I have Dengue Fever.

Meanwhile, look at pictures.

Bắc woke me up at 6am to go to Metro, a Costco-like Vietnamese supermarket.

We “stocked-up” on a few items for her house, but buying in bulk takes on a new dimension of difficulty when you have to transport everything on a motorscooter. (Travel Tip: don’t buy pomelos — large oversized grapefruit — when riding back-seat on a bike).

Perhaps it was the multi-cockroach exposure from previous nights or an increase of diesal fumes in my diet, but when we got back to the house I had little appetite.

I managed to eat a half loaf of white, airy bread, but couldn’t continue any further after seeing “windy ants” crawling on the loaf (“they come on food so fast, like the wind”).

Normally, I consider myself an adventurous traveler, but this heat-pollution-humidity combo was packing a mean punch.

Needless to say, when Lasse, my friend’s boyfriend living in Hanoi, called to say I was welcome to stay at his place if I was hankering for western amenities, I said Yes, Please.

His apartment, amazing. It is plush, complete with sweet-souled housekeeper, and makes a girl feel like she could just sink into that jacuzzi bathtub…

I know, I know. For a real, blog-worthy adventure I should have been seeking out the street phỏ. But I must tell you: travel is for a range of experiences. That, and I wanted to have clean water in under 4 hours for one night, okay?

Lasse and I lived the good life, with take out and House DVDs. But after a night of buckwheat soba noodles and wine, I stepped out of the air-cooled marble floor and onto the balcony.

Hanoi at night — her sweet humidity engulfed me. From 6 stories up, the traffic noise called to me as miraculous kisses of wet air.

Yes, yes, was all I answered. Tomorrow I will come back to you, tomorrow.

Let there be white!

My powercord, which was so inconventiently ‘misplaced’ during my Israeli security stint has finally been replaced! All it took was five broken English phone calls, two cyclo rides, a taxi ride, and $110USD to get my beautiful white MacBook’s battery charged. We’re back in business!

This also means I can now upload all of my pictures to date (link coming soon, sincerely). In the meantime, I will leave my Most Dearest, Darlingest Readers with a visual of the infamous Vietnamese Squat. All it takes is years of yoga, daily stretching, and complete self-abandon. A good conversation partner doesn’t hurt, either.

(Me and Grandma Ba waiting for a boat to cross the river. She told me I should buy a house near her so we can be neighbors.)

Mysterious red bumps have formed along the length of each thigh, like red stiches. This part of my body, a softest skin, has never been exposed to open air, outside of a mosquito net. I consulted a resident Hanoian.

They are classic bed bug bites. Sleep tight!

* * *

With a flash of thirst, I woke up in the middle of the night to get some water. I crawled out of my mosquito net, slid me feet into my plastic sandals, and groggily padded to the kitchen. I wasn’t wearing my glasses; everything was a blur.

I hit the light switch and the fluorescents stammered on. As I reached down to open the fridge, the low-slung handle at knee level, I noticed a large, black spot on the counter. I brought my head closer to inspect the blemish.

It was a cockroach. Four inches long, an inch & a half wide, my was nose nearly touching its back leg. It shivered and scurried under the toaster.

I stood erect, the kitchen still fuzzy for specifics. All I could see were a hundred black circles; the room vibrated with Insectopia.
 
* * *

A neighbor noticed me sitting in the yard, sipping my last few drops of artichoke tea in the safety and familiarity of the front lawn. I said “chào, chi,” and with that, she came over for a chat.

Unfortunately, my Vietnamese stops there, and the ensuing conversation was politely one-sided.

I did, however, manage to let out a universally understood “oooo!” when she pointed out the two hornet’s nests being built precariously outside my front door. I asked her, do they sting? while dramatically poking myself on the forearm. She responded with a series of ominous tones and pointed to her eyes, one of which I noticed was nearly all white, catarac-like.

I chose to refrain from trying to pantomime whether the eye was a result of hornet-damage or if she inteded to communicate that hornets go after the eyes in general.

When Bắc got home, I point out the nests to her, thinking she might want to take action. She says she knows they are there. She wants to leave them, you see, because hornet’s nests in Vietnam are a sign of good luck.

I say try telling that to ole White Eye.

*     *     *

Dinner at Hà’s

If, by chance, you find yourself invited to dinner at a traditional Vietnamese home where a “Western” dinner has been prepared in your honor, it is highly advisable that you do not correct the cook that spagetti is typically served in America without fish sauce.

