trips—and establish a sense that I knew where things were. When the novelty of riding the subway to Alexanderplatz wore off and became routine. When concentrated thought was no longer required to navigate to essential locations—be it the grocery store, döner kebab shops, or department store. When I began hiding smug smiles upon seeing tourist groups snapping photos of the Brandenburg Gate. What’s so exciting about it?
I’m home. I’m back in routine. I love it.
As far as I was concerned, Istanbul was just another city on a map. A dot on a sheet of paper. I had no idea what to expect and what I found surprised me. Whereas Berlin stands as a city reliant on order, modesty, stability and following the rules (no matter how ridiculous), Istanbul represents the polar opposite. The order and stability I grew accustomed to in Berlin gave me a lens that magnified my perceptions of disorder Istanbul.
Chaos in the streets. A sea of yellow taxis amidst black pavement. Just watching made me dizzy—cars weaving with little disregard to surrounding traffic; completely ignoring the lane-delineating lines; liberal use of the horn as though the car’s warranty depended on it.
Pedestrians fearlessly jaywalking over crowded arterials. Little children holding up bottles of water to drivers in the middle of the road as cars zoom by. Only 0.5 Lira.
Shops and sellers showcasing their wares on the sidewalk. Need some knock-off cologne? Perhaps some fine plastic watches? Grilled corn? Not ten meters pass without being offered some food or trinket.
I recall visiting the Blue Mosque. Stately minarets seeming to pierce the evening sky. I stepped inside onto the lush carpet and felt small; insignificant; that I lose my voice to the cavernous area. I imagine millions coming through this building over the course of centuries, struck with the same feeling of insignificance—hopes and aspirations lost into the collective void.
Earlier, a throng of tourists wandered the outer gardens while a call to prayer blasted through the speakers. Grilled corn vendors and watermelon sellers received great business during this time.
I smelled grilled beef, onions, and strong spices on my breath. Still earlier, the late-afternoon sun beat down while I avoided the myriad divots, piles of rubble and trash while wandering around on the cobblestone walkways. Stray cats walked by nonchalantly; not a block passes without me seeing one. In my right hand, I held a 3.50 lira Kebab in pita bread. It satisfied my caloric needs but brought about a longing for Berlin’s better-tasting döner kebabs. Regardless, my breath reeked—probably those onions.
I am spoiled in Berlin. Along with the superior kebabs, many people speak English here. Most comprehend and give an answer should I ask a question. In Istanbul, most people don’t speak English. It stands as a border; a wall; a schism difficult to cross. I had no idea where our dormitories stood. Unless I kept a sheet of paper with an address that I could point to, asking for directions of hailing a cab home proved impossible. Unless pictures litter a restaurant menu, I have no idea what I’m ordering. Suffice to say, my communication transformed from spoken sentences to a series of nods, shakes, and finger pointing more often than I cared for.
Up an alleyway we walked, the narrow cobblestone path turning into an obstacle course complete with the tables and chairs of unfinished diners, shelves showing off the trinkets aimed for Asian tourists, and the smell of hookah wafting through the air. Old men playing rummy. Ducking under a vine canopy, we stumbled upon a white sign. A list of undecipherable names and prices. A finger point and a nod. 5 minutes later, I got myself a kebab.
Rules are rules. Except when they aren’t. Berlin made me accustomed to strictly following rules. Every morning, for fear of being lectured by a stern German police officer and a 40€ fee, I triple-check to ensure my transportation pass is in my wallet. Car traffic flows smoothly, with everyone staying within their lanes and the honk of the horn being a rare occurrence. Pedestrians only cross the street when the green walking man lights up. Coffee shops kick out all non-paying persons from their tables. All dogs infallibly act obedient to their owners.
In Istanbul, rules are only guidelines—and even this stretches the truth. Five cars somehow span three-lane road. Locals commonly play “Frogger” across major arterials. Pirated goods and fake t-shirts line all major sidewalks and bazaars.
And yet, amidst all the chaos and rule-breaking there lies a certain irresistible feature to the city of Istanbul. Perhaps it lies in the melancholy, the hüzun felt by the natives and barely perceived by visitors—the vendors still able to smile and act warm despite barely making a living, the stray animals tucked away in random corners; the list goes on, but I’m no Orhan Pamuk. Perhaps its lies in the Bosphorus—vast, shimmering, and opaque.