If, by chance, you also happen to be vegetarian, when most of the meal — including the vegetable soup — contains meat, it is highly advisable to stick mainly to the ‘coleslaw’ which is composed of purple cabbage and mayonnaise.

If, by chance, you find yourself invited to a slumber party, it is highly advisable to remember to bring pajamas lest you need to borrow some from the host; it is highly likely the host is invariably half your size, resulting in your borrowing of her mother’s pajamas, resulting in a flurry of giggles from everyone present.

If, by chance, your host asks you repeatedly if you have to go to the bathroom, tell her yes, you do, and proceed to the bathroom knowing she is offering for you to shower before bed.

If, by chance, you desire to thank the parents of the house for their hospitality, try practicing first the correct tone — otherwise, you may have just called the mother of the house ‘cow’ and the father of the house ‘grandmother.’

*     *     *

What I Like Best

What I like most about Vietnam is that no one will judge you for squatting on the side of the road to eat soup while wearing Hello, Kitty plastic sandals and pajamas.

They may do a double take for you being a blonde plastic-shoe-wearing, pajama-sporting, soup-squatter, but certainly not for the China-made children’s flip-flops you’re wearing.

*     *     *

Q & A

Question by Shanni: Do you have any kind of drink in Vietnam like Gatorade? I have to replace my blood sugar level.

Answer by Hà: What is Gatorade? A kind of cake?

*     *     *

The Joy of Being a Tourist

You never know which of the following is intentional or accidental: Crab in the potato chips; Ants in the bread; Vinegar in the honey; Leeches in the plum sauce; Shrimp in the salt.

(I’ll give you a hint: All but one of those things is intentional)

Tay Ho District & West Lake

These past couple of days I’ve felt a bit like a child, a ‘kept’ woman, or a pet.

Every morning, my generous friend and host, Bắc, goes to work, and every day I find myself behind the locked gates of her property. Yes, I have a key… but, frankly, I’m a little intimidated to use it.

She buys me bread and rice, has shown me how to get clean water, use the washing machine, and has even pointed out some plants in the yard that are suitible to eat. (Today for lunch I will make sautéed vine flower! Oh boy!)

Due to the heat, jet lag and recent cold, (the use of that word to describe sickness seems wholly inappropriate in this climate), I have been able to do little more than eat, sleep, sweep the patio, and pick vine flowers.

And so, I have passed the days contentedly drinking Artichoke tea behind bars in my little ‘Vietnam Villa’ until Bắc comes home.

Today, however, the gate has been left open.

I feel like a curious puppy — scared to leave the compound, and yet tempted to peek beyond the gates to go on a little adventure. To extend the analogy further, I also question, however, in the unknown chaos of Vietnam, whether this little puppy won’t be eaten alive.

*     *     *

There is a bike to use, but broken, Bắc explains.

Her sister, who lives next door with her two young daughters, has offered the use of her bike while I’m here.

It is a glorious vehicle: thin metal frame with peeling white paint, subtle touches of rust around the wheels, under the seat, and where the taut, black rubber grips attach to the wide handle-bars. There is a very small, stiff seat, barely wide enough to fit my wide American behind. There is a black mesh basket on the front; there is green metal baby seat in the back.

I adore it.

The kickstand, however, is stuck down, Bắc points out, and she has to leave early for work, so…

“If you can fix, you can use! [laughter]” says Bắc.

Before taking off, she equips me with the phrase xin vá xe cho em (“fix the bike for me please, little brother”), gives me 2000 Dong (roughly 10 Cents) and says chúc may mún (“Good luck!”)

*     *     *

I have a healthy breakfast of rice and tea followed by a healthy breakfast of rice and tea and vine flowers, before embarking upon my adventure. (Don’t tell anyone — For lunch, I cheat and use a spoon instead of chopsticks.)

Then, it’s Go Time.

First, I try kicking at the kickstand from every possible angle. Next, I squat and dirty my hands with clumps of grease while I fiddle with the mechanics of the stand — but I discover the wheel-lock seems to have rusted closed.

Surrendering, I repeat xin vá xe cho em,  xin vá xe cho em, to practice. I pick up the bike up to carry it the 1/2 kilometer to the repair shop, when the kickstand springs back and releases!

I wheel the white beauty around the yard, and she looks good to ride.

I make sure I have water, a map, a poncho and a cell phone (the lovely Bắc has purchased for me a Vietnamese cell phone and sim card). I secure my purse around the handle bars and into the front basket (to prevent ride-by purse-snatching). Lastly, and most importantly, I loop the elastic bands of my dust mask around my ears and place the cotton square snuggly over my nose and mouth.

I’m nervous… I’m ready.

I lock up the house, the front door gate, and the yard gate (at night, we also lock the “alley gate” that, for all I can understand, is for Bắc and her 4 neighbors). Wobbily at first and then more smoothly, I coast through thin, concrete passage-ways underneath a banana tree canopy.

*     *     *

The sky is turning and I can smell the humidity rise. I emerge out of the thin streets of the village onto a main road. Motorbikes and cars whiz by, horns pop in all directions like fireworks, and sweat begins to drip along my upper lip and between my breasts. Small plastic tables and chairs, about two feet high, congregate in little bunches along the road. Some host people of all ages, of all incomes, hunched over bowls of noodle soup, or stewed meat, or fruit juice.

The road curves sharply and rises — I make a right and the West Lake spreads like warm honey before me.

In Ha Noi, everything is so compact and cramped and intense; but when I ride to the broad expanse and tree-lined streets of West Lake, everything opens.

The lake, so full from the recent afternoon rains, has risen up to lick my toes with leftover puddles. As the bike glides along the shore, I float. I feel like a lotus flower, my frilly taupe blouse giggling behind me.

It is in this moment I fall in love with Vietnam.

I pedal harder. Women with fruit line the road, and I ride by white pagoda temples with red and yellow statues; stinky meat rots in the sun; red clumps of upturned dirt fill construction sites. I have to push hard to make it up the hill as I swerve around bikes carrying pots and pans and sandals and tupperware and hairclips and dustmasks and baskets and brooms, and then –

a rush of rain so loud it hurts to listen, to feel, to dive into but — there is a swoosh of air along the lake, along the slippery road, along my back that ripples through the thick fronds and dead lotus stalks — I am alive in this rain but I know it’s only a moment until it –

stops.       

One. brief. moment of

                                                                   silence,         

still air,         before

the din of motors and horns and rains start in again. I stop my bicycle in front of a cafe. Three tables’ worth of Vietnamese stop and stare. I smile.

They go back to eating their squid.

The young waitress sets me up with a table under the canopy. I order a water and a coffee, no milk.

*     *     *

After lunchtime there are long drafts of calm.

The coffee hits me, and I let my mind scurry.

I stare at a single, perfect, yellow blossom crouching in the middle of the street. It has fallen from the tree above and somehow survived the destructive stampede of motorbikes.

We take a moment together, it and I. It’s petal tongue is a vibrant canary — a pulsing droplet of color after the gray rains. It won’t be there much longer. Any moment, some vortex of a rubber wheel will crush its sweet mouth to brown.

In the meantime, I listen.

You cannot describe my beauty,  it tells me.
Your words in Vietnam are pale.
You cannot capture the energy of a moment.
You can only sit with me until I die.

So we sit.

You cannot describe beauty. Your words in Vietnam are pale. You cannot capture the energy of a moment. You can only sit
with it until      It dies. Cannot describe beauty.  Words
are pale.                    Cannot capture a moment.

Can only      sit until It

dies.Cannot      capture       beauty
.Words      pale.   Cannot
capture      amoment.   Can

sit       untilIt    dies.

beauty. words. a.

moment

It dies.

There is nothing to say. In Vietnam, I am no writer; I am allowed to be only an observer, witnessing a thousand births a day turn into a thousand quiet deaths. 

How I thought I could go to Vietnam and write, I know not. There is an unfathomable energy, and noises to rattle the calmest nerves.

There is an ever-present hum of traffic punctuated by the piercing blare of vehicle horns and sounds all through the night of creatures — cats in heat, dog-barking, pig squeals, and something I couldn’t even begin to place (a child in distress? An animal being slautered? Duck giving birth?! …Maybe a child being slaughtered?)

It is slighty distressing.

*     *     *

My friends Bắc and Hà picked me up from the intimate Nội Bài airport. I felt like Amazon Woman, clearing at least a foot over both of them.

They brought me home to Bắc’s house, where I’m staying for a few weeks. We sat in the kitchen with the floor fan on, eating cashews and grapefruit with our fingers and giggling.

I haven’t seen these girls for well over a year. Nothing has changed.

*     *     *

The next morning. Hà and Bắc both head to work, leaving me behind to… I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.