Even at 5:30 in the morning, they held their place. Some slept atop a makeshift bed composed of two crates. Others stood. Next to smelly shrimp in clear plastic cups, lines cast out into the dark waters. Waiting; hoping for a nibble, a bite. A bite that allows a roadside food vendor to waft the smell of cooked mackerel into the air. These men once had bigger hopes; dreams of a more comfortable lifestyle. Now they stand on a concrete bridge. They fish. Their livelihoods controlled by the whim of the vast waters. It’s as if they cast out dreams along with the shrimp bait, more often than not losing them into the void; a bare hook being all that remains of past hopes and aspirations.
How do they survive this lifestyle? What makes them smile? I pondered this for some time. Then, some light. A faint glow of orange cast on the water’s surface. The sun peeked its head over the horizon and I felt as though I understood. A ray of hope shining on the patient fishermen. A new day. Sunrise.
Perhaps Istanbul’s irresistibleness lies in the warm, friendly demeanor of its people. Old men play cards or rummy at hookah bars, smiling and conversing. Their eyes expressing an open welcome to all who walk by. Café owners chat before the morning rush and are more than happy to point out the nearest burger joint or bakery. It’s difficult to describe, but the people in Turkey possess a certain aura of “welcomeness” about them. A certain something where I am not hesitant to walk up to a stranger to ask directions.
Morning. Sunny as usual. The cool breeze from being near the Bosphorus blew into our faces. The growl of our stomachs. Hunger. Our feet led us into a maze of alleyways nearby our dorms. Peeling paint, disintegrating brick. A ceiling of green vines that keeps the area cool mid-afternoon. On tables stationed outside of neighboring cafes, the owners conversed for all to hear except for we who cannot understand. They smiled. They took us into their shops. Only pea soup and bread stood on display. We asked for the nearest bakery. Two finger points and another smile. Baklava for breakfast.
As attractive and often irresistible Istanbul seems, I felt glad as I flew back to Berlin. Certainly, I miss the friendly demeanor and at times, the chaos, but five days was not enough time for me to get situated enough to call the area “home.” Berlin (well, Mitte and Kreuzberg), became my home after a week of living in the dorms. That’s how long it took to create a spatial map of the area—through runs and field trips—and establish a sense that I knew where things were. When the novelty of riding the subway to Alexanderplatz wore off and became routine. When concentrated thought was no longer required to navigate to essential locations—be it the grocery store, döner kebab shops, or department store. When I began hiding smug smiles upon seeing tourist groups snapping photos of the Brandenburg Gate. What’s so exciting about it?
I’m home. I’m back in routine. I love it.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Etude: Write with no "E"
Writing Etude: Take a paragraph and re-write it using words that don’t have the letter “e” (proper nouns don’t count).
Original:
From where I sit, I see the buildings beginning to shrink. I feel as though I could pick up a whole handful and fit them on my lap. The trees, skyscrapers, various waterways, and yellow taxis. I turn away from the window and stare at the mini-LCD screen in front of me. Time to Destination: 2.30. Putting my earphones on to see what the plane has to offer, I hear Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face.” Satisfied, I close my eyes as I see myself flying over the clouds. Goodbye chaos. Goodbye shimmering Bosphorus. Hello order. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Changed:
At this location, buildings shrink. I think I could pick up a big handful and fit it all on my lap. All plants, tall buildings, various canals, and bright taxis. I turn away and look at a mini LCD display in front. Hours to Finish: 2.30. Putting on music as I didn’t know what was on, Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” blasts my round and oval windows. Happy, I shut off my visual world with my body flying up past clouds. Ciao chaos. Ciao Bosphorus. Bonjour organization. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Original:
From where I sit, I see the buildings beginning to shrink. I feel as though I could pick up a whole handful and fit them on my lap. The trees, skyscrapers, various waterways, and yellow taxis. I turn away from the window and stare at the mini-LCD screen in front of me. Time to Destination: 2.30. Putting my earphones on to see what the plane has to offer, I hear Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face.” Satisfied, I close my eyes as I see myself flying over the clouds. Goodbye chaos. Goodbye shimmering Bosphorus. Hello order. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Changed:
At this location, buildings shrink. I think I could pick up a big handful and fit it all on my lap. All plants, tall buildings, various canals, and bright taxis. I turn away and look at a mini LCD display in front. Hours to Finish: 2.30. Putting on music as I didn’t know what was on, Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” blasts my round and oval windows. Happy, I shut off my visual world with my body flying up past clouds. Ciao chaos. Ciao Bosphorus. Bonjour organization. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Time Bridge: Istanbul --> Berlin
(From August 17, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
A day of riding trams and flying in a plane. My journal doesn’t give me much to work with. What I recall is a hint of sadness. Sadness that I have to leave this magical place; this chaotic place; this city I'm growing to like. Zooming by on a crowded tram over the Bosphorus; seeing the many fishing lines cast out in the hope for mackerel, the bikers and walkers narrowly missing one another, the sea of yellow taxis surrounding the railway; I’m going to miss them all.