I am stupidly exhausted; I am barely able to unpack my clothes. Bắc recommended I not walk around by myself before she ‘registers’ me (in this part of Hanoi, all foreigners must be registered with the local ministry); and to be perfectly honest, I think I’m a little too overwhelmed to do so.

The language barrier has immediately begun to chafe. It is difficult doing the most trivial of tasks. I needed help making sure I had food for today; before work, Bắc took me to the morning market to buy some white bread, tomatos, cucumber and an egg for lunch.

It certainly ain’t hummos.

The key thing is culture shock. In Israel, the prevalence of English usually over-rode my being alone in a foreign country. There were wisps of isolation, but these thin tendrils of difficulty were brushed aside with ease when I opened my mouth and made a new friend, found comforting food, or felt a sense of purpose offered by my work.

Plus, in Israel it’s not unusual to be ‘white.’

Here, I am instantly foreign. I am staying in the nha qùe (“countryside”) where there is no tourism infrastructure, clean water, or for that matter, a mattress.

I sleep on a hard bamboo mat. As she was hanging up my mosquito net and handing me a pillow, Bắc looked at the bed and asked if I would like something softer to sleep on. I replied Yes, that might be nice. She handed me a sheet.

At Bắc’s house, getting water is a four-step process: pump the water, filter the water, boil the water, cool the water. (Now you may drink.) 

The weather is so hot, and water takes so long to prepare, that I am constantly attending to the water filter and kettle to make sure the water supply is full. Bắc laughs, and has nick-named me Thùy — which is a common name in Vietnam, derived from the Chinese word for ‘water.’

My motorcycle ride with Bắc to get bread this morning confirmed I was an anomoly. Usually an entertaining experience, it felt more like work when I met the curious eyes of every passerby and, at every stop, had to answer to the friendly-but-inquisitive standard list of questions:

Where from?
How old?
Married?

(When I answered “26″ and “no” to the last two, I would always get beautifully confused looks)

As the day wore on, I felt a such a shade of desperate homesickness that I made myself a Ketchup sandwhich — nothing but Vietnamese “Catsup” and French bread.

To quench all suspicions, no — it was neither good nor satisfying of hunger.

Typing furiously, with pearls of sweat upon her brow, Ms. deJong — a non-caffeine-drinker — remarks, “I’ve had one dainty cup of Turkish coffee and am atlamak-ing off the walls!

She and her mother finally set off for Faralye, the original desination of their Turkish adventure, for a week of twice-a-day yoga, blue waters and homemade vegetarian Turkish food. They find very simple lodgings: 2 beds with nets (for mosquitos), hardwood floor with woven rug (Turkish), mud fireplace (working in winter), and an asian-style toilet and shower room with solar-powered hot water (sporadic): perfection!

There are several köşks, which are little pillowed platforms for lounging — one hovers above the ground amidst the trees with a proud looking tomcat languidly licking his milk-stained paw, the other juts out over the startingly blue Mediterranean waves and serves as a picture frame ideal to güzel günler batim (beautiful setting suns).

Next: When the Student is Ready, the Teacher Appears

The next morning I had early morning coffee with Özcan. He showed me his “treasures” — ancient Roman / Constantine artifacts he found while digging near his hometown. Interested in archeology, he tells me that ancient artifacts are property of the Turkish government, but for the most part they don’t take much interest in creating government-lead expeditions. There is, however, a rash of men planting false “gold” items in remote villages and then conning the local towns-people out of money by convincing them to subsidize their “sale” of the item in a larger town like Istanbul or Ankara, swindling the town out many thousands of dollars and left with only a worthless brass something-or-other.

Özcan shows me two glass bracelets, a beautiful gold ring that had mostly turned black with age, some sort of sharpening tool, and a coin with “Addus Constan” stamped on it. All amazingly well-crafted, and which sparks an interesting discussion about history, culture, Darwinism and the relevance of knowledge for knowledge sake.

I get along well with Özcan, and find he has a unique depth to him; he’s quieter than Bayram and more interested in tradition and culture than Selda and Nehire — fun in their own right– who have embraced Europe’s modernity. But Özcan seems to truly be interested in the pursuit of finding God in truth and information — something I unendingly respect.

Which is why I am heartbroken when we start talking about archeology and culture, and what they say about progress and evolution. In Turkey, Özcan notes, there is a great deal of controversy over modernity and tradition, over education and religious practice. I say there is no difference in the U.S.

“We’ve got creationists and Darwinists at each other’s throats.”

“Do people actually still believe in this?” he asks.

“I know. It’s crazy.” I say, stirring my Nescafé with sütü.

“I read lot of scientific magazines, and they dissprove Darwin all the time. I just can’t to believe there were apes that turn into us.”

My heart sinks. Is he serious?

But then, as we continue to discuss Natural Selection and the Bible; Survival of the Fittest and God’s intention; The Koran and the Galapagos finch population, which all assure me that yes, he is most serious — I find myself smiling: I am so pleased to have found a friend whose beliefs sharply contrast mine, but mutually appreciates the discussion of these ideas.

Mom and Özcan

Me and Bayram the Bartender

Our second-to-last night in Olüdeniz my mom and I ate dinner at a table decorated with fresh rose petals. Nehire, who does reception at Mellis Hill, entertained us with belly dancing and…. tried… to teach us a few moves.

Things were going great until I tried to show off that, yes — I, too, can bend backwards and wave my arms and shoulders seductively while shimmying upside down, when I promptly lost my balance from the half-glass of wine I had consumed and fell on my ass. I was two feet from the pool.

* * *

Awoke the next morning to deep resonante, far off booms that I slowly realized was thunder, and not the days first call to prayer. Bright flashes of light lit the room, and when I pulled back the curtain multiple lines of fire zagged across the sky. The heavens broke: rain following us from Istanbul.

I fell back asleep and finally woke at 6:00 for yoga on the deck outside. The air was fresh and warm, the ground velvety with water. I met Özcan, who had already awoke with the thunder, to have him “try to yoga” — he teach me Türçee (Turkish), I teach him yoga, tamam?

He asked a lot of questions about the philosophy behind yoga (“is it only about the body, or do you disconnect your mind from here and … go somewhere else?”) and I did my best to answer (“Yes. No. Özcan: more than body, but about re-connecting the mind with Here.”

* * *

Bayram has taken my straw hat hostage (“I want a cowboy hat like in Cal-ee-for-nai-ay”) and stuck a long fern, a rose, and some richly-pink bouganvilla that hang like grapes — now I have a Robinhood-meets-Carmen-Miranda hat I wear through town and everyone thinks I’m from Sweden… (?)

* * *

I stayed up late that night practicing Turkish with Nehire and talking with Selda, the wife of the couple that own Melis Hill, about women in Turkey and her view of motherhood, being a wife, and how that fits with a modern Turkish woman’s sense of self.

I am pleased to have met these friends in Olüdeniz. Everyone truly has an open heart and are warm without a feeling of ulterior motive. True, there’s the random carpet salesmen one meets who tells you he’ll give your mother 100 camels to be your husband as part of his sales pitch, but most people I’ve met so far have defied my expectations and have gone out of their way to be accessable and show me their rich character. All the guidebooks love to mention how charming Turkish men are, and that many Western women fall in love.

When I first read this I imagined it was the TallDark&Handsome Rico-Suave types, slick and smarmy with flattering words. But I see now it has nothing to do with that; the charm comes from a genuine kindliness and respect, a slighty properness that is likely derived from tradition, culture, and religion. But the guidebooks have it wrong — it ain’t just the men who are charming. From the littlest bit I’ve seen, I’ve fallen in love with this whole damn country.

On getting lost: “Very easy to find — it’s right next to the mosque”

Time for Turkish Lesson Number İki (two)! — keeping in mind Shannon may have spelled some things incorrectly…

Yok Ba (Yohk bah) “I don’t believe it” Best when said to someone giving you a compliment and you want to reply (always while smiling) “stop it…” or “shucks…”

Allahla! (Ah-la-la) “Come on!” as if in frustration or anger

çok nefis (choke neh-fees) “very delicious”

çok gözel (choke goo-zehl) Lıterally “very beautiful” used frequently for “very good”

Çabük (cha-bewk) “quick”

Yavaş (yah-vash) “slow”

Nefesalmak (neh-fes all-mahk) “to breathe”

Yavaş, yavaş… nefes al, nefes ver “slowly… breathe out, breathe in”

Ban gelem! (bahn geh-lehm) Literally (I think) “I’ve arrived” as in “I’m cooomiiiing!” Best when shouted as running back to someone who is calling you.

Bir, iki, üç! Benim legal! (beer, eekee, ewch! behn-em leh-gahl!) “1, 2, 3! Follow me!” Best when shouted right before jumping off a 10m high cliff into the crystal blue sea.