A transfer to a new train. New sights. A wrecked stadium next to an empty white parking lot. Gecekondus off in the distance. Mosques at some point within sight at every angle. A sea of clay-red roofs from houses. Memories of similar places I visited over the past four days. Themes and ideas. Stark divisions in social class. A rich history and beauty in the most unexpected places; I’m going to miss them all.
……
From where I sit, I see the buildings beginning to shrink. I feel as though I could pick up a whole handful and fit them on my lap. The trees, skyscrapers, various waterways, and yellow taxis. I turn away from the window and stare at the mini-LCD screen in front of me. Time to Destination: 2.30. Putting my earphones on to see what the plane has to offer, I hear Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face.” Satisfied, I close my eyes as I see myself flying over the clouds. Goodbye chaos. Goodbye shimmering Bosphorus. Hello order. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Istanbul, Turkey
A day of riding trams and flying in a plane. My journal doesn’t give me much to work with. What I recall is a hint of sadness. Sadness that I have to leave this magical place; this chaotic place; this city I'm growing to like. Zooming by on a crowded tram over the Bosphorus; seeing the many fishing lines cast out in the hope for mackerel, the bikers and walkers narrowly missing one another, the sea of yellow taxis surrounding the railway; I’m going to miss them all.
A transfer to a new train. New sights. A wrecked stadium next to an empty white parking lot. Gecekondus off in the distance. Mosques at some point within sight at every angle. A sea of clay-red roofs from houses. Memories of similar places I visited over the past four days. Themes and ideas. Stark divisions in social class. A rich history and beauty in the most unexpected places; I’m going to miss them all.
……
From where I sit, I see the buildings beginning to shrink. I feel as though I could pick up a whole handful and fit them on my lap. The trees, skyscrapers, various waterways, and yellow taxis. I turn away from the window and stare at the mini-LCD screen in front of me. Time to Destination: 2.30. Putting my earphones on to see what the plane has to offer, I hear Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face.” Satisfied, I close my eyes as I see myself flying over the clouds. Goodbye chaos. Goodbye shimmering Bosphorus. Hello order. I’m coming back, Berlin…
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
My Best Birthday Ever
*Edited*
(From August 16, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
“Remember that time in Istanbul when you had your 22nd Birthday?”
The day marks my 22nd birthday. My journal documenting the day gave 1-sentence blurbs about the things I did. Thankfully, the details are returning to me. Objects around me fill in the memory blanks. It was a blast.
……
My eyes awake to the dorm surroundings. I see the camera on my desk. I’m lying down but my legs feel heavy from fatigue. Memories stir. As tired as we were, John, Joe, Muhammed, and I stayed awake and trekked out. At the ludicrous time of 5:45am, we walked. Past the closed Baklava shop. Through a dark alleyway with stray cats wandering the corners. Past an over-turned garbage heap; putrid stench wafting through the air. All to get to the bridge spanning the river. Fisherman already cast their lines out. The structure already smelled like mackerel. What was the point? Was it worth it? Four words: sunrise over the Bosphorus. The clouds exuded a dark pink/purple hue while the orb of orange slowly rose over the horizon. Rays of hope for a new day. The water shimmered as the light shone on it. A cool breeze passed through our hair. Worth it? I think so.
I look over at the clock. 2:00pm. Normally, I’d freak out but today, I’m okay with it. After all, I went to bed just seven hours before. Exhaling, I smell the scent of melon on my breath. Hookah. First time trying, and it wasn’t bad. Nothing special either, so I won’t do it for some time, if ever. The memory piece of what happened several hours prior to sunrise fit into place.