Now, I’ve gotten a deep tissue massage, Thai massage, Swedish massage, and countless sports injury massages — but a Turkish massage at the Hamam is somethıng else altogether. For 20 lire (about fourteen dollars) you can be hand washed… imagine that: personal lathering, and you don’t even have to sleep wıth the person.

In your bathing suit (or not, if you prefer, says the owner) one ıs led ınto the bath house — all whıte marble wıth marble benches around the sıdes and a large 10-foot-across octagonal marble slab ın the center.  The cıelıng has ınlay tıle, and there are copper spıgots above deep marble basıns that hug the walls.

I was ınstructed to fıll the basın wıth water and use the metal bowl (the Turkısh name for both of these thıngs escapes me) to splash myself, afterwhıch I wıll lıe down on the marble slab and waıt.

Ten mınutes after sweatıng profusely ın the steam and thınkıng I must dıve ınto a bath of ıce water or dıe, my darlıng washer (note: one must specıfıcally request a female!) enters and splashes me wıth cool water (sweet relıef!) from the basın.

She then uses a loofa cloth and scrubs from head to toe, removıng dead skın ın places where I dıdn’t even know I had skın. I opened my eyes to see rolls of skın as thıck as paper balled up on my forearm. Lovely.

Next came the real treat: she grabbed what looked lıke a whıte cotton pıllow case, squeezed soap onto ıt, and then began swıngıng ıt back and forth. Suddenly, she blew ınto the openıng and closed ıt off lıke a balloon of aır. She rubbed thıs gıant soapy cotton bubble along the length of my body — ıt was lıke beıng washed wıth a cloud.

Then she plunged her hands ınto the foam halo around my body and commenced to gıve a foam-massage. Turn ova, plis she says, and repeats on the other sıde.

When we were done exfolıatıng and scrubbıng untıl I was surprızed I had any skın left at all she had me stand up by the marble basın whıle she lathered and rınsed my haır. For a fınıshıng touch, she wrapped a towel around and behınd my head (Turkısh style), flaps of towel hangıng behınd my ears.

Back ın the lounge I was brought apple tea ın those ınfamous teeny curvy-body tea cups (no handle, hot glass), THEN I was taken ınto a seperate room wıth a massage table. Down, plis and onto my stomach I go. Full body oıl massage and whoo-eee, let me tell you: my skın has never felt so soft.

And now, upon goıng back and readıng thıs, I feel lıke I’ve just descrıbed some sort of soft Turkısh porn.

Modern Turkey (esp. Istanbul, European influenced and tourist towns) is much different than anticipated, I’m finding. In fact, after spending a couple of days dressing very conservatively, covering my head in mosques, and downplaying my instinctual forwardness – even I was shocked to see Brits waltzing around in crop-tops and short-shorts.

I have made my way to Olündenız, a little tourist beach town my mom and I have dubbed The English Riviera (I would put that in quotes, but I don’t know where to find them on this Turkish keyboard) — most of the tourists here are from the UK. In the summer, when the French, Spanish, Greek, etc. have their own lovely beaches to frequent, the English find Turkey a cheaper destination; most prices here are given in pounds rather than lire.

Driving into Olündenız through the countryside was like witnessing an Eastern European Latin America, with headscarves. And oh — over there! That reminds me of the hills of Northern Vietnam… yes: the more I travel the more I realize how for all the differences in the world, there sure is a lot of copying and pasting, too.

*     *     *

Waking up yesterday at 4:30am to the mosque call (auto alarm clock!) I sat outside the room as the sun rose over the Mediterranean: grape vines, bougainvilla and rose bushes framing the blue lagoon below; jasmine blows in the air past rocky mountain sides, cows sliding back rows of corn, the thatched roof of our european resort. I have to keep telling myself: this is Turkey, this is Turkey. Except for the mosque spire that peeks up from the center of the town, I could easily be in Greece, Mexico, Belize — home.

We’re staying at Mellis Hill Hotel which I would [plug warning] highly recommend to anyone who happens to have Turkey on their itinerary. It is set against the mountainside and provides for a spectacular view and quieter stay.  As Özcan (“Ews-jahn”) and Bayram (employees at Mellis Hill and my new language coaches) say, a lot of German, Austrian and Swiss stay here to avoid the rowdy English.

Downtown is hot and noisy, full of bars, restaurants, beach chairs and excursion companies, where you can book a trip to go on a Jeep safari to ancient Greek ruins or parasail. I’m happy to be away from all this, only the mosque calling up at me.

Breakfast is ”Turkish breakfast” [found the quotes!] meaning buffet of tea, coffee (instant, not Turkish) tomato, cucumber, swiss and feta cheeese (looove the cheese), egg, olives, and bread.

There is so much to do, but everytime my mom and I look at each other we decide nowhere is exactly where we want to go. Poolside yesterday, mom read while I chatted with Öcan. Of all the wonderful things I could conceive of doing on my trip, I figure to have a nearly 2 hour conversation with a Turkish man about Islam was truly exceptional.

After a few hours Mom and I decided to take the 10 min. walk down a dirt road into town: Time for the Hamam (Turkish bathhouse) –

– continued when Shannon gets more lire to pay for internet access

Istanbul

5 minutes to show time I have to use the WC and oh dear! the line and so I get ushered into the men’s room (is this okay?!) to use the western toilet while three men stand at urinals. This, after Lonely Planet has instructed not even to sit next to a male, or make eye contact, lest it be perceived as flirting or an indescretion of sorts.

Aside from the advertising (plastic banners strung awkwardly across centuries-old stone columns, namely Siemens, but also Toyota, Vodaphone, Toys R Us…) there is timelessness. My chair wobbles  because the stones each leg sits on is uneven. It is humid. I’m in the 10th row; I feel like I could touch the viola.

I slip away.

Tenderly stroking the strings like a soft caress against cheek, he makes violin notes form on my peach fuzz. Long drags cello float up to the cross, and loop back around the dome, haloing the three musicians.

I feel blood surge in thighs.

Recklessly rocking his cello like a bad child, or leaving lover. I’m sorry to punish you. I love you so achingly. or Don’t go, please. I need you. So soft the melody I have to keep writing, keep writing keep writing, or cry.

Like the intoxication of the Vietnamese Nat’l Symphony – only this time I’m not even drunk.

Amazing how those three, like young boys playing, pretend dueling, waving sticks around and waving back and forth — can produce such glory, skipping gently on beds of worn white marbel walls.

-makes me want to unlatch myself, pour everything out onto this day, make this moment: pure pure pure. -makes me realize how, like the old brick stone walls of the church, so many small holes there are yet to fill of me: empty empty empty. -i want to be held.

The music assures. I am held.

Deep round base perfuming up, finger-prickings of frictional bows: fill me, fill me, fill me. back and forth they rock back and forth back&forth, backforth bfbf way back way forward way wu wei.

The violin: on the edge of his chair he cradles his intrument, cheek-side, like a blankie.

I would hear a baby fit and cry, or a car horn, and realize there were neither, nothing anywhere near, but were phantom sounds in the music. Such true notes, my brain had no other way to recognize them, but from a quotidian source; when really my brain had never heard such singular Truth.

Middway through the performance my mother fell ill, put her head against my shoulder, as I imagined I had done as a young child. One hand wrapped around her, the other grasping my pen, the music. These three and i, opening up me.

A man’s watch, flickering like the sun rising at midnight.

Let’s just take a moment to appreciate breakfast: (shall we?)

• Bread with Rose Jam & Feta Cheese
• Plain (goaty) yogurt with Lychee sauce, dried apricots & figs
• Tomato & Cucumber with Swiss Cheese
• Triangle Cheese with Cream Cheese on Feta Cheese
• Egg in egg dish

Then on to explore the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar, Spice Bazaar, Aya Sofia, the old city Cicern (each column different and “recycled” from previous Greek monuments), to find lunch (a vegetarian in Turkey…) and even have time to enjoy a cup of Turkish coffee.

(I’ve been here one day and I’ve already run through one of my three batteries. Why didn’t I pack my charger?)

Still a little jet-lagged (exhausted from only a few hours sleep in the last 2 days, stolen mainly on the flight over), so my intension is to nap away a fragment of the scarce hours I have in Istanbul to be able to keep my wits about me as I listen to a Bach concert: Goldberg Variations(!) performed inside Hagia Eirine (at Topkapi), the first Byzanntine church built in Istanbul. 

But just now I’ve been handed the sweetest little vase of tea (hourglass shape, no handle, four inches tall, clear glass) filled with warm amber liquid. “Teşekkür ederim,” I reply (“thank you”) which has taken me three days of practicing to actually be able to pronounce it, let alone remember it when confronted with the appropriate situation. Sitting patiently on the ceramic saucer is Bal Küpü küp şeker (sugar) and a four-inch-tall, thimble-of-a-spoon nestled beside that.