But why an all-nighter? I’m wasn’t cramming for an exam or anything—couldn’t I have just gotten up early? In my attempt at recollection, I put my fingers into my ear. They ring. Could it be from the 3 hours of dancing at a techno club? The lights flickering on and off with familiar and strange faces appearing and disappearing from the mass of people. The bass thumping and synchronizing our movements. A slippery, white-tiled dance floor. Beads of sweat running down everyone’s face. Looking for confirmation of the event, I glance over and see a sweat-stained t-shirt designed with a Turkish flag draped over a seat. I smile with the memories. More hours recalled.
Perhaps instead, the ringing is from a Turkish instrumental quartet —a tambourine, double-reed, drum, and plucked string of sorts—playing “Happy Birthday” in my ear while everyone sang (out of tune like all good renditions) and I sipped beer. A bar before the club—my mind fit the temporal puzzle piece into place.
Shifting my gaze away from the alarm clock, my stomach growls. I am starved. For me, this means I over-ate the day before. What could have caused this? It may have been dinner. The tastes still linger in my mouth. The bread brought out in slices. The mélange of spices making up a reddish sauce playing foil to the comparatively neutral eggplant dish. The bite of arugula in a salad dressed with vinaigrette. The grilled chicken, savory meatballs, and aromatic fish.
The other possibility is beer. I had three over the course of the evening along with a strong licorice-like drink called Raki (Hey, I’m over 21 so I can talk about drinking—yay for calories). Problem is, I’m not a fan of licorice. Overall, I didn’t have enough alcohol to black me out but did drink enough to receive a pleasant veil over my senses for the evening. The final memory piece fit into place.
There. Done. The memory puzzle complete, I lay satisfied. How much more could I ask for on a birthday evening? I get out of bed and dress to face the day; the dorm room now empty except for the four of us and the sun shining through the curtains.
“Yes, and it was AMAZING.”
(From August 16, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
“Remember that time in Istanbul when you had your 22nd Birthday?”
The day marks my 22nd birthday. My journal documenting the day gave 1-sentence blurbs about the things I did. Thankfully, the details are returning to me. Objects around me fill in the memory blanks. It was a blast.
……
My eyes awake to the dorm surroundings. I see the camera on my desk. I’m lying down but my legs feel heavy from fatigue. Memories stir. As tired as we were, John, Joe, Muhammed, and I stayed awake and trekked out. At the ludicrous time of 5:45am, we walked. Past the closed Baklava shop. Through a dark alleyway with stray cats wandering the corners. Past an over-turned garbage heap; putrid stench wafting through the air. All to get to the bridge spanning the river. Fisherman already cast their lines out. The structure already smelled like mackerel. What was the point? Was it worth it? Four words: sunrise over the Bosphorus. The clouds exuded a dark pink/purple hue while the orb of orange slowly rose over the horizon. Rays of hope for a new day. The water shimmered as the light shone on it. A cool breeze passed through our hair. Worth it? I think so.
I look over at the clock. 2:00pm. Normally, I’d freak out but today, I’m okay with it. After all, I went to bed just seven hours before. Exhaling, I smell the scent of melon on my breath. Hookah. First time trying, and it wasn’t bad. Nothing special either, so I won’t do it for some time, if ever. The memory piece of what happened several hours prior to sunrise fit into place.
But why an all-nighter? I’m wasn’t cramming for an exam or anything—couldn’t I have just gotten up early? In my attempt at recollection, I put my fingers into my ear. They ring. Could it be from the 3 hours of dancing at a techno club? The lights flickering on and off with familiar and strange faces appearing and disappearing from the mass of people. The bass thumping and synchronizing our movements. A slippery, white-tiled dance floor. Beads of sweat running down everyone’s face. Looking for confirmation of the event, I glance over and see a sweat-stained t-shirt designed with a Turkish flag draped over a seat. I smile with the memories. More hours recalled.
Perhaps instead, the ringing is from a Turkish instrumental quartet —a tambourine, double-reed, drum, and plucked string of sorts—playing “Happy Birthday” in my ear while everyone sang (out of tune like all good renditions) and I sipped beer. A bar before the club—my mind fit the temporal puzzle piece into place.