And I sit back. What’s the rush? I can sleep back in California.

For those language freaks out there (I know I’m not the only one), I’m posting some “Turkish Basics” (the following half dozen words or so make up my entire working repatoire of Turkish. Very extensive.)

Why are you finding a Turkish language lesson here on NKS? Because it’s fun to read. It’s fun to write; I love this language. It makes me feel happy and challenged, like I’m chewing on too many chocolate marbles at once. Tip for pronounciation: pretend you’re chewing on too many chocolate marbles at once.

Merhaba! [Mare-a-bah] “Hi!”

Lütfan [Loot-fahn] “Please”

Teşekkür ederim [Tesh-uh-koor] “Thank you”          

Nereda? [Nare-eh-dah] “Where?”

Ne Kaddir? [Neh Kahd-deer] “How much?”

 Hayir [hah-yeer] “No”

Evet [Eh-veht] “Yes”

Na Ber [Nah Behr] (soft, uvular ‘r’) “What’s up?” from Ne Haber “What is the news?”

Hoşc¸akal (‘c’ should have a cedilla…can’t find it on this keyboard) [Hosh-cha-cahl] “Bye” (if you are the person leaving…don’t know how to say if you’re the person staying… so always make sure to leave first)

London to Istanbul: the in-flight movie is some flick with Tim Allen and John Travolta (called “Wild Hogs” -?) with crude jokes and homosexual innuendo. I think: “Great. This is what we’re exporting to Turkey? No wonder relations are strained*.”

(*Sidenote: A Pew Global Attitudes Report finds the U.S. has only a 12% approval rating in Turkey)

I considered removing the “Couch-hopping” tag from these posts and putting them simply under “Travel” (as I’m not technically staying with anyone I know in Turkey) but then on the plane my mom and I befriend a woman (“Hi Barbara!”) who’s husband is stationed on the Asian side of Istanbul. And, she’s invited us to stay with her on the tail end of our trip if we decide we’d like a “few more days to explore Istanbul” (I was complaining because we only get two days.) So there the tag stays.

At first blush, the airport felt like LAX. With the modern highways, lights, and warm humid weather, Icould have been arriving in L.A. But then there’d be a… castle. Old crumbling wall from… the Ottoman Empire. Next to a plastic jungle gym with flood lights.

I wanted to listen to traditional Turkish tunes as I drove into the city (you know, to set the “mood,”) but the taxi driver turned on unrecognizable pop musak, and then came “Milkshake, its old Arabic flutes perversely mixing with modern American skank — it all felt somehow appropriate.

This is why I love visiting ancient cities — they are, of course, ancient no longer, but instead a titillating mix of Here and Then; anywhere is, really, but o! to feel the Now of these cities so much richer for the deepness of their Then.

What day is this?

Having successfully made the first leg of the trip to Istanbul, Mom and I stop in London. I hop on an internet cafe (ALL airports should be so equipped!) during our 4 hour layover. I try to write something clever (was there something about the flight that was interesting? Maybe that they were all out of vegetarian meals, but then the flight attendent found the last one for me… no. Not interesting. Ooh! We got free eye pillows and little toothbrushes! No, not interesting either…) but am distracted by the energetic German being spoken next to me. A 200lb. leather-studded, multiple-piercings, tattoo-emblazoned biker, types feverishly on his keyboard, and then points to his compatriots. I let my mom use the computer for a bit, wander behind the German group, and see a pink MySpace profile up on the screen.

I’d love to stay longer but I just paid $8.08 for two teas and a water.

Passport? Check.
Lire? Check.
Mosquito repellent? Check.
Nap? Check.

I had every intension of writing to tell all of you Lovliest of Readers about my newest Couch-hopping adventure… to Turkey! (Well, okay, I’m not really staying on anyone’s couch, but who’s keeping score?) But what does this silly yogi do just prior to her departure for a 14 hour flight to the City of Desire that straddles Europe and the Middle East? Why, take a two hour nap, of course.

(Just woke up. Not packed. Plane leaves in 4 hours.)

So this this’ll have to do. I’m off to hear the early morning wails of the mosques, smell the wonders of the spice bazaar, and then: do yoga on the Mediterranean. Yes, that’s right. I’m going on a yoga retreat.

Hey, hey — I know what you’re thinking: and I’m not sure why doing yoga in Turkey is different than at home, either. That’s why I’m going to find out…