Shifting my gaze away from the alarm clock, my stomach growls. I am starved. For me, this means I over-ate the day before. What could have caused this? It may have been dinner. The tastes still linger in my mouth. The bread brought out in slices. The mélange of spices making up a reddish sauce playing foil to the comparatively neutral eggplant dish. The bite of arugula in a salad dressed with vinaigrette. The grilled chicken, savory meatballs, and aromatic fish.
The other possibility is beer. I had three over the course of the evening along with a strong licorice-like drink called Raki (Hey, I’m over 21 so I can talk about drinking—yay for calories). Problem is, I’m not a fan of licorice. Overall, I didn’t have enough alcohol to black me out but did drink enough to receive a pleasant veil over my senses for the evening. The final memory piece fit into place.
There. Done. The memory puzzle complete, I lay satisfied. How much more could I ask for on a birthday evening? I get out of bed and dress to face the day; the dorm room now empty except for the four of us and the sun shining through the curtains.
“Yes, and it was AMAZING.”
Ode to Orhan
(From August 15, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
My second full day in Istanbul marked my second day of touring around the city with our trusty professor-turned-tour-guide (for this trip at least), Orhan. Not content with (or perhaps detesting) the touristy spots, we avoided the places that most people go when visiting Istanbul. Indeed, instead of visiting the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia, we went to smaller, “representative” locations. Forget the Grand Bazaar, we instead went through an alley selling “ethnojunk,” as it was apparently the same thing. At stopping points, we sat down and listened to some bit of history or looked at a map retracing our route with exact precision for what seemed an eternity. Indeed, Orhan possessed a rare encyclopedic knowledge of the history of every building we passed dating back to the Ice Age.
Indeed…You can go here during your free time…And interestingly…We’re not going to stop here; capture it with your eyes…Indeed…Are we complete?...And interestingly…It’s transparent just like a glass window…Indeed…Before we do this, do…Very interesting…Indeed…
……
The first day of touring (the 14th) passed by especially slowly—I drifted into the netherworld of sleep and imagination countless times. I kept wondering when the lectures would stop or why I should care that on 12:04 and 42 seconds pm on the 23rd of March of 1934, with the weather 21.98° C, the sun shone at a 19.56° angle over the horizon while 9 men erected a 3 story building with 79 steps just north of the statue that faced us. This perception changed on this second day.
We went to Gecekondu; housing areas for poor immigrants and squatters. We bused around the area, stopping by scenic viewpoints where we were the only non-locals. We went through streets and alleyways that tourists would never consider stepping in. Istanbul is a city where the endlessly wealthy live side-by-side with the most poor. Orhan showed us the city through the lens of a scholar-native that no other tour guide conveys. When I later visited the touristy spots on my own—places with throngs of people in the middle/upper class—and came to truly appreciate where Orhan took us along with the few stories that stuck into my head. I feel that I got to understand the city in a way that would otherwise take months/years if I were on my own. Hats off to you, Orhan…
Istanbul, Turkey
My second full day in Istanbul marked my second day of touring around the city with our trusty professor-turned-tour-guide (for this trip at least), Orhan. Not content with (or perhaps detesting) the touristy spots, we avoided the places that most people go when visiting Istanbul. Indeed, instead of visiting the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia, we went to smaller, “representative” locations. Forget the Grand Bazaar, we instead went through an alley selling “ethnojunk,” as it was apparently the same thing. At stopping points, we sat down and listened to some bit of history or looked at a map retracing our route with exact precision for what seemed an eternity. Indeed, Orhan possessed a rare encyclopedic knowledge of the history of every building we passed dating back to the Ice Age.
Indeed…You can go here during your free time…And interestingly…We’re not going to stop here; capture it with your eyes…Indeed…Are we complete?...And interestingly…It’s transparent just like a glass window…Indeed…Before we do this, do…Very interesting…Indeed…
……
The first day of touring (the 14th) passed by especially slowly—I drifted into the netherworld of sleep and imagination countless times. I kept wondering when the lectures would stop or why I should care that on 12:04 and 42 seconds pm on the 23rd of March of 1934, with the weather 21.98° C, the sun shone at a 19.56° angle over the horizon while 9 men erected a 3 story building with 79 steps just north of the statue that faced us. This perception changed on this second day.
We went to Gecekondu; housing areas for poor immigrants and squatters. We bused around the area, stopping by scenic viewpoints where we were the only non-locals. We went through streets and alleyways that tourists would never consider stepping in. Istanbul is a city where the endlessly wealthy live side-by-side with the most poor. Orhan showed us the city through the lens of a scholar-native that no other tour guide conveys. When I later visited the touristy spots on my own—places with throngs of people in the middle/upper class—and came to truly appreciate where Orhan took us along with the few stories that stuck into my head. I feel that I got to understand the city in a way that would otherwise take months/years if I were on my own. Hats off to you, Orhan…
A Runner in Istanbul
(From August 14, 2009)
Istanbul, Turkey
I was dizzy. My surroundings confused me: modern shops near archaic mosques, shabby apartments alongside ritzy hotels. The tacky juxtaposed with the homely. Chaos in the roads with all the taxis moving around as if they were hot wheels controlled by a five year old (I got the impression that there are as much if not more taxis than cars in Istanbul). Friendly Turkish men assisting helpless tourists.
......
The morning found going for my usual run. I had no idea what surrounded our dormitory and so wished to find out. Stepping outside, the sun immediately shone on my body clad in black running shorts and a gray t-shirt. This sun felt different than Berlin. Was it hotter? Brighter? Bigger? I really had no idea other than the initial visceral feeling. Not much I can do about that—so I planted one foot in front of the other and went my merry way. Within the first 200 meters (this is Europe, after all), I realized how spoiled I was running in Germany. Berlin’s occasional divot or raised edge on the sidewalk has got nothing on Istanbul’s ubiquitous potholes, shallow snaking water troughs and piles of rubble littering the roadside. This combined with the fact that taxi drivers scream by, missing me by a millimeter while honking their horns, gave me the tricky task of constantly switching between looking down to make sure I don’t fall and looking up to make sure I don’t end up as Japanese American roadkill.
The run was well worth the effort to stay alive, however, as after about 20 minutes of running roadside, I ended up in a small park next to the Bosphorus River. Despite my skepticism when reading about it, I was impressed. The waves crashed into the cement platform, spraying water onto the pavement. The water shimmered dark blue in the sunlight. Water birds flew overhead. Ships cruised around in different directions. I could stare endlessly into this river, my thoughts lost in the undulating currents. This was beauty. Beauty within the chaos of the surrounding city. Staring at the waters, I came to accept the confusion around me. My dizziness was cured.
Istanbul, Turkey
I was dizzy. My surroundings confused me: modern shops near archaic mosques, shabby apartments alongside ritzy hotels. The tacky juxtaposed with the homely. Chaos in the roads with all the taxis moving around as if they were hot wheels controlled by a five year old (I got the impression that there are as much if not more taxis than cars in Istanbul). Friendly Turkish men assisting helpless tourists.
......
The morning found going for my usual run. I had no idea what surrounded our dormitory and so wished to find out. Stepping outside, the sun immediately shone on my body clad in black running shorts and a gray t-shirt. This sun felt different than Berlin. Was it hotter? Brighter? Bigger? I really had no idea other than the initial visceral feeling. Not much I can do about that—so I planted one foot in front of the other and went my merry way. Within the first 200 meters (this is Europe, after all), I realized how spoiled I was running in Germany. Berlin’s occasional divot or raised edge on the sidewalk has got nothing on Istanbul’s ubiquitous potholes, shallow snaking water troughs and piles of rubble littering the roadside. This combined with the fact that taxi drivers scream by, missing me by a millimeter while honking their horns, gave me the tricky task of constantly switching between looking down to make sure I don’t fall and looking up to make sure I don’t end up as Japanese American roadkill.
The run was well worth the effort to stay alive, however, as after about 20 minutes of running roadside, I ended up in a small park next to the Bosphorus River. Despite my skepticism when reading about it, I was impressed. The waves crashed into the cement platform, spraying water onto the pavement. The water shimmered dark blue in the sunlight. Water birds flew overhead. Ships cruised around in different directions. I could stare endlessly into this river, my thoughts lost in the undulating currents. This was beauty. Beauty within the chaos of the surrounding city. Staring at the waters, I came to accept the confusion around me. My dizziness was cured.
